#TRUMPsays
Bring
dark underground areas where people can barely breathe and perform back-breaking work in hot smoke filled stench pipe laden trip-wired environments due to explode at any moment
back.
Come dance with me
A tree, young in age but not in wisdom stands
outside a place
where books and heads rest at night
where hidden beds
arise from shifting shelves
To rest writer’s weary sacks of bones
after pens dance late
into the night
long thin shadows moving
tick
tock
back and forth
until
their ink is
bone bone dry
and their dance partner
collapses
into a bed surrounded by
Ginsberg, Burroughs & Kerouac
all watching from above
Outside
the tree grows tall
leaves playfully
tickle four women dressed in elegant robes
nearby
the leaves do not bother these women
who hold
a source of sustenance needed for all who pass by
the women stand tall, carrying the huge weight upon their shoulders
without this golden sustenance all of humanity dies
their faces, stoic with duty, eyes closed, capture the eternity of beauty
needed to carry
this great gift that
all the writers warm in their beds
will drink when they awake
the tree softly whispers
songs it has memorized
from the wind
while the Seine flows
by in the distance.
Le Bleu
You saw the self amongst bleu
stern questioning playfulness
manifested wound tight
Sprung into
Other ornately colored
vessels of the collective unconscious
Chiseled bones upholding the skin of your cheeks
thin as the parchment upon which you stroke
the cloth you weave
The sky is always around you
Bleu et bleu
walking in the sky, not above it
love will only be found when you are ready
To set sail
A sad look connects your smile to an ocean of love
wavering ocean of salt
ocean of bleu
your glance, your glance
your lean is felt by the contours of wood patterned surface,
forever shifting in time,
only existing in perception
Always bleu et bleu.
The Man at d’Orsay
No amount of destruction will ever be enough
ever be enough
for the man’s ego
time knows this
The massive rippled muscled
body knows this
the shoulders of a which a small mind sits
saturated
in unobtainable pleasures knows this
He barrels on, not certain why he steps forward.
He not only clobbered people with his blood covered club, his giant feet stepped on innocent beings below him and snapped their necks, crunch, heads pop off, snap.
His power deludes him so that he cannot see the fire burning behind him to know that he caused it.
You cannot run to escape this.
Yet, in his eyes, look closer,
look closer even still,
A sadness comes
from inside,
he will never
find.