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Dear Tommy
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CLICKITY CLACK
2030 Good fryday. The paranoia sets in. You text me too much, I'm going mad. No, I'm a topsyturnsylad! Come Saturday: Nothing but all up in yo Grill! And though I'm 100% trippin' (Stupid Shoelaces) No N word still: dive deeper sea dark: I promise you'll never leave my prayers, never forsake me. Anyway. 2045 I'm slightly sleepy: singing 'Baby don't worry! About a thing!' (Bob Marley) on the back of the bus... but you, My Madonna Star, groove through Wraith Stadium as the birds all shriek monstrously in the night, sqwuacking Cthullu! Cthullu! toss us your fishfood! upon flamingo sticks for boney knees or stilted circus flippers? Good Night. Good Night. Couch now. Court Orders Penance for the Persec: DO NOT RESPOND!!! OUR PLANET IS POISONOUS TURTLE THING!!! Godzilla on a cosmic scale: Ironic also: Who's to blame? FUCK, I assure you, MY ass IS BLACK, OK? Popping out for a Puff (Poof!) Gone.
So it begins: tired cosmic giants blink star eyes at night: celestial orbs or black pearls for planets? Oh, you have no clue… Lava shots imbibed from volcanic geysers: the witness watches keen: she lets her fuzzy slippers fall down from feathered feet: the watchers are still watching: anxiety asylum: see God in a nutshell.
Dear Topsyturnsylad, the
Dear Topsyturnsylad, the moon’s still lounging in its bus‑seat dreams while Cthulhu hums Bob Marley to a row of flamingos crunching popcorn like it’s the end of the world and the start of the circus. The court’s handed me a fistful of stardust as penance, Godzilla’s tapping his foot for that long‑overdue mixtape, and somewhere between puff and poof I’ve slipped behind the vending machine, grinning in the shoelace‑shadows. The birds are still shrieking, the planet’s still a poisonous turtle, and yet here we are, two cosmic mischief‑makers swapping postcards from the edge of the dream.
The moon leans back in its bus‑seat throne,
eyes half‑closed, humming a reggae lullaby
while Cthulhu, all tentacles and tenderness,
feeds popcorn to flamingos in the front row.
The court’s verdict is a jar of stardust,
spilling through my fingers as Godzilla waits,
tail swaying to a beat only he can hear,
still wanting that mixtape you swore you’d send.
I haven’t vanished — not really.
I’m just folded into the vending‑machine shadows,
shoelaces tangled in the pulse of the night,
watching the poisonous turtle planet spin
and thinking how lucky it is
to have another dreamer out here on the edge.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
Beautiful.
Beautiful.
peace, pot, tequila shot
Jesus loves us, stoned or not
(No subject)
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver