tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47043062201547932492024-03-05T18:50:50.922-08:00Kill The Thing You LoveI am Ted Jackins. Welcome to my Ted Talk.Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-33425703772277628302021-03-26T18:10:00.001-07:002021-03-26T18:10:46.941-07:00New poems featured in Outlaw Poetry<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydlH3Ncw7g4ac-03ZinCBughq8RDnYVABD4o9GgMyh2Fe5Xypy570bWaxSy-40-MN34Wf4eyPsVHVAHZ566QUgzqi-VmqxyhAIhy7DgT0ZAjeaPLPRROPZ6JUEbsRSaWjNkL_SOVoAHlH/s1000/IMG_20210326_174128_931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydlH3Ncw7g4ac-03ZinCBughq8RDnYVABD4o9GgMyh2Fe5Xypy570bWaxSy-40-MN34Wf4eyPsVHVAHZ566QUgzqi-VmqxyhAIhy7DgT0ZAjeaPLPRROPZ6JUEbsRSaWjNkL_SOVoAHlH/s320/IMG_20210326_174128_931.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <a href="https://outlawpoetry.com/2021/castaway-on-a-sea-of-twisted-smiles-by-ted-jackins/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Three Poems by Ted Jackins</a><p></p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-3363333816977960802021-03-25T10:10:00.004-07:002021-04-01T10:04:50.926-07:00Where's the Rage?<p>Where's the Rage?</p><p>(For Lawrence Ferlinghetti)</p><p><br /></p><p>Poetry is screaming into the wind,</p><p>a cry from within the void,</p><p>a crash of thunder from</p><p>nightmarish clouds on high,</p><p>the sound reverberating</p><p>from the core of all</p><p>which lies below.</p><p>You cannot pinpoint</p><p>the source of the dissonant</p><p>voice,</p><p>for it has always been</p><p>within everything that is</p><p>or forever shall be,</p><p>kept busy clicking a </p><p>Morse code symphony</p><p>from percussive typewriter</p><p>keys,</p><p>scattering endless words</p><p>into the alleyways of the mind,</p><p>a proverbial passing of</p><p>the torch from </p><p>generation to generation,</p><p>a voice of reason calling</p><p>out from the streets of confusion</p><p>like a single streetlamp</p><p>to light the new way.</p><p>Poetry is a cracked tea</p><p>cup overflowing with</p><p>subversive solutions:</p><p>a chamomile canto,</p><p>a herbal haiku,</p><p>an oratory oolong</p><p>dipped in Kerouac's</p><p>Kombucha.</p><p>Poetry is a smoking</p><p>ashtray in a darkened</p><p>room,</p><p>one puff through dirty</p><p>fingers is all it takes </p><p>to rearrange the shadows </p><p>in a midnight dance.</p><p>Poetry is as curious </p><p>as a kitten stalking an</p><p>insect no one else seems to see.</p><p>Poetry is a flooding creek</p><p>bed after an angry </p><p>afternoon storm,</p><p>boiling over with the</p><p>muddy waters of time.</p><p>Poetry is a key hidden</p><p>in the bottom drawer which</p><p>can unlock the hidden</p><p>rooms of rhyme.</p><p>Poetry is the voice</p><p>of dissent rising from</p><p>the rotting baseboards of</p><p>the slums of complacency.</p><p>Poetry is a middle finger to</p><p>those who demand order</p><p>and single file lines,</p><p>bigger wars,</p><p>louder engines,</p><p>better bombs,</p><p>smarter phones and</p><p>anything else meant</p><p>to distract us from the</p><p>larger picture being</p><p>etched in the sands </p><p>all around us.</p><p>Poetry is a great </p><p>crying out in the name</p><p>of loving whoever you want,</p><p>being as weird as you feel,</p><p>of living off the grid</p><p>and in the now,</p><p>of never taking the talking</p><p>heads at mere face value,</p><p>of realizing that even the</p><p>Statue of Liberty has lost</p><p>her looks and her meaning,</p><p>of knowing that the </p><p>:"Land of the Free"</p><p>only exists in quotation</p><p>marks,</p><p>of never giving up the fight</p><p>never mind the stakes,</p><p>of never allowing yourself</p><p>to be completely comfortable</p><p>knowing that that is just another</p><p>form of giving up.