Birdstone

by Tim Clark

There's a high outside of height
that can paralyze the air if your
breathing becomes numb.
While in flight I try to feather step
around heavy clouds; rain skipping
across the sky like pebbles.

Inevitably, I'll come down because
it's not wings that are needed,
it's a mind that can rape gravity
and puncture solid substances
to abuse mass as science tames
the masses with airplanes.

Take a seat, we'll be on our way.
Pass the pipe if you want to see your
tarot cards thrown out the window.
We're parrots, soon to breed elephants
who wait for crackers and peanuts.
Attendants to our grass cage addiction
are saying "I'm sorry for the weight."

I'll use the sun to light my cigarette.
If the captain sees us exhibit fear then
clearly we're affiliated with terrorists.
Security checked my shoes and
made me tap dance over trip-wires.
While everyones alarmed I pull fires
towards the door for kids ordering
tickets to travel in smoke circles.

Radius hates circumference
So set your sights to deep purple.
As the squares go round about
faces radiate but retain doubt.
Oxygen remains our anesthetic.

Roses Are Dead

by Tim Clark


You've pulled me apart
just to pull yourself together.
Now I'm partial to seperation,
repeating an era like it's a
chorus to my great depression.
Anxiety is my chocolate noose.
You'll have to eat your way out
or digest the emptiness soon.

Would you ring your wrists for me
If I decided to engage familiarity
and leave intimacy at the altar?
Your metal bridal gown will weigh
down spendour under the marquee.
I forced my vows, forging a crowd
around a crown worse then thorns.
There's a stampede singing...

"Give me the gun."
I shot a flower once
but the bullet wilted
before it hit her stem.
When the smoke
cleared the lead
grew to full bloom.
I'd choose pollen
over gunpowder;
allergies over eulogies.

The breeze squeezed the trigger,
casting seeds to spray in every
direction; falling like lost stars
cast from a galaxy of dandelions.
I inserted clips into the dirt,
learning this earth is worlds away
from the roads were dark roses
allure us with fragrant stains.
I'll keep pedels in my pocket to
heal the pain she planted, though
these sentiments aren't organic.

She consumed me in her fire-arms.
There's no wholes in her black heart.

Obviously Knot

by Tim Clark


Without reason I return letters
to sender entitled RE: Son.
Cursing innovation... that
hostile, bastard child of tradition
who wields words as weapons,
welding cold steel to paper as
fingers nervously turn the pages;
eyes find each line like a trigger.

If prepositions could pistol whip
to hold the students attention
instead of elitists debating over
the thought of a thesaurus
as being something prehistoric,
then we'd have hands, not heads
filled with erasable lead and
the butt of a gun will be nothing
more then a subject predicate.

*Editors note: The printing press is dead.
We've burned all the better quotes.

I hoped when the ink dried we'd
have died to this way of thinking,
but my stomachs in 'nots' criticizing
blind usage of such intricate plots.
Gut wrenched that you monkeys
are using pens and pads to bang
hungrily on pots and pans ever since
readers digest got an appetite!

You've tied you're own noose
but doubtfully hung upside down.
Now drown in loose leaves or
breath a sigh into blank sheets
as a subtle sign of relief for
feet buried silently in the clouds.
Before concrete thinking comes to
cement heads to the ground.

To be honest, you'll go unrecognized
because journalists are more
concerned with politics and society
then the way a dead poet writes.

Understand?
(or should I impart my parts of speech;
debrief literature, literally?)




Hmm?... Obviously knot.
We'll continue lynching ourselves to the top.