distance is fondest

diet affection

in throes of malpractice

since the new arrangement

tried in the jury of our ill judgement

and ushered out the door hastily,

now knocking aggressively.

could perceive the volume increase

even with flies exiting our minds


in and out of our mouths,

sewing the distrust revolving about.


false truth and four truths,

or pick the harsher route.

no better than Russian roulette games.

don’t spot the difference between lies.

every move improvised during destruction or construction.

save the dramatics for the newer arrangement.

tell me it’ll fix things for real.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

He Sure Did Try His Best, Right up to When He Stopped Trying His Best

It’s a healthy alternative when ingested internally.

It’s not a wayward strike against another hull.

I’m calling the shots to aim the shots and down the shots.

The pain’s a construct I prop up on sinew’s brick and mortar,

eroding into tsunami waves that rise without the grace of prediction.

Weather calls for whether or not it wants to witness violence.

I maim the desired target on the desired time.

It’s a healthy alternative when I keep my hands to myself.


Self-made timeout corner session,

making notes on the new scar messages.

It’s fine enough when you’re not peaking.

Keep those eyes off of my prize.

This tumble is going to cover a lot of ground.

They’ll fail to see so long as they forget to see.

Turn and let the tragedy write itself out of gas,

and the smoke can dissipate as the whispers of remembrance.

Checkmate, No Turns Taken

You scored victory and took up the pen’s shovel.

Strokes move earth to migrate problems into trenches.

Bury it and patch over it with rosery:

the beautification of misery.

What a stunning scene you’d never portray;

a display that great lengths would never be provided to.

The loser reads the history in upturned soil.

Fables are only the imagination of separate souls.

One size fits all fails to fit all

once minds break out of the reign of normalcy.

Fantasy is the wish of the defeated after checking the pages,

realizing the placement or lack thereof,

persuaded to obey the conquistador.

Change of the language or cut off the tongue.

Lost sway with a nature’s touch.

Full dependency on the nurture.

This is the best that could be discovered.

Goodbye to the Beautiful World

It stares back with a laugh like malice.

Rapid-fire grins shot against demand,

straight across the bow at sundown,

prepared to blockade exits in a hedge maze,

thorns stood to be sentries in solitude.

Encased in monochrome elegance around whatever surface,

colorless in the eternal reel of the past,

bending to attach across any expanse of progress

lest its unshakable presence does battle with forgetfulness.


Temptation laced with nostalgia’s aroma,

lacing dalliances in quicksand,

twisting about at the threat of finding where the particles go,

yet alone in desire’s thought to plunge and discover.

Consumed by the weathered discard of nowhere lands,

tasting descension in its bitter embodiment.

Enamored by and kept at the behest of misery’s scent,

matching to the enthralling throes of scratched forms.


The pain is the beauty to understand.

The beauty is the sour grace of going under.

The mangled knee is consequence.

The lesson is in circumstance.


Find it in propaganda tongues taped to billboards,

towering monoliths of the mausoleum to shrunken ambition.

Witness the eras erupting between a smile and the present.

Define the error in sallow cheeks,

dragged down,

drugged to Hell and back,

less color than the last,

less color in the next,

where within withered a will to survive.


The pain is the beauty of observation;

an exodus of being caught in the crevices.

The pain is the beauty of understanding

what happened was the glory that can never be returned.

It will linger but in distance, separated.

The glory is the best

and it has already gone.

~

( ❤ Mitch)


Modern Decay Story

Not closer and no sooner.

Sitting on the curbside of expectation,

glancing back at brick-and-mortar dreams;

all of the stillborn schemes we could never recover.


No better and worse off,

parading out exhausted, familiar jokes,

seeing fate in future dates several steps behind,

where thirtysomething is where life proceeds to halt.


Resting to laugh it away,

twiddling thumbs to whittle down seconds,

waiting for resurrection to roll in.

“Any moment then, any moment now,” so she says,

arms crossed over her chest as if dressed to mourn.


No lower and steady in shock,

losing track of the tiny little mistakes

our mutual avoidance allows to plant within,

until a photograph of affection is a field of dandelions.


Not ahead and not moving,

gilding ignored caution with glory,

professing truth in the art of a modern decay story;

the only value viewed in life from piling hospital receipts.


Caressed to hide it away,

running hands past to thaw stalled blood,

hoping resurrection is rolling in.

“If nothing else, then nothing else,” so she says,

praying to our cynicism that they’ll lay a tree for us.


Glory through dirt then,

when all has gone and been through with,

and dandelions parachute heavenwards out of spring,

scouring the geometry of clouds for an edge.

If they never come down, perhaps there’s a home.

If you and I never come down, perhaps it’s amazing.


Purpose in falling leaves then,

when what needs to be said beyond this

resides in what will never be read by any passing,

but it can never be said it wasn’t there.