</p><p>No,</p><p>poetry is knowing that so long</p><p>as there are things needing</p><p>to be said you can never</p><p>rest on your laurels or </p><p>the give in to nostalgia,</p><p>you must always scream </p><p>your verses into the stars,</p><p>be a revolutionary of</p><p>the heart,</p><p>soul and mind,</p><p>for change starts</p><p>on the page,</p><p>but it ends in the sky.</p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-41144060509090531272021-03-25T07:14:00.001-07:002021-03-25T07:14:44.005-07:00Plague Journal Excerpt #1<p>The past is whatever you make of it. </p><p>That's the only way it can ever be framed:</p><p> in the periphery of the mind's eye,</p><p>casting cautious glances into the </p><p>rearview as it grows smaller </p><p>And smaller along the fading horizon.</p><p>You see it in that halo glow that's cast</p><p>along the edges of everything which</p><p>Lays in the path of the sun as it sets.</p><p>For a second you almost forget all </p><p>About the undercurrent of anxiety</p><p>Which ran through everything like</p><p>A thin, frayed wire receiving too much</p><p>electricity,</p><p>That edginess---</p><p>That unease which comes with</p><p>Being caught somewhere between </p><p>Childhood and all its simplicity,</p><p>And adulthood and the weight of its</p><p>Expectation and responsibility--</p><p>Hormones scorching your veins from </p><p>The inside and all the awkwardness,</p><p>insecurity and universal/emotional</p><p>imbalance that comes with it.</p><p>You have to remember it all,</p><p>Though,</p><p>As an artist you are a seeker </p><p>Of all hidden truths,</p><p>your own included,</p><p>So it becomes a place </p><p>You revisit often as you</p><p>Try to get at something </p><p>beyond mere hindsight.</p><p>In the end it all boils down</p><p>To this:</p><p>Your youth was where everything</p><p>Was still happening in something</p><p>approaching real time,</p><p>Everyday -every hour-every minute</p><p>Was its own kind of rebirth.</p><p>Now, here you are almost </p><p>Forty and feeling like every thing</p><p>is dead or close to it.</p><p>Adulthood is nothing but</p><p>A near constant standstill,</p><p>So you look backward every</p><p>Chance that you get,</p><p>Even if all it serves to do</p><p>Is to trigger your anxiety,</p><p>depression, mania, madness,</p><p>etc etc etc--- </p><p>"Your present needs you,</p><p>Your past doesn't,"</p><p>You break this rule </p><p>More everyday,</p><p>Especially times like now</p><p>Where everything seems</p><p>At a halt,</p><p>I can't stop myself from</p><p>Doing it even if the consequences</p><p>Are always the same.</p><p>I can't look away from that </p><p>Time and place where the</p><p>Whole fucking world was </p><p>Still ahead of us,</p><p>When we had dreams which</p><p>Made us interesting and passionate</p><p>In other's eyes.</p><p>Now, these same dreams are seen</p><p>As sad,</p><p>A perpetual adolescence,</p><p>Childish and we are shamed into</p><p>Keeping them hidden as secret</p><p>Hobbies.</p><p>How could you not look back</p><p>Through these Covid tinted eyes</p><p>And miss everything and everyone</p><p>So fucking much?