Softer than a pillow is my heart for you, where time stands still and oceans part.
dickste.in
Category: Poetry
Do not squander
Do not squander this, what you have been told is time, for, to let it pass without friction through your grasp is the shame in the half-empty flared-lip caraf.
dickste.in
The funnel
Happenings in a reality without time can be measured in moments; with each and every passing, we slide down, around and around, closer to the narrowed spout. Is there friction on this mission, the answer is a theoretical position – the give and take cancels it out.
dickste.in
Used text books
If I could go back to the used text book store, I’d bring this experience while through the pages I sort. A young fool, I searched for the books in the best condition; highlighted sentences were a sign of ruin, I had no idea what I was doing. Seeing the past is easy now, I never highlighted the pages of the clean books that I found, all returned with splended-spines, condition being perfectly bound. A well-used book contains more than the words within.
dickste.in
What language do birds speak
It is hard to ignore their banter – without it morning would be unfamiliar. I often wonder about dielectric characteristics of their chirp chatter languistics, sounds of peace and war so eloquently presented; to our ears these frequencies do resonate beyond aesthetic. If 3 or more birds are conversing, does one interpret four the pair? What language do birds speak – listen closely; all answers on this test can be found in the textbook. Life is an open book test.
dickste.in
Style is the books cover
Style is the books cover – what’s within is the full wonder.
dickste.in
A quarter in the machine
Every day in the moment between, when we wake up and in our last dream, there is a sequence of an experience that determines your movement to another reality. You may not believe all that you read, but you still keep putting a quarter in the machine.
dickste.in
The soul consumes
The roose of you, sloshing through the jungle excreting noxious fumes with vibes of impending doom and gloom – all of this to keep the output in fine-tune; the soul consumes.
dickste.in
How to build a crude time machine for other people
The devil’s details have been discussed, wherein faintly driven screws of nature form lines of taint and condensation. Rusted wheels spin and grind the burning rubber of time.
dickste.in
It won’t matter, but it will
It won’t matter, but it will, suspense built by more than percussion’s mighty trill – the one thing final, once it is willed. Changing the course of the now is a time machine for others.
dickste.in
It’s mostly artificial
It’s mostly artificial everything you see, my reality is artificial to you and yours is to me. Giant rain falls like metal bearing-balls, clouds are different and time seems strange. Fake news is breaking news, him hint hint – it arrives at opportune times, when they’re swarming the hives just insta-sing the blues. When ratings are low, they have the answer – just wheel out the sob story from a news anchor with cancer; sad to say if you feel bad, you’ve been had. So watch away while they scrub your brain with steel wool so you feel the pain, so next time you will refrain from not playing by the rules of the game. If you see a ship in the sky, do yourself a favor and save some time because it’s only real to you buddy.
dickste.in
People we forget the most
Who are the people we forget the most when it comes time to put glasses up, they name not ever spoke. It’s hard to remember who you were, let alone your name and stated rank, a rant of clanking syllables. In time that’s past I do recall, strange ceremonies had in lots on mid-summer’s day – surprise, warm glare of sun-beam’s stare carries messages abound towards the ground.
dickste.in
Sounds of music
The sounds of music tickle my soul, frequency absorbed by my skin from the time of first note’s burst it creates a thirst. A chain of waves, a torch carried by alternating octaves; slow race through a finite maze; four minutes and twenty-seven seconds trapped in time. Pictures form, continuously born, melody performs on mind’s center stage. Crisp as it is, as clear as a million tiny pins, music is my true love – oh yes, listen to the story, the poetry of life contained within.
dickste.in
Stars are numbers
I think the stars are numbers and the numbers are stars, and that the sky above is another globe’s below. I feel the vibrations of thunder’s subtle-rumble animate tiny textures, like salted lectures, to an audience of sea-sand ticked toes. I see a world with woes about fake votes, by those who defend at end the ones they chose, and have faith in news that speaks-not in truth’s tone. All things earthly full of wonder, with exception of the trivial pursuit of the man’s grand plan.
dickste.in
Afraid
Some are afraid to see themselves in the light, afraid that they may catch a fright, of themselves a ghastly sight which resembles nothing like the image that carries their plight, to destroy the souls of those who see – oh shit, that coward is me.
dickste.in
Have you seen yourself
Have you seen yourself in Victorian times, did your drums imprint on your brain, translations of a paused-period’s harpsichord-vibration? Was your alien abduction a memory reconstructed, or fragments of information learned, supra-injected to form a world projected in the space we’re told candles won’t burn. Or, what if time is out of place, chronological-measurement a lofty-figment of imagination, mis-read due to spinning food on spoons while being fed. Our version of reality perpetually defaced, by sources forgiven eternally by zombies who hold faith in nothing more than his grace. The past is clear in our ability to slow time physically, man’s secrets throughout time, packaged and sold to us through the mind’s voice of a disguised comic’s soliloquy.
dickste.in
What divides
What is it that divides? What makes it so, that together we can’t thrive? Subtle differences in shades of skin, though nature-built-fundamental features akin. So we must ask why for some it’s not natural, feelings of brotherly love of man should be actual. I revisit the question of what divides, well for some, their goal is to more-than survive, they capture the bees and steal their hive; this is the way greed multiplies, as it feeds wide eyes wild lies to drown out the bee’s cries. But again, what is it that divides?
dickste.in
The pea brain
He believes the world may be flat, but he’s just too dumb to see; we’re spinning faster than light-speed, but we just can’t feel it; he doesn’t get it, his brain is like a pea.
In this round earth when you fly an airplane straight, you will make it back to your initial state. He’s way too dull to understand the mathematical-sciences at hand, don’t think too hard or you’ll hurt your head; the world of physics is not for the lame-brained.
The thing is, it all makes sense, for the masses that count, watch CNN death-tolls amount. And then one day he’s his only friend because the loyal Fox has left his den, the elephant was really a pig, and the election was rigged.
I must be a pea brain, it makes no sense to me.
dickste.in
Act: 1
It’s the same act – treated like shit by re-writing the script. The grand drape retracts, revealing a serene scene, birds tweeting, my character reeling from easy-feelings. A shot is fired at thy offensive feet, dance mother-fucker dance – a fiery blaze of speech heats, strapped into the hot-seat. A Kabuki drop curtain suddenly reveals, a well-worn war scene battlefield. Arrows sail towards the heart-shield, the heart is no match to the poison it yields. Never prepared to engage with such a dishonorable foe, the heart-torn warrior wanders, head down, scouring the ground. Die you do, a death of mediocrity those who hold a candle of hope towards a fruitful relationship with a narcissist – they would probably say this poem sucks.
dickste.in
Pain and cruelty
It’s the same act – constrained by the grip of a forever re-written script. The grand drape retracts, revealing a serene scene, birds tweeting, my character reeling from easy-feelings. A shot is fired at thy offensive feet, dance mother-fucker dance – a fiery blaze of speech heats, strapped into the hot-seat. A Kabuki drop curtain suddenly reveals, a well-worn war scene battlefield. Arrows sail towards the heart-shield, the heart is no match to the poison it yields. Never prepared to engage with such a dishonorable foe, the heart-torn warrior wanders, head down, scouring the ground. Die you do, a death of mediocrity those who hold a candle of hope towards a fruitful relationship with a narcissist – they would probably say this poem sub-par.
dickste.in
Being told
Being told will leave you speechless, the mind forms words, though from your mouth no sound breaches. Being told, the mind spins from dis-information, attempting to process hate-speech, a breach of peace without reason. Notice not given for the one-way trial, you’re serving your sentence with no chance for repentance.
What the hell was that? Oh, you’ve been told.
dickste.in
The portrait of love
The picture we paint, the portrait of love. The never ending masterpiece inspirationally painted by the awe-inspired heart. Though this work, so very special and visceral to the soul of the creator, warrants no critique – the critique will come when the portrait is revealed to the subject, the subject of love, who’s definition differs not just in the broad strokes laid by life’s thick brush. Fine lines paved by strands of steeds, formulate the tiny paths of love and understanding perceived by the purveyor of such a personal labor. The thought of the gift, born from love, but eternally lost in subjective interpretation is the definition of the failure of art.
dickste.in
Would god let us wonder
Would god let us wonder, stop to contemplate rain during the thunder.
Would god let us wonder, warm our souls with thoughts of summer.
Would god let us wonder, about our fate or dreamy-visions sought in slumber.
Would god let us wonder about what he built, or why some ladies like to sew quilts.
Would god let us wonder? You already know the answer.
dickste.in
Where do souls go
Where do souls go, where do they go when they lose their fancy 3rd dimension glow. Do they float in the soul salvage yard, do they visit your dreams in glutinous gloat — or are they the product of the horned goat?
dickste.in
Where I belong
It’s funny, somewhat ironic, it’s true – until you told me where I belong, I always thought it was with you. Thanks for the clarity. Based on many a true story.
dickste.in
Chart your course to happiness
Make a list of the things that make you happy, and those that don’t. Chart your course to happiness or get there you won’t.
dickste.in
Raw but expressive
Raw but expressive, simple, more impressive, straight lines easy to follow – though mystery lays within the curves of freedom.
dickste.in
A scary notion
A scary notion about devotion, some for love, mostly for the opposite. Don’t participate for you’ll only perpetuate. What is hate but a date that correlates your fate, the waiting room where your contemplation conflates. Championship runners are hardly late, but the tortoise is a proven-noble mate. First lesson learned from a junk heap, a reference to not many. The truth is that it’s hard to be an archive of unknown cartoons, and pictures that move, music that grooves. References reserved for those few that care, if I could delete I’d hit it…um, that key. Old oil wells spew methane gas. Don’t cry over spilled milk.
Dickste.in
Peace-less speeches
Oh, I am, a torn, tired, and tortured soul. Peace-less speeches, far from the tattered net of my heart-post’s goal.
Dickste.in
The wave that has passed
Care not I for the wave that has passed, for that wave has gone and the next shall not last. Easily forgotten is the splash. Beware, though, corse-discourse often results in whiplash.
Dickste.in
Life like lace
What is scary, is life like lace.
Dickste.in
The world is an eye game
The world is an eye game now, the smile invalid, the hidden frown. Expression limited now to a furrow of the brow.
Dickste.in
Good and bad
I was good and bad but mostly good, the opposite of Batman, add a red hood. You saw my soul through a small wooden door – you made it small to even the score. I told you once, I’ll tell you some more, my love for you created this raconteur. It was more the catalyst for learning how to channel the burning, into, forms of light to multiply your plight. The devils Dawn is your fawn, graceful, running across God’s lawn. Do it once, don’t be hesitant, if you are you will be forever his peasant.
Dickste.in