It can always be said we were there.


Fell mute to scare it away,

inelegant lips skirting a quiet drama,

staking all on resurrection rolling in.

“When emptied out, then emptied we go,” so we say,

adrift in a cemetery for weeds.

~

( ❤ Mitch)


Sprint in the Stillness

Engulfed in constancy.

The unwritten intangible

prods at pillars.

Flesh trembles at verbal shells,

sawing courage into dust.

Widening eyes versus narrowing trails.

The aggressor blinks last.

A dropped guard at an ill time,

victimized by decision,

in reverberating consequence for indecision.

Dissolved views,

elusive to grasp,

careening for the gutter.

Crumpled paper ideas.

Bravery reflected in razor packs.

Be it only temporary in sleep,

disequilibrated through conversations in comatose,

grinding teeth restraining a nerve,

dropping weapons for rest.

In this stasis,

rendered obsolete in status,

hemorrhaging to spite paper bandaging.

In this stasis,

all dreams stagger.

Poor reaction of careless construction.

Shine dulled in rust.

True indication of complacency;

a conclusion presumed.

~

( ❤ Mitch)


Open Palm to Psalm Zero, Eviction Notice Chant

What a pretty portrait to paint on a Sunday.

Wine red in artery lines.

Wipe it clean over the canvas.

Delightful!

Achieving the dismal.

Becoming dismalism.


Resurrect in a week’s middle to end.

Axe’s grind requires a feast.

Feed the engine the entrails of dreams forgotten,

dismantled surgically in the realism lens.

Congratulations on nothing!

Accomplished the dismal.


Reborn in ash but choking on the remnants.

Phoenix fire remedy a death march melody.

It all is DISMAL.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.


Recalibrated to perform the ritual.

Liquor up the boys to subdue the round’s impact.

Cubicle coffins wrapped in bows,

tied over in suits and white fence security.

Wine red to whine about in desires for an end’s dead end.

How very DISMAL to say!

DISMAL TO SAY.

DISMAL.

DISMAL.

D

I

S

M

A

L.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

ah HA ah HA ah HA

Champion

of adversity

clamoring

to apexes.

Chip, smash, knock away.

How tall to aim for?

Consult the books,

consult the screen,

what’s it flashing?


Underdog story

handcuffed to a ladder.

Not getting very far now.

Sideways traveling without directional sense.

Damn it all!

Tumbled.

Getting nowhere near now.


Chipped, smashed, knocked.

Who walks away in favor?

Insta mirror not the mirror,

but both the mirror.

Sinking story.

Going further into further.

Be damned.

Have fun

writhing.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

The Under 30 Club is Now Accepting Applications

Strike up the banners.

Listen closely to messages under dirt:

They’ve got a promise to sell.

Knocking up and down on the soil,

read the reverberations in Morse code.


Sweet indecision tastes lovingly bitter on the lips.

Speak it out and it opens out the mouth’s poison.

Let it constrict until it never loosens.

Swallow! Choke! Cram it down.

Let it constrict until regrets are past tense.

Swallow! Choke! Accept it all.

You’ve got a train ticket to yesterday.

Hope to miss it again.


Buying out seats to the self destruction show.

Boy explodes.

Boy dies.

He’s combusting just for you.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Cost Ineffective

It couldn’t be afforded but was taken anyway.

There wasn’t a price tag to our narrative;

it was scrawled on brick,

etched into philosophy:

great are we as we realize ourselves in perserverance.


The limits placed were redirected,

made boundaries on society,

called out the enemies of industry,

where words out of rival mouths were propaganda cries.

Tuned it out with glass and plastic,

licking dry the drug of our lips,

laid in a heap when embraced,

stranded drifters scrambling to cover breaches in the hull.

One hand releasing drowns us

as we find the boundary of physicality,

low on limbs to forgive cracks in the apartment.


Out pours what can never be admitted.

You’ve an anger to accept versus my violent silence.

Knowing that facing the separation would birth havoc,

gauging flaw from fact,

all were damned to be liars against imagination.

Encumbered in the flood too long,

we stopped noticing the lack of breath between us,

finding gasps to be pleasure,

losing sight of the shore as glorious spontaneity

under the gaze of a rigid world.


You’ve glass to pluck out of your forearm

when the closing call fought an urge for more.

I’ve fabric to barricade my new hell,

wishing you well while descending,

cloaking harm marks with tattooed grins.


It couldn’t be afforded and now red signs are red integers

lining conscious,

mutually depleted.

Etched it on the back of my hand

and still told all to a brick wall

when knowing falls repeat as the globe spins;

you glide in gravity back to where you started,

and what clouded before is the head’s atmosphere.


Subdued it with plastic.

It ran free

as she’s somewhere in the sea,

drowned ten feet down or hovering above,

neither in sight from a knife’s edge.

~

( ❤ Mitch)