Thursday, August 16, 2012

2 poems || Edward Nichols

               A tribute to Beckett

      I'm wrapped in barbedwire,my feet standing in desert sand is on fire,

      Your assistance I do not need to acquire,of thisdaily struggle to free myself I do tire,

      Now on the next day , I'm stuck in muck and mire,I'm just trying to go higher,

      If I said this wasn't going to happen tomorrow I'd be a liar,

I get more used to it by the hour,

      In the distant I see a small long medium tower, I know that will be my final resolution,

          A   Funeral    Pyre.

     The concession with reprisal is intimidatingat it's conclusions of overrippened expenditure. Amorphous clay figurines the fractions being in their adornments clamouring for the archives latest reprieve at the doorbell of lambasted accoutrements.
    At the far stage where the skull was the hardest to flatten. His frequently clenched jaw slithered through her expelled breath, facial muscles could not act feel theboomerangs clattering against the wiggling fish materializing out of the mist.

     Pseudo emotion and objectivism shivered in disgust juxtaposed with the bloating out of peripheral lurid flashes. Like a liquid language his mind translated the disregard in the traditional sense of a news broadcast.

     A dark shape cut him off and whispered- Getting an idea depends upon your belief in it's existence. Dissecting and distilling it down to its core. Apostacy rampage of automanipulation ventriliquists mindbending velveteen embryo. Silent doubletalk in a refractory period, random fatalism distorts thebreeding grounds malformation, emblazing the reinforcements. Fatamorgana catalyst publicizes the image, an ailurophilewhence-so-ever random structuralism contains the treatment of the vaults cylinder.

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