Perditrix Mundorum

I take and I take and I take
and when I'm fake those who know, ache
from the hate that's normally mistak-
en for something fake or
half baked and in stakes
too high, i'll feel like i'm the one to die but,
no. The one to die is us
and though we combust
we must
realign and center.
I'll re-enter a place of
passivity when you tell me
you're eliminating
me and you give me the
"believe you-me when i'm
saying we are ending," plea.
I will never end.
I'll bend and mend the world
till it's spent and when I blend them, my
pretend world will then send a message
of passiveness when I send the current stem
of reality to its detrimental end.
You'll call me a dick; swing like a pendulum.
I am the perditrix mundorum,
please tell everyone.

Bitched

My hand and face in pain, I write slowly.
I'm not sure where the pain in my
hand came from but it was most likely
from the fight this morning.
Over nothing.
A fire is inside my body
but my brain is still controlling
no? I don't know.
My world is full of shadows
because I've imposed my brainwave
patterns' strange detections
onto it's plain-surface description which dictates
all is all and all is none.
There is no purpose to all of this
but without this pain
in my hand, in my face
how will i know when things don't hurt
or aren't real?
I'll have to just accept
that my life is too short to know everything.
"We were all bitched from birth," He said.
Can I really say some more than others?
My pain only seems more real
because i'll never know the world,
the auto-imposed world of others.
Not really.

Quick but not Prompt

An attempt to structure, suggest
and prompt but it's hard
when it's bland and chewed up
and stomped
out like a cigarette but first,
let me get a second of your time
to not rhyme but instead plead
with you, either
come up with better prompts or
expect rebellion!

Cerebro

Each head sits,
biding time
with rules of pressure
for each line
until, as it is quite often,
 a certain lack
or, maybe, plenty
of stories begin to devise
inside of  her winding,
wrecked,
(although,
as she prefers it,
experienced)
hills and valleys
except the dips do not mean less
and each whole just as deep
as the grainy slopes
filled with words and a particularly
undetermined idea of time
that can only,
in the search for definition,
hope to build some mounds
with fellow ditches
to carry out the finite 
worth that can be resolved,
formulated,
or, on a good day,
destroyed into the acceptance
of a certain place incapable
of accessing a limit
but still knowing, and maybe
only because it is primate,
so the birds might learn it,
of far, and end, and absolute
instead of wisdom
and infinite
and confused
in some amalgamation
of sounds and tones
to describe the universe.

Peices of Fools

Fools live in peices
in the deadened-glow
of the lime jello rainbow brainwaves
from the sketch of an astronaut eating midnight gumbo.
Poetess ramblers blog ramblings of the purple existence,
the crane bag.
Come friendly bomb,
my libido wears a tuxedo and
screams of yakkity yakkity yak
beckoning, "send more coconuts."
it's always something...
it's doggerel

tnemesaB

And just forget
to come, play on my side
past dim light of your suggestion
that evolve into bright spite
or, a sanctuary,
Underneath the hidden stones,
The basesment grew out too early!

Little Tiffany Dee

Little Tiffany Dee
liked glitzy shopping sprees.
A bomb was dropped,
the world was stopped
and little Tiffany Dee
died incompetently.

(and no one cared what she was wearing.)