there are no imperfections

I am the concrete sentinel of industry,

manufactured immaculately in Puritan fires.

No complaints from the head of the yoke.

Leave no admission of potential cracks.


I embody the failed experiment of masculinity,

stripped to be only metal and sweat.

Cut the throat’s sound in nervous episodes.

The world cannot hear a male’s scream.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

I am the Enemy, Raise Your Weapon

Ink charred to ash

to scatter about in the ocean

when trying to preserve a winter

where I had lost a sense of self,

and found direction into nowhere lands.


If dust still clings to photographs,

the remnants of words can swim just as well.

These waters can be a home.

There’s no line between where our bone and blood meet

or the difference between the currents and our contents.


Condense the cascade into a buoy

standing upright despite bent backs.

I’m thinking it’s enough to carry for another season

of backwards believing that two pairs of eyes both look back.


Stand upright amidst the roar of a draining hourglass.

The memories are losing your presence.

You become but a ghost.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

cRoWd FuNdEd!1! ur voice matters1!!1

Run the numbers.

Dissect meaning.

Reassess.

Address the result.

Assume the lower level.

Descend.

Logic supplies support.

Math purchases the poetry.

Selected, not written.

Made, not felt.

Tailored to expectation.

Examined in red eye microscopes.

Reassess.

Address the result.

Satisfactory.

Unsatisfactory.

Meaningless.

Proceed to the lower level.

Run the numbers.

Victories are hollow.

Losses are forever.

Descend.

Undo in frustration.

Self-made perspective flaws.

Attachment disrupted.

A hand’s motions, alien.

The prose is foreign.

Ownership deprived.

Power be to “they.”

This is eternal.

The self is temporary.

Be disposed of.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

You Forget You

Tasting it in proximal breaths.

This is dangerously within reach.

Conducting the fruit down the vine.

It’s nothing to be proud of this time.


Unchecked as ingested in the bitter pill

left to swallow in a vacant bed,

ashamed of memory’s tattoos

igniting limbs to flail fluently in desperation’s language.


Testing it in brushes,

stray grazes at the edge of sin

absent of substance in it but misguided intention.

You’ll find a way to go too far.

You’ll find the opposite solution out of loneliness.


Is it a thrill to spin it around your finger?                       

See it as a blazing thought to open up the mind’s legs?


It’s nothing to be proud of this time,

but for the imaginary scent

dangerously at the tip of the tongue,

and your wayward lust is salivating.

You’ll find a way to ruin her.

You’ll find a way to ruin yourself.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

He Dresses For Winter

He doesn’t bother to brush it off.

Lets the hair stand up in the strands it woke in.

Considers the long sleeve option,

but stops and doesn’t bother.

Who’s watching out for tally marks, anyways?


An echo to rise to from his belly

in the wake of a reflection’s approval.

Tried the store on the way out

and was too sick to feel sick,

but that’s just par for the course nowadays.


He’s got his eyes locked on balconies.

Spends the minutes crossing off names.

Thinks about “not tonight,”

but he knows he’ll attack what’s left of him.

It’s the most of what he’s worth, he says.


Silent alarm to blare in his mind.

The warnings are clearly prescribed.

But a severed branch falling;

do the others take notice?

He’s not thinking so;

so he goes.

( ❤ Mitch)

Open the Blast Doors

Rip out the cord,

ending the chord of the alarm

ringing incessantly,

purposelessly,

searching for meaning

in its mounting opposition

that threatens to claw,

tearing at its heart

once inherent to one,

now made separate.

And in aftermaths in future,

in visions foreseen

in the idyllic whisps

of coffee room dreams,

the screaming is permitted to cease

and has no floor to stand on.

The supports shudder

and are no longer.

This body moves on.

( ❤ Mitch)

The Young Man Judges Paris and Paris Judges Back

You were always the best at convincing me of my best,

confining me to the dictionary definition of “naïve,”

putting my picture to be read by the watchers.

The wind carries their words on and about

until the bricks in the alleyways are singing the gossip.


It took a while to realize the funny trick you had;

their lips move but it’s your voice they sing out,

reverberating off the architecture you pinned me down in,

so systematically inclining me to lose to your march,

devoted to the steady beat of your footsteps.


It took a while to realize what you could inflict upon

when I gave you the power to inflict it all on me.

