dinosaursandplasticbags-blog - Tumblr blog

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

“I think I found it hiding in the corner there and I have no idea what time it is but I called no, I wanted to call you, because I thought of you now, just now when I found it sitting in a corner there somewhere I didn’t think a key belonged but maybe it does because it’s the key to you or my version of you and maybe I left it there where I thought I wouldn’t see it where I thought you could stay now that you had left and it did just what a key ought to do it kept you out until now, until I saw it until I wanted to call”

— Alice R. (via forayforever)

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

Babe I miss everything we are And everything we were There's nothing to a Friday night like reservations for silence And a plate full of the clothes you left home My home Although it used to be ours I'd settle for yours But you're not here You'll never be in my bed like you used to be Before we Lost it all

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

This is everything

no slowing

I found out life doesn’t stop whether you ask nicely or beg like a wretched bitch grasping in the foxhole

goddam shopping cart wheels

even after taking everything he wanted he was empty - I don’t want that so I keep filling myself with fluff like Pooh bear

admittedly weak looking for signs dinner tipped off the table when I dared forget a shadow car held me back but the lack of storm was anticlimactic an itchy wrist where he wanted me gone oh god why…

can we slow down I must look for something his shape or at least something else I can bend to

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

What I look like rn

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

Paint Box

His muddied hand moves over

the volcanic canvas,

heavy anticipation,

shamanic foreboding,

primordial paint box ready;

hematite, limonite and umber,

charcoal eyes and burnt bones,

the powdered ghost of calcite.

The clutch of lame horse hair

strokes the tufted contours of where

a docile mammoth might ponder,

circling the impulse of a defiant auroch.

The movement might glide over

the whistling trajectory

of spears and rocks, brutal comets,

a cruel omen on trembling grazers.

A brush might sweep over

the first curse of Winter

or the green favour of Spring.

Leaf fall or new shoot

no more than palette choice

The hand pauses,

ready to transcribe time itself,

sealing a soul under animal fat.

The daub of eternity;

the passing of here and now.

Written by The Silicon Tribesman

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

I re-did my founding fathers Mental Illness presentation because there was a lot more I didn’t add it the original. 

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

Be me: Hella depressed and used like a trash can; only when it's convenient

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

<EULOGY TO CONSUMERISM> [I am depressed]

Pop art is the epitome of consumerism, A nation so obsessed with products That we paint an entire movement. Your casket is a Campbell’s Soup Can, Every surface a different colour Andy Warhol; A mask taped over the director’s own face. Marilyn Monroe is lying in the coffin, The masses consume Coca-Cola -As we listen to speeches drip on. Hundreds of Chelseas’ Sing a tune from a well-known commercial. And you, an Advertisement from above.

Americana fetors the room; Depicting repetitive Red, White, And Blue. Fifty stars repeated indefinitely On the walls, Thirteen duplicated stripes to represent an estranged country; A Country in which I do not reside, But yet, I feel the need to Affirm and Subscribe -Into the idea of America. I am consumed by the idea of America. Consumerism haunts In the form of Jasper Johns A blue and yellow target; And the dart is society.

A funeral for consumerism is really a -marketing scheme. It would only capitalize on itself. Andy Warhol is the new national anthem David Bowie; our new King, While consumerism dies, Pop Art lives on.

Consumerism spreads its toxins Demanding to be the centre of attention. We are left depressed, And divided. Together, in one room, And yet unreservedly Alone.

Goodbye consumerism, Hello new-wave, Motherfucking, Pop Art.

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

We leave our bones Visible Through our skin So taunt It’s a stain-glass-window

These conspicuous daggers Hidden by two tablespoons Of flesh Share their blades With all who drift Too close

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

Ode to my piercings [because mutilation isn't mainstream enough]

I wear self harm on my face, In the form of fistula and titanium. Manufactured metal metabolizes bruised memories I am a bruised memory. So I cover busies with fourteen gauge needles, And replace memories with slightly smaller jewellery.

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

To my mom; the woman that raises hell, instead of fixing things herself

Subsequently; a reliance on partner

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

It started with a paper. A cocky smile as you passed along A message written on parchment; The lessons of grammar. I saw you, And my heart leaped. It began with a friend, You found yourself entranced with her, Begging for a chance. You spent time with her, And In turn, Myself as well. It is stuck. Spending time with me, Hinting at romance. But, Leaving at another's glance. Where Are We Going ?

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

Like a snail

I am an existential wound raw, unhealing, festering exuding since exiting the womb. Please don’t rub salt on me

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

May 1

I have some old poems of yours that you may not remember exist. Two rooms away from where I’m sitting a humidifier cheerily humidifies, as I play bright ambient music to harmonize with my wife’s busy finger tap typing. I will try to remember not to be arrogant. The ancient slug rears its head in the third level of the underworld. Baseball and politics never change.

art by giveawayboy

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

I am a birdbath, And you, The most beautiful bird I have ever Seen. Your colours painted on Bright blues, Greens, And reds; A silver beak accentuates your charcoal eyes. A man of mystery, Your colours revealed in second year, So I spend the first waiting, Watching, Intent on observing you grow. I want to reflect and protect you, To colour you pink in passion, Bewildered by my own adoration. So I colour myself blue, And green, And red; A mosaic of matching tesserae. I am coloured as you, I am wrapped in you. Although I want to capture you, I know it is forbidden. For you are all too shy, And I am all too confining. So I admire from afar, My tesserae ever-changing with your beautiful plumage.

//Imagine a [male] painted bunting.

[dinosaursandplasticbags-blog]

there are two definitions of cleave

till your mouth with all that is grim and false,

bury few words [most] under a lying tongue,

regurgitate over blood and bramble

the swords of ghosts and nightmares,

cry out when the cleave alludes

to relations seen only in nineteenth century art