Bird Feeder...

Jibberish grown from seeds to become trees of celestial bewilderment.
Watered with chaos, it's soil seems to be turmoil.

And all in all microscopic clouds dance a techno ballet outside the window
floating gently
to land on a stage a bit too warm
to sustain life and everything dissipitates.

With responsibility looming ahead,
like some poetic cliche of storm clouds rolling in with time cards,
and thumbprint punchouts.

I got outdated magazines cluttered throughout the livingroom,
and all that I miss are miserable patients waiting for a prostate exam.

Tuberouse pink sponge candels that don't give a damn
what the world smells like.
Smoking crumbs while staring at every pair of tits
that points my way.

With lost poems inscribed and indented on future pages,
gone forever with nothing but an echoe to prove of it's exsistence.

Somewhere in these lost thoughts of jovial nights,
insignificant to none but me. Like some journal printed with invisible ink
about illegible dreams and bullshit aspirations of the utmost impure dellusions.

Curiouse to see what jelly-beans would look like melted,
i placed them in the microwave and words poured themselves
into one another to scribe some beautiful dream
I wish I'd had.

Instead I dream of crushed up, melted,
ciggarette ash in the corners of an ashtray.
Turning water black and grey sludge,
only to drip upon my coffee table and into reality.

yet, I still sit and waonder at humors developement.

Scraping artichokes in beat of canned laughter while sorting,
stacking,
musty pages of forgotten stories in the back of an old bookcase.

And it's after Easter, with melted chocholate in wrappers,
lying scattered among the remnants of beer bottles left over from some nameless,
weekday.
Only reminding me how much I'd love to fuck them Acuview girls,
Forget the astygmatism. I want that pair of cunts.

With the coffee only lukewarm, and my cock hot, I watch cheesey predictable nineties comedy.

So i go to the bar.

Simple drunken mumbles of drama leak through the grapevine,
the front seat,
to the pulsing bass of underground rap from the back,
on a radio station at three in the morning.
Watching sunrises from the porch outback i sit and wonder, if the birds'll
starve,
If I don't fill the feeder.