POPLINGS FROM THE BACK OF THE HOUSE

 

the ground ! 

starved & bit & spiked & beat

detail for days

~

my reflection

dark in the glass of an unhung Klee

i dont even ponder it

~

in another dawn standoff

rogue turf

attritions

cement isobars

SOULS ON WAX

recordings & headphones
take the afternoon away

gone musicians knew this

it why they put

their souls on wax

to ground me 

to lift me

with this the common miracle

with this the peoples magic

ORWELLIAN RIPTIDE

what if its the clouds
that
are metal 
and concrete

the sky that is polished glass

and the ground under our boots
that
is nebulous

like
soup
like
steam

a swamp of passive inaction
        
        of the dormant anger
        of inherited guilt
        
        of decades 
        of distraction and denial

sucking and writhing
with
dangerous
deep
orwellian riptides

from forum.davidicke.com