Archival Poems

September 18, 2013

Deranged Delusions

deranged delusions dance before dawn
daring to be real in the fit of a new day

apologies for carefree freedom rings
ringing but w/no bells, just sound

trees killing themselves in cities
ocean waves rolling tides over white music

but no voices
volunteers borrowing some other country’s sorrow

in the middle of the day, crying
crime of 3:30am prepubescent penal passions

love raining elusively over neo-noir-nouveau fashion
shows

silly salacious serenity says too many faces of insanity
saddam hussein’s feral feeble reminders

of a death invented just so we can stay alive
sublime silence screaming behind bars

bare & naked & nothing else to see in
nonsense

sensing this moment: a now, & now

the end

September 12, 2013

Falling Into Flight

The music spreads its tenement over a city of spirits & coffee flats.

A voice chases the tail of a broken wind,

sipping sentiments from the minds of a people

aching to be free from the claustrophobic raiments of society.

 

A man w/his strolling guitar forsakes the city

in the lilac wake of a flute dream reaching timidly

for the hand of any god wearing a jaded dress,

spilling forth lace & perfect notes nearly weeping

in the midst of angels falling into flight.

 

Everywhere, the dawn lies september failures down in the tired streets.

A flower breaks its petals into bloom,

then laughs loud enough to whisper over the edge

of someone else’s beautiful scream scattered

across a concrete floor into insanity.

 

The door to the basement café closes,

leaving the bones to hallow w/in, where no one is dying,

but a funeral song just finishes its last verse.

No body hears the final note touch briefly on silence,

then dissipate into obscure obelisks.

 

On Thursdays, Friday turns to green to hide its child-echo indigo eyes

& week’s end follows a subtle rinse of sunshine around the corner.

Monday comes anyway w/too many melodies

playing in the private garden of a backyard cemetery.

 

The morning rolls carefully to the end of the line

& waits for the moon to glow

so it can let go & disperse itself into music,

sleeping in a bed of fluidic ambiguity.

September 11, 2013

A Schizophrenic Way Of Saying Things

I’d like to go home

but I have to go to the bathroom

and they won’t let me see the stars

cognitive-symptoms-of-schizophrenia-03

I’ll give you a doughnut

because I haven’t got anymore

toilet paper

I want to go to Disneyhome

but Mickey’s dead

God looks at me from the sky

I can see the eyes of

Atlantis

diaptych(right) :: mess-up N/N mess-age

Shut up! she said

I told her somebody stole

my bananas

the walls are missing

where did my feet go

I can smell your armpits, Mister

The hallway’s flooded with blood

because somebody farted

now the toilet smells like

home

Thousand Plateaus Drawing

When I comb my hair pieces

of wood fall out

My brother eats maggots with

his bare feet

My feet went home

Can I go too

I hear dogs calling my name

They don’t know the TV’s on

Oprah’s interviewing Justin Bieber’s

image

diaptych(left) :: mess-up 1/1 mess-age

My mom’s in the audience

with her pet home on a leash

Jim Morrison is singing in my

ear

But I can’t hear the water

running     What?

Was that the doorbell

Someone let the table out

I want to go home

but the silverware left without me

Is it my fault the bed’s on fire

oh, it is

catatonia-schizophrenia-symptoms-01

I don’t sleep in a cloud full

of roses

Want to go outside and play

in the weeds

the roaches won’t care

They’re too busy picking curtains

at the supermarket

Go away but I lost 10 pounds

of home

Help me.

*Image Credits (all work used with permission through CC lisence)–
“cognitive-symptoms-of-schizophrenia-03” by Life Mental Health
“catatonic-schizophrenia-symptoms-01” by Life Mental Health
“Thousand Plateaus Drawing” by Magda Wojtyra
“diaptych(left) :: mess-up 1/1 mess-age” by Joel, Evelyn, Francois
“diaptych(right) :: mess-up N/N mess-age” by Joel, Evelyn, Francois

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July 23, 2013

Like Magic

It’s a great deal,

but perhaps not enough

The show must go onEach word: a stroke.

The pen, a favorite brush.

 Empty Cage

Like magic, it may be

Lack of compassion,

lack of feeling

488 Last Day Dream 15-IncognitoChildren stay children

forever

Never growing up

but growing old

What will be there Losing their grip on reality.

Magic is true

Poems From The Archives (a new section of poems from my Madness Period) by NIKOtheOrb

*Image Credits (all images used with permission through CC license)
“What will be there?” & “Empty Cage” by H.Koppdelaney
“The show must go on. . .” by David Baker
“Magic is true!” by Xava du
“488 Last Day Dream 15-Incognito” by Nebojsa Mladjenovic

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