</p><p>Oh, to simply be in the presence</p><p>Of friends right now:</p><p>Talking music,</p><p>Talking shit,</p><p>Swapping stories,</p><p>Poems,</p><p>Songs,</p><p>Fucking commiserating for </p><p>all that we have lost along </p><p>The way,</p><p>It'd be one of the only things</p><div style="text-align: left;">To make you feel remotely better,</div><p>and these secret tears in</p><p>their slow motion tracks.</p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-7743758812387881232021-03-14T01:42:00.005-08:002021-03-14T01:42:51.748-08:00Sign up for my b movie review newsletter<p><a href="https://tinyletter.com/81st_Flyer">https://tinyletter.com/81st_Flyer</a> </p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-49075244403287115462021-02-18T21:32:00.000-08:002021-02-18T21:32:38.631-08:00Thought Vomit #1<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-TvHND-zKJ8kMOqyYB0kmm_Y83y5MRu8WS-iC0BEEtxidS1fT83zf7wDjcGdzZxRKWTBCKMzQcosOIEhRaBTLXzA1XGBwa8TgWMzril7hsfPxM1KgsE5MR8IgXKWUL1tVx6KOz4xyTid1/s564/FB_IMG_1613708633515_kindlephoto-163182504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="409" data-original-width="564" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-TvHND-zKJ8kMOqyYB0kmm_Y83y5MRu8WS-iC0BEEtxidS1fT83zf7wDjcGdzZxRKWTBCKMzQcosOIEhRaBTLXzA1XGBwa8TgWMzril7hsfPxM1KgsE5MR8IgXKWUL1tVx6KOz4xyTid1/s320/FB_IMG_1613708633515_kindlephoto-163182504.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Slow Unraveling" mixed media on newsprint</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>1)</p><p>When the hypomania sets in-</p><p>You can talk a blue streak,</p><p>For miles and miles you go,</p><p>A thousand and one thoughts </p><p>Around the faded February sun.</p><p>Holding onto one stream of consciousness</p><p>Long enough for another to bubble up</p><p>And take its place,</p><p>And then the old thought is nothing more</p><p>Than a fading dot in the rearview,</p><p>Left stranded forever unless you </p><p>Made it a point to write it down,</p><p>Like in the old Coffee Shop days</p><p>Before you had no idea that anything </p><p>Was wrong or different about you -</p><p>Depression prone,</p><p>Sure,</p><p>But manic depression wasn't yet</p><p>In your vocabulary save for</p><p>The "Are You Experienced?" </p><p> deep cut -</p><p>And even then that was just a</p><p>Turn of phrase,</p><p>Not yet an illness you </p><p>Were aware of.</p><p>2)</p><p>No,</p><p>In those days these flights </p><p>Of fancy were just bursts </p><p>Of simple inspiration,</p><p>Or so you thought -</p><p>You would buy a notebook</p><p>On a Friday afternoon,</p><p>And by Sunday evening</p><p>It'd be full of these </p><p>Poetic sketches </p><p>And you'd think</p><p>Nothing of it.</p><p>Ecstatic at your</p><p>Developing voice,</p><p>Popping a squat</p><p>In some boarded up</p><p>Store front doorway,</p><p>Or else a corner table</p><p>In your favorite cafe,</p><p>a window seat </p><p>Looking out on on </p><p>Center Street,</p><p>Headphones tight to</p><p>Shut everything save </p><p>For the passing skateboarders</p><p>And kids walking off</p><p>To hidden shadows to</p><p>Fuck and/or get high,</p><p>Your music cranked </p><p>As loud as you could</p><p>Stand it-</p><p>All the better to focus</p><p>These thoughts and direct</p><p>Them outward instead</p><p>Of inward -</p><p>Somehow even then you</p><p>Were somewhat aware</p><p>Of the dangers of allowing</p><p>Yourself to spend too much</p><p>Time in your own head,</p><p>Yet another sign you missed</p><p>Early on in your</p><p>Mental health adolescence,</p><p>All of it being so fucking</p><p>Clear now but slipping by</p><p>So easily then-</p><p>All you knew was these</p><p>Racing thoughts</p><p>and the need to write </p><p>Quickly so as to head </p><p>them off at the pass,</p><p>the only way you could</p><p>hope to capture them</p><p>Before they were gone.