April 14: Draining Color, A Writing Machine, Killer Eyes, More

The brightest colors are fading from view.

Let light diminish, the traitor, the creep.

I know what’s coming and know what to do.

 

Roses aren’t red, and violets aren’t blue;

Feel the lack trickle down into the deep.

The brightest colors are fading from view.

 

Now we have dreams we would vanish into,

Dreams where detail is a symbolic leap.

I know what’s coming and know what to do,

 

Restore my vision and restore my hue—

But I need solutions that I can keep.

The brightest colors are fading from view,

 

And there’s a part of me panicking, too.

When the path is clear, the cost can be steep.

I know what’s coming and know what to do.

 

Some blindness is permanent—this we knew.

True loss of color renders my life cheap.

The brightest colors are fading from view.

I know what’s coming and know what to do.

 

The word machine is dusty and broken,

Beneath your notice in times such as these,

Tapping out rhymes never to be spoken,

Writing in verse too old-fashioned to please.

 

Times such as these, there is one thing to do.

A sentimentalist might stop, object.

Discard old machines to buy something new!

Sentiment falls in line when we reflect.

 

I never wanted to write for the void,

But the void for me had another plan.

I produce tripe that cannot be enjoyed

And seems to fit with no present human.

 

The word machine’s junk and will disappear,

A discard far off where no one will hear.

 

I don’t know whether you’re aware or care,

But, you see, I’m not altogether there,

And whenever you think you see my face

You gaze bright-eyed into wide empty space

So deep and dark, it’s guaranteed to scare.

 

Get yourself ensnared in my blank-eyed stare

Because I’ve got one hundred more to share.

I’ll transform you, invisible, no trace—

I don’t know whether you’re aware.

 

Some of our kind announce our work with flair,

But exposure seems like a true nightmare.

I will be nobody’s number one case!

Morbid kids won’t write of my cold embrace.

I’m a blank-eyed drowner, not at all rare.

I don’t know whether you’re aware.

 

My cat’s in my business—she’s in control.

She conducts dealings—for leverage, cat soul.

She commands empires and buys red states whole;

I’m not sure how she votes—think she’s a mole?

 

She is quite pretty, and she’s awfully white—

Yes, getting older, but an awesome sight,

Most presidential when showing her might—

She’s not a metaphor—say that, she’ll bite.

 

She’s sweet and loving and curls in my lap;

No rank politician could do that crap.

Battling evil for her is a snap,

And she’ll get to it right after a nap.

 

She has rough edges, but she is loyal;

This cat is too indisputably royal.

 

Sometimes inspiration slows to a drip,

For the world’s garbage and gruesome to grip,

Like a slimy, refuse-filled, sunken ship

Under oceans that deny thirst a sip.

 

Who could create beauty when horror rules?

Barbers are fine, but beauticians are fools.

Frosting on shit won’t grow tasty in schools—

Beauty’s a puppet for when passion cools.

 

Leave off the frosting, and what have you got?

Another piece of unsaleable rot.

I could turn it ’round, but I’d rather not:

I’m not a happy-ending-brand robot.

 

Oops, I was wrong, or now I’m on the blink!

Everything’s wonderful! That’s what I think!

 

Give it up, folks. You love’em. You know’em.

It’s time for another flower poem.

In my case it’s because I’ve got photos

From gardens people who own my house rose,

But think of old Burns—that’s why folks grow’em!

 

Poems turned flowers to ways to show’em

You’d like to, you know, um, maybe blow’em—

Say it with flowers—no one feels like hos!

Give it up, folks!

 

If you’ve got seeds, you may want to sow’em,

But without romance, you might just stow’em.

You won’t seduce your love with your elbows;

Gladiolas need places that enclose;

Words are your colors; go out and throw’em!

Give it up, folks!

 

I’ve drawn so near the edge of breaking down,

I think this edge might be my kind of town,

Or maybe I’ve been a wreck already,

And I don’t remember being steady,

And I’m some joke, a dancing broken clown.

 

Can you think—ponder “losing” as a noun?

Like the maniac who has lost his crown:

It was his losing, but that is heady—

I’ve drawn so near.

 

A certain episode might gain renown,

But the edge I see involves straps of brown,

Huddled in a corner with a teddy,

Reduced to rubble, always pill-ready—

Now doesn’t that cliff make you broadly frown?

I’ve drawn so near.

 

 

Tiny holes

Entrance, exit

Abundant little ways

Dots for some artist

Come make art with my

Tiny holes

Big business

Traffic

Bottleneck

Toll

Tiny holes

In and out

Breathing through my pores

Awash in sweaty sunburned skin

They sting

Tiny holes

Breathing for some artist

Awash in big business

Come make art in and out

Traffic toll

Abundant sting

Talking to you is way more interesting than talking to myself. What do you think?