I found it poetry when you met our mouths in misdirection

and flooded my lungs with your ocean.

I spent too long inhaling,

turning drowning water into your sweet wine.

( ❤ Mitch)

Score One for the Away Team

So tragic how the body flaps in the wind.

Stretched along the mast,

made a tool of direction,

the gang who holds the helm wills reaction.


A foul front blows through the corridors of the sanctum,

hallways now marred by irrevocable verse and violation.

Steer clear,

grip the walls tightly.

Bet plywood against a hammer’s strike

and the result is another blow to the temple,

a shatter of past ordinary,

a reversal of variable.


Tragic now how it lies in snapped sinew

declared self-inflicted by the glove of the master

for an attempt to arrest confidence,

array it in monuments,

swept clean off the mantle in a careless shove.


Dissected for replacement.

Biology learns to face a new measure

until the tempo loses its satisfaction in inevitable decline.

The ordinary is past,

a change in the wind,

and the body is left to hang low.


The body is hung far.

The body hangs low.

Defeated.

( ❤ Mitch)

Everyone at the Dinner Table was Proud

Unpleasant

scrawled across in cursive,

looping about

to wear as a false halo.

This is the pretense to wear

upon clipping your wings

for another leg up.


Deserved it all,

cast it out,

written it off.

No second looks.


Devils prowl for more prey

to sustain the food chain.

More untruths to sell

as a boy’s shove in youth

manifests its implication dangerously

until sprawled across in bold,

flashing all too brightly.

( ❤ Mitch)

Had a Hole Drilled…

“Had a Hole Drilled…”

Had a hole drilled deep into the shaking framework science declared was suitable for progression in life,

notwithstanding the twentysomething problems of a twentysomething in internal, eternal decline,

ushered down the aisle as if a knot of nerves would untie itself when rolling down a rocky bank.

Comprehension is quiet behind the apathetic apathy of drifters posing as guides to lost cities:

Accept a handshake and a tug at the waist as the map and key to where Parime resides.

Confess to the condescending con-population that clutters the confines of isolation,

the painted faces of manakins belying what is under blush and bright red smiles,

set in the position of players that bowed to applause for another trick acted,

sending off the hopeful to hopeless escapades in tangled jungle’s fables:

“There is a greater purpose in promise that needs time to understand.”

Patiently forget the stains of credulous ghosts costumed in flesh.

Writhe about in nightly visitations of oaths snapped as twigs,

forever bereft of the strength it was presumed to possess.

Scramble for capsules arranged on the bedside table.

Vie to congest a widening incision with prescription.

If at its best, the stream is but limited in its scope,

yet never does it cease its eager advancement,

leaking onto sheets and disposed band-aids:

Visible distress despite lurking ignorance,

rigid versus the willfully forgetful mind,

emitting softly, always, in consistency,

slowly emptying what was never full

until all is brought to be of nothing.

Until all is fated to swift decay.

And in an unsuspecting blink,

arising to usual similarity,

it will be made

bare.

Had a hole drilled deep into the cavernous construction of uncharted tunnels leading nowhere to note,

simply the twentysomething problems of a twentysomething extracting to zero the elixir of the past,

singing the memoirs of the blue era for glorifying the loneliness inherent to productivity within art,

beautifying the parallels described as what should be warning signs of approaching instability,

though now misconstrued as the impetus of spinning wheels towards success in hindsight,

for only by collision with crooked motives is there a storied pot of gold to defy history,

where broken bones by the con-population are deserved strikes for battling truth;

the force of finding the lost by abusing the abuse incurred, glancing over trauma.

Nothing that happened was what was considered intended if ever questioned,

but in the gaze of a wounded prey observing arrow’s pricks in the mirror,

pierced defenses are the absolutes to define existence at its minimum,

recognizing finality in chasing the motivation urged in beige rooms,

characterized only by few familiar phrases in recycled delivery,

supposedly serene in sincerity’s saying to promote recovery,

now presently rendered to static rumblings exiting snakes

seeking compensation in a journey’s known conclusion,

no different than the lies of the closest confidants,

the liars, the leaders, the vultures of the desert,

dolled up in suits and dresses over beaks.

Talons poke through fabric’s guise.

Talons poke through framework.

Talons revealed in droplets

as scavengers thus leave

and bones succumb

to decomposition

and then to

obscurity.

Bare.