Apeyard Holler

Vertebrae

were Dead curious in small blankets?
 ancient coverings with knott beads
dreaded thru holes left by heavy thumbing.

 The quilt of noise having left

a solemn ringing heard over thoughts of a teenager
that violence.

when Dead answer in coughing fits
do you hesitate to place your hand
in a way to cover her mouth,
in a cough to remember the way her hand
covers her mouth when she coughs, the remembering cough.

do the Dead question that heave?
where once a fit or a blood could run—
A drop cloth layer fragrance, posthumous fragrance;
the smell of lost fragrance
caught in worn blankets, bled sumptuously - purposefully
poured from a bottled held by callous’d hands. 

Once young to thought Dead die alone

following such strict paths, linear and cordial
in plain whites and pressed colors,
masturbating in the bathroom at work.

Doe this cross doe dead this hunger for bloody wierd

I thought. No love knows no knot worth tying
or untied love knots in strange ways. 

nor know course of grown fingernails, from death doe or coffin tossed
can unknow or untie these hungry knots as this blanket covers
from head to toe, to skin to bone.

(Source: nuptse)

Cut excerpt

I fell I feel I am a boy in a small swing set stuck in the harness and all the world is in front of me and they are pushing me up then left to swing. Back again up then effect, coasting but I need that first push to go and I locate footprints under my in the wood, the dirt, the gravel. Breathing prints, halting ones, and conditionally terrified prints where my feet only dangle and diagnose my body with impotent trembling. Dangling above briefly then scraping the impression with my tiptoes. Then I am back up and I fall backwards and I am back up and I look down and I see where my feet touched and I try again and it barely happens and I am back up. A semblance left by skinny legs the act of existing and attempting to mark it. A barely lasting breach in an already established and sailing ship of human conditioning. And I go back up and if two things, just two, one two, little things could just occur, not even both God, just one:

A.) Given the patience to wait, wait long enough for my legs to grow so my feet can reach the wood and I go back up. Therefore, when my legs dig into the ground that brings with them the rejection of my predicament and I kick the pricks of wood into the faces of all that press into me. The faces for so long have eaten their own feces and laid their lips upon my own. My being spreads on their faces as cuts and marks from the width of my Reeboks.

B.) Or that I, Jonny Spiegel, am pushed with such intention and ferocity that they leave grape bruises on my back and that I swing concentrically and that I go back up and I go further until I am upside down and when that happens I, Jonny Spiegel, will release my grip on the plastic links falling quickly to the gravel, the dirt, the wooden splinters and my entire weight leaves the mark of my existence in spilling blood and I will tint the ground in my guts. I will paint the gravel with the expressions of my pain and of my joy. That forever until men make a point to remove my mark, I will exist in fully in my own color, as a mark to my beating, my sentiments, my desire, and my devotion.

Another chapter done and edited. Three more to go and two more to write and I’m fucking done.

faek

in a ruot, people’s touch; hell togheher.
Reaching or standing and running out,
and what about that enough, is it wierd?
Can it bern or bellow and corr and lose,
can our fingers break each others, will
they heal over time? over there, past
whatever sits at the end of the street, 
it sounds like somethi

I’ve always liked this picture. Mainly because I look crazy, and oddly enough neither of us are in a band together. Just two dudes, looking awesome.

Stick off, round mud what bothers
a young stir than waiting on. Pies;
blonde hair with wild crosses, Or maybe
the confusing glance a child gives to
the door when it opens up, glass
and all that.

Relax, growing up into a spring
of a thousand organs. 

Review of my Latest Poem “Keebored”

Keebored

GgrraaFfffFfffFfffFfff
presure. presure. pressure. fffFfffFfffFrrrRrrrRrrrRaaaAAaaagGGGgGGG.
drem. dram. drone.
      ^^^
\\dddubbb///

        V

oen. pen, open. pren, pran, prawn, pawn.
qu(een eye dutch white glasses, gray tiht.
vVvoOocCcaAalLlyYy cCcaAaOoOLLLLLL. 

Drone. pressure. trust lips lit pushing further
past open drone pressure, ddddrrrooooooooo
                              oooooooooooooooooooo

oooooooooooooooooo

oooooooooooooooooone. 

) COals.Cowls. Kowls, Awls.Vowels. Owels, Owls. Awls.
Foulish. gather prawn lost years burnt rum roman canter.
Roaming skulk, bothering sleep, death

how u’ve groan. 

National Poetry Month

I’ll be trying to do a 30 for 30 this month. Wish me luck, next one is coming soon.

Knott

were Dead curious in small blankets? ancient coverings with knott beads
dreaded thru holes left by heavy thumbing. The quilt of noise; having left a 
solemn ringing and it is heard over the thoughts of being a teenager, and
that violence.

when Dead answer in coughing fits do you hesitate to place your hand
in a way to cover her mouth, in a cough to remember the way her hand
covers her mouth when she coughs, the remembering cough.

do the Dead question that heave? where once a fit or a blood could run
but now the thought that it could be their last bring fear? A drop cloth
layer fragrance, posthumous fragrence; the dead smell of long lost fregrance
caught perfectly in worn blankets, bled sumptuously - purposefully likely
poured from a bottled held by callous’d hands. 

Once young to thought Dead die alone, following this strict path, linear and
cordial in plain whites and pressed colors, masturbating in the bathroom at work.
Doe this cross doe dead this hunger for bloody wierd/ I thought. No love knows no
knot worth tying
or untied love knots in strange ways. 

and know course of grown fingernails, from death doe or coffin tossed
can unknow or untie these hungry knots as this blanket covers
from head to toe, to skin to bone.

The distraction of thought is far greater a commodity than resolution. 

This picture describes my day to day.