</p><p>3) </p><p>How many times </p><p>In recent years have</p><p>You mourned the sudden</p><p>Passing of these overwhelmingly</p><p>Productive periods,</p><p>Half convinced they were</p><p>Gone for good this time?</p><p>As quickly as they came,</p><p>So, too, could they go-</p><p>Classic hypomanic behavior,</p><p>The flow of thought and static</p><p>Energy can only stretch so far</p><p>before the shell which contains them</p><p>Begins to crack from the pressure -</p><p>Then there's nowhere to go</p><p>But down down d o w n -</p><p>Then you find yourself </p><p>in the very bottom of </p><p>That well where depression</p><p>lives-</p><p>Where the air hangs </p><p>heavy,</p><p>Dank as basements in</p><p>abandoned houses,</p><p>Acrid with dust,</p><p>Death and decay,</p><p>The only light</p><p>(If there even is any)</p><p>Is from somewhere so</p><p>high above you can't </p><p>Even begin to hope</p><p>of reaching it,</p><p>And even then it</p><p>all depends on the </p><p>position of the moon </p><p>That night </p><p>(With depression it's always night time)-</p><p>Most of the time you </p><p>Only know darkness,</p><p>Stuck in the stale muck</p><p>Down here all alone,</p><p>Now cut off entirely</p><p>And for who knows</p><p>How long?</p><p>The depression always</p><p>seems to stay so much</p><p>longer than the other -</p><p>Whether manic or something</p><p>Approaching normalcy,</p><p>Each depression longer</p><p>Than the last,</p><p>No sense of beginning</p><p>Or ending,</p><p>After a few hours </p><p>It seems like it's always</p><p>been this way -</p><p>And no matter how many</p><p>Times you go through it</p><p>And come out again,</p><p>You convince yourself</p><p>That you'll be here,</p><p>Stuck down in the darkness</p><p>So thick you couldn't cut </p><p>It with a scalpel-</p><p>Convince yourself that you'll</p><p>Never write another word,</p><p>Riff or simply enjoy</p><p>Sitting in a cafe window</p><p>Seat,</p><p>Punk cassettes ringing</p><p>In your ears,</p><p>And surrounded</p><p>By the ones who will</p><p>Change your life so many</p><p>Times over,</p><p>Or so much as </p><p>taking an evening stroll</p><p>around the block again.</p><p>It is this kind of thinking -</p><p>That you'll be stuck in this </p><p>Damp blackness foreverf</p><p>That paves the way for every</p><p>suicide,</p><p>Every relapse,</p><p>Every breakdown,</p><p>Every rash decision </p><p>That destroys a thousand </p><p>Lives forever -</p><p>Not just the bipolar depressive's </p><p>Life,</p><p>but the lives of every</p><p>Single soul rooting</p><p>for them even if </p><p>They are too far down</p><p>The proverbial well</p><p>To hear it -</p><p>Every person who </p><p>Loves the person they truly are-</p><p>Not the one the depression</p><p>tries so hard to convince them </p><p>Is the only true self.</p><p>The bipolar depressed </p><p>Person doesn't slip</p><p>because they want to die,</p><p>They slip because,</p><p>more than anything,</p><p>They just want it </p><p>All to stop.</p><p>You've been there</p><p>enough times to know</p><p>The difference by now,</p><p>and yet you keep</p><p>Coming back.</p><p>"I think we are destined to do </p><p>this forever, you and I. "</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-18710228273506833102021-02-12T21:46:00.001-08:002021-02-12T21:46:12.421-08:00What's In It For Me?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrnnNdqn1RXpNpfu1KXKgRRuNn6zBby_KAy1piSjQ8AmeozmLXLiX2EQrHGG-9F9dhHUSBemp_QjNZJp7zSgkG13qavbvwTW443N2hk4OWNeoTHnmixQC2lH70KTQoLfYzCOmwk-s44PpX/s1280/maxresdefault+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrnnNdqn1RXpNpfu1KXKgRRuNn6zBby_KAy1piSjQ8AmeozmLXLiX2EQrHGG-9F9dhHUSBemp_QjNZJp7zSgkG13qavbvwTW443N2hk4OWNeoTHnmixQC2lH70KTQoLfYzCOmwk-s44PpX/s320/maxresdefault+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> I can hear you calling<p></p><p>somewhere beneath</p><p>the snow's busy falling.</p><p>I go to sleep,</p><p>and wake when the</p><p>stars come out,</p><p>they know my name</p><p>but not much else.</p><p>There's blood in my</p><p>mouth</p><p>from the words </p><p>that don't come out,</p><p>I chew my tongue</p><p>for the songs left </p><p>unsung,</p><p>If I bite too hard</p><p>I'll spend another year</p><p>in the dark.</p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-82111079724360860842021-02-10T17:04:00.005-08:002021-02-10T17:05:55.850-08:00This Is Poetry Volume 4 available now.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistBF-gubL2-LRvySiHcX4xUFKbKEIkqT515yu5rdERi6TefqJYgtdI1h_xzMqUo6ojBqf-s2_aGPUCYquWic98OjYQfhyxYvPKC7BhDM2WdAXIiwPdMrJpegPSyT9GPRfT4cTx4Mccbex/s843/FB_IMG_1612906947419.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="843" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistBF-gubL2-LRvySiHcX4xUFKbKEIkqT515yu5rdERi6TefqJYgtdI1h_xzMqUo6ojBqf-s2_aGPUCYquWic98OjYQfhyxYvPKC7BhDM2WdAXIiwPdMrJpegPSyT9GPRfT4cTx4Mccbex/s320/FB_IMG_1612906947419.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I was lucky enough to be featured in the latest volume of this ongoing series along with some of the best southern poets working in the literary underground today. In only a matter of days the collection has cracked the top ten on Amazon's new poetry anthology list! Go get you one now.</p><p><br /></p><a href="https://www.amazon.com/This-Poetry-IV-Poets-South/dp/0578828316/ref=zg_bsnr_10250_6?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=Z68KS615BAZ26EB87AWX" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://www.amazon.com/This-Poetry-IV-Poets-South/dp/0578828316/ref=zg_bsnr_10250_6?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=Z68KS615BAZ26EB87AWX</a><br /> <p></p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-32155119828837412922021-02-01T02:50:00.004-08:002021-02-01T02:50:55.045-08:00<p>Teary eyed at the typewriter,</p><p>Sketching words in blood,</p><p>An exorcism of the soul,</p><p>Casting shadows over scars</p><p>Framed in smoke,</p><p>Eyes closed tight</p><p>To capture every single</p><p>Thought I’d like to forget,</p><p>The kind that lead to dreams</p><p>Throwing open doors on </p><p>The subconscious,</p><p>That’s where depression</p><p>Doth dwell.</p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-26537143221205186212021-01-27T10:55:00.000-08:002021-01-27T10:55:02.581-08:00<p> I cut my teeth</p><p>and my wrists</p><p>on the sharpest</p><p>turns of phrase,</p><p>raining droplets</p><p>of my very existence</p><p>down on once empty</p><p>pages,</p><p>giving life the new</p><p>worlds forever being</p><p>built in my brain,</p><p>bringing darkness </p><p>and light, </p><p>sadness and love,</p><p>death and rebirth</p><p>to endless shades </p><p>of myself </p><p>all thinly veiled</p><p>(Of course),</p><p>yet lately my</p><p>gift fails me </p><p>at the strangest</p><p>Of times.</p><p>Every idea </p><p>torn into halves</p><p>and tossed into</p><p>a thousand bottles</p><p>to be cast off </p><p>into the blackest</p><p>of oceans known </p><p>to man:</p><p>that of self doubt.</p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-69293745079972883292021-01-12T16:39:00.000-08:002021-01-12T16:39:26.734-08:00Westward, Ho!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3brXQIYPhwzncQqTmZTEOB2sDVLAUmgVbsQ3i25fy1G-LWBtZbjm6DhyphenhyphenWdhNNRXSPP4QvD6FfqigI_p-VszMmwGT9gpUYqEEB5m0EgoDtdN4xJVCKcNIKcQpRwF7C6MOE1JGJsCfxOB-/s400/tumblr_mqefdaGBsD1qh3u8to1_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3brXQIYPhwzncQqTmZTEOB2sDVLAUmgVbsQ3i25fy1G-LWBtZbjm6DhyphenhyphenWdhNNRXSPP4QvD6FfqigI_p-VszMmwGT9gpUYqEEB5m0EgoDtdN4xJVCKcNIKcQpRwF7C6MOE1JGJsCfxOB-/s320/tumblr_mqefdaGBsD1qh3u8to1_400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p> *photo taken from the film El Topo by Alejandro Jodorowsky*</p><br /> 1.<p></p><p>He rolled into town</p><p>With guns drawn,</p><p>His pockets lined</p><p>With poems,</p><p>And his mind</p><p>Filled with spider</p><p>Webs</p><p>And dust.</p><p><br /></p><p>2.</p><p>The sun shone </p><p>Like a shotgun blast</p><p>Through the sky,</p><p>The townsfolk hid</p><p>At his approach,</p><p>Murder written </p><p>In his gaze.</p><p><br /></p><p>3.</p><p>Cocking the hammer,</p><p>He shot the mayor</p><p>Full of wet dreams.</p><p><br /></p><p>4.</p><p>The mayor died</p><p>Of orgasms,</p><p>boredom </p><p>And blood loss.</p><p><br /></p><p>5.</p><p>Later,</p><p>When the mayor </p><p>Awoke in Hell,</p><p>He was surprised</p><p>To find that it</p><p>Looked just like</p><p>Home.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-23211140212564506672021-01-10T12:41:00.003-08:002021-01-10T17:23:20.729-08:00Link to my multiple music projects<p><a href="https://conversationswiththeghost.bandcamp.com/music" rel="nofollow"></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAeP9odsR2xZ1NC7J_LpCiUHI_74Tn558HUzU8yrvXAua1xODkDAmhgilKVwWi8LihhT7TGsmUcVKGpPoCkuLkQ2QAOnPaFGxZZhiqTUJUN7QJvUzYmRArH4r0-xXJSRwARe2Nc-NoPPJD/s811/FB_IMG_1610311458782.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="811" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAeP9odsR2xZ1NC7J_LpCiUHI_74Tn558HUzU8yrvXAua1xODkDAmhgilKVwWi8LihhT7TGsmUcVKGpPoCkuLkQ2QAOnPaFGxZZhiqTUJUN7QJvUzYmRArH4r0-xXJSRwARe2Nc-NoPPJD/s320/FB_IMG_1610311458782.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://conversationswiththeghost.bandcamp.com/music" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://conversationswiththeghost.bandcamp.com/music</a><br /><p></p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-51187229300309538572021-01-10T11:07:00.001-08:002021-01-10T11:07:21.480-08:00<p> There's a store</p><p>Where your ideals can be </p><p>bought or sold,</p><p>Whore of horrors,</p><p>Chin up through this</p><p>Breakdown,</p><p>Marshmallow moonbeams</p><p>And all that shit,</p><p>It's rock and roll time,</p><p>Useless horizons</p><p>With a twist of lime,</p><p>The author died of disinterest,</p><p>A thousand cliches tucked into</p><p>His back pages,</p><p>One day I will leave this room</p><p>If I could ever find the door.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdhV4ARPSojnp3Tqy9aXPZspje0snZLyR-W-ezveffZzuq-Y9MlEYYIaZ23re2b-B_b5QkLcPk43tBi477bLAmzOi3W8u8v7i3SNIMS6_S8kjWFpiJNi2vYvDfKgfAjjdeWX-fcjLIT3gQ/s800/FB_IMG_1610305514796.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdhV4ARPSojnp3Tqy9aXPZspje0snZLyR-W-ezveffZzuq-Y9MlEYYIaZ23re2b-B_b5QkLcPk43tBi477bLAmzOi3W8u8v7i3SNIMS6_S8kjWFpiJNi2vYvDfKgfAjjdeWX-fcjLIT3gQ/s320/FB_IMG_1610305514796.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-23723016054191892862021-01-09T18:37:00.001-08:002021-01-09T18:38:59.354-08:00Support independent artists<p> I've recently made an account with Buy Me Coffee. I've added a button to the drop down menu on the blog. There's no obligation to contribute but if you like the content I share here and elsewhere and want to support a struggling artist it'd be much appreciated.</p><p><br /></p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-39748966221448101682021-01-02T16:39:00.003-08:002021-01-02T16:39:37.930-08:00Factory To the Stars<p> He worked in a factory manufacturing all the stars in the sky. Twelve hours a day he'd pace up and down an assembly line overseeing the production of every cluster, quasar, comet and constellation. He's worked there so long he can hardly recall doing anything else.</p><p> He lived in a room above a bar with a woman. He'd lived with her for six months and still didn't know her name. </p><p> He preferred it that way.</p><p> </p><p> Names got in the way of things.</p><p><br /></p><p> Names meant trouble.</p><p><br /></p><p> Names left an emptiness when they left....</p><p><br /></p><p> ....and they always left.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdSMbC1PYh5KEE4DFGQ2vufVeVkzat8EEgYqMxF_8jX7eJ3-nTvS4Y8dK2qVHeyjxQjkpIDd3JAxRLQeeRUXE4vEmPMJppclizBhuikSeS1LYtFoNJUwnc1hQm19nja8HuXigv3A2UvFCZ/s640/FB_IMG_1609631730152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdSMbC1PYh5KEE4DFGQ2vufVeVkzat8EEgYqMxF_8jX7eJ3-nTvS4Y8dK2qVHeyjxQjkpIDd3JAxRLQeeRUXE4vEmPMJppclizBhuikSeS1LYtFoNJUwnc1hQm19nja8HuXigv3A2UvFCZ/s320/FB_IMG_1609631730152.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4704306220154793249.post-47701886093764184042020-12-30T21:01:00.000-08:002020-12-30T21:01:15.508-08:00The Things We Do For Love<p> <span style="font-family: times;">The train whistle moans in the distance and I'm on fire. This morning I carved her initials into my arm with a rusty nail. It was all that remained once her coffin was done.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"> "You were in love and it was all so real," my conscience is speaking now, "but now she's gone and you have teeth like razor blades."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"> The air smells of exhaust, burnt tires and rust. The rust is in my blood and my blood is in the streets. I sleep in an abandoned warehouse on a bed of broken glass. In the early morning hours when the stars are still out I lay awake and listen to the trains. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"> Sometimes I swear I hear them call her name and I could almost cry.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"> I'm not sorry for what I did. She was in pain and I took it away. I set her free. A few days ago I removed my fingerprints with a blowtorch. I didn't even flinch. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"> They'll never find me here.</span></p><p> I'll be gone soon, too.</p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times;"> Like a nightmare that slowly disappears upon waking.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho4BVw1Sy9ekVArZn54Xw1g7BZ0XdyZdYe1-Lf-qw3W7amVkaCxPtFyHcR09c1jS8NBugcON5ZmEUoG29s9XbBG3P2cEm1S8qsEPS3nxFxnqmNetboTlcCY0OWqxHIiyOO0rA