Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Paragraphs

Halo around her waist 
hearts painted on the wall 
to cover the cracks in her foundation 
guitar in the key of A 
while dreading her locks




Face to the sky 
uneven grass bent at the tips of her toes
as she wishes to feel cement
it's almost midnight 
and still bright eyed


She looks at the hours upside down
to slow the close of the open door
when she's rightside up 
she feels suffocated

Desperate to find her other half
unknowingly looking for self
she does handstands in the desert
just to find out if she can



Halo fallen to her knees 
loser, pitiful, unworthy 
she looks down and admires the cracked 
culking in the cracks of the bathroom floor


Head on pillow 
make up on face 
scissors by hand
murder mystery on nightstand 
peace 


Halo around ankles
it's harder to take risks 
harder to breathe and harder to cope
hearts on wall are now just as cracked
scissors in hand she cuts hair 
and is free from rolling wheelchair




© 2010 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

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Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Woe.man


Like a king who lived in darkness 
He failed to shine his crown with dreams 
Of attending prom dressed in a ball gown
"He's just a bitch"
And though it hurts with every laugh 
Animals still stick their necks out
Like hungry giraffes
To vomit in the occupied stall 
As if he were a harlot 
With a sick fetish
Coiling stench of a full grown circumcision
In which he'd relish


And these days, instinct must stay in your head.
Our conscience is not our conscience, 
just a mindfuck risen from the dead...

"God himself doesn't even know how 
to make a man!" 

Says the street preacher 
With a homemade bible in his hand
He calls himself a healer
With the condescending essence 
Of a political figure
Worshiping such a holy quandary
Like ignorance to androgyny



©2011 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

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Thursday, June 9, 2011

Creator



The origin of personal SoHo:

Brick surgical table
Dissecting the weirdo
Injecting metaphors
Until the patients are stable
Sewing poetic statements
Into blisters on open sores
The heart of the vehement
Anticipating a war
A cultural pulse that pumps 
Blood to the brain
The message usually taken down 
By the Lord's name in vain
Juxtaposed between the body 
Of a misfit and the spine 
Of an evil bastard
With a mind full of shit



©2011 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

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Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Bibelot

Art by David Lynch



Black book black book 
Tied and bound 
Spilling copiously 
Like drippings from a hound
Inept sarcasm of Lord Jim
Pinching my sides in slightest hem
Cutting between my fingers 
Like old guitar strings across the bathroom floor 
For it is only natural to want more 
Curiosity: if only, I'll dive in you

Dive Into

Black book black book 
Black night as soothing leather 
Offset by your gold locket 
Guarded by a key worth 
More than blood diamonds 
Horded from the river
Ties that bind
Sap your ring finger 
As if your heart weren't mine



©2011 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.

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