Hidden Manfrom dustHidden Man by thirdim3nsion
the mortal mixed soul
of a hidden man
crawls woeful, slow
out of the valley
of dry bones.
he spills red
the blood, the heifer,
rubs its ashes
on sackcloth skin,
and water washes,
to atone the sin,
James Taylor Probably Hates Richmond TooJames Taylor’s a fair companionJames Taylor Probably Hates Richmond Too by thirdim3nsion
when echoing the loneliness woven
between lines, lines best read as though
I always thought that I’d see her again,
but she lives in Richmond, that city
of second rate attractions, distractions,
destitute detractors of dreams that
scream like car alarms at 4am
for the owner to protect them
from burglary or wind blowing
just hard enough to trip the sensor.
Perhaps she only knows these same
sensory dreams still wake me up at 4am
and I howl scream into the sheets,
sheets that she wanted to sneak in
to clean because we had dirtied them
years before she left for Richmond.
Whether she knows or I dream alone,
I always thought that I’d see her again.
Will It SurfaceWill it surfaceWill It Surface by thirdim3nsion
like a pocket of air
or a lie laced secret
in a single heart chamber?
She can’t help but remember
how her hungry eyes pulsated
as I trembled with midnight poetics,
and our heart wires intertwined.
She’s seven years scratching at the surface,
and I’m seven years silent,
holding the sole strand of this
wire frayed heart chamber.
for the transient onesneolithic fires, labor litfor the transient ones by thirdim3nsion
and weary warm, fabled
the starless grot sky
where cave drawings
of spears laid waste
to beasts slain bloody.
and in Babylon
they carbon scribed
civilization on papyrus,
reeds harvested from
the earth's black mire.
even the mountain voice
found a Moses to stand
with open ears and hands
holding twin tablet words
writ for the hearts of men.
but we wear the wrinkles of our fathers,
the efforts of age we never thought
to fold in between parchment pages
all while a senescence howl whirl
haunts about the once sacred temples
of our minds and leaves us sepulchers
without words or epitaphs or legacies.
god's inveiglenothing right is left.god's inveigle by UnspecifiedUnknown
blue devotions quietly sink in ink,
in estuaries haunting the swell
and sigh of a lullaby raised beneath
a haloed moon. a pregnant sky moans
against the weight of her labouring
clouds; verses invent blame
on the suspicious hips swayed
by bodies translated in brethren
wind. a gospel of shadows in flight
estrange their own daily devotions in
d minor. poetry writes in this colour.
nothing left is right.