by Erik Saenz

Created on: December 01, 2009   Last Updated: December 03, 2009

40s off the old block
chipping in for meglomanian flock
crowds are inseperable turning out to belittle mockery
fornicating in dialectical stock
love before is was called love, covered in its ideological conundrum
blaming reciprocality Saturday ad hoc
working on the tails of past words
the story continues to show false cylindrical twisting
dominoes reoccurring till midnight gloom

Parisian women were never dirty, the critics mind was
victorian sheet covering the awning, spawning ventricles
gargoyles, lions and statues beholding sentinels
sprawling over mirrored testicles
waning in the wave of the sand
never did want to pull up my pants
little shops set up to cater juices
consolidation in truces fuses muses
ergot root taking in the oil off the ground
drowning in a sea of dehydrating planets
flanking through the back, caught them red handed
their movement satisfies ideal clashes
positioning in reference to concepts
didn't know where to go after hearing the sea shells
always writing down tiny notes on the margins
dawning, the sun inst coming back once the universe doesn't need it anymore
this poetry doesn't makes any sense, but it will be enough for us to see after death
mutating generations that will never come while acting that its not important
small jets of smoke dissipating to the middle of earth, it will continue to spin on its axis
a praxis of comets blasting every chassis, shaping its final shape from two unconnected points
couldn't see it coming until it passed, even though i tried so hard while it didn't exist
quarks embedded on spirit, the shape that is subjective to every other particle
a window opening in pure nothingness, with its moony glow entering its own

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