beer and smoke
I know, I know. Another reblog. I wanted to let others know about Nihilistic Poetry. A thinking person’s poetry. I like to take a moment, perhaps grab some libation, set the mood with quiet and read when they post anew. Each requires thought to appreciate appropriately. Such is my advice. Go, enjoy, share some love on that like button.
The carvings in the wood. Steps up, turn right, unzip, let it rip.
There is some necessity for being unconscious of the process.
Of the origin. Of the consequence and significance.
There is some necessity to intonate without ideal,
to fling actions all of the sudden
as dice without any odds of winning.
Fix hair. Zip, down the steps. Smoke fury of flurry. Beer; what’s the score?
The second, while being a vehicle of careless novelty, is actually
heavy, almost pregnant with the expression of expired millennia.
Seamless actions operate unconscious of the thrust of heavy history.
Running out of beer. Was it 25? Come one Jones, put it in the box!
Poetry is an exercise in distillation. An appropriation of the
universal, namely, to compress the universe into the right word.
It is mutiny against language, a futile revolution against excess.
For fuck’s sake, that’s it. What a poor effort…
View original post 99 more words