On the edge of a knife

Oxygen was only life
until some idiot
introduced it to jet fuel.
Now it is combustion,
a great trigger
waiting to be pulled
as it eases, quietly,
in and out of your lungs,
the breath of millions
clutched by a breeze.
And all it will take
is for one junkie
to scratch that itch,
turn that key,
press that button,
light that biggest match,
and what was life
will all be ruined -
will all be set to burn.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Jamie N Commons, Wish You Were Here

You won't even know I'm gone

painting by Adam Lupton

The chair next to you will still be full,
another body and a different mind,

a wire that stretched out to trip you,
trick you and keep you captivated

even though the future is impossible.
The waves that pulse through your brain

tell you things you don't want to hear -
things you can't bear to know are true -

the rules to a game you could never win
once the deck has been stacked so high.

And every day apart will feel empty,
and every day together will be worse,

a choice between pulling the arrow out
and letting it stay, blood and skin festering,

the phone ringing nightly - distant humming
of molecules as the temperature drops,

and the nightly summer rains will start snowing,
and the cold could snap July clean in half.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Blu, Vanity

On flights of arrows, sharper than we'd been led to believe

painting by Brad Phillips

Romance is not a
car crash, but a natural
disaster - you seep
into my brain and
poison all the ground,

and when poured into
the form of a cigarette,
you would be sweeter
than nicotine, but
just as cancerous.
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From the most recent decomP, an excellent poem from Will Arbery.

And here, my friend Zach absolutely kills it.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Skyzoo, The Definitive Prayer

100 Words: A rock is a rock, unless it's a mountain

Inspired by a post from my friend Zach. 

It's a beautiful thing to see, and even more beautiful to hold, he discovers, when he picks it up off the ground, a small mushroom cloud of dust erupting in its wake. There isn't much to it - just a round-ish, smooth shape, speckled grey and black. It resembles a misshapen egg, and he decides that this is why he likes it. There's hope that life might spring from this lifeless object, and as he rubs it between his palms, the heat of friction keeps that hope alive. His watch alarm dings twice before he stops it. Break's over. He places it gently back on the ground and dons his work gloves. He grabs the sledgehammer he left leaning against the cement wall nearby. He picks it up by the end of the handle and drops it straight down, smashing that hope to pieces.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Blu & Nottz, God Shit (feat. Aloe Blacc, Co$$, Definite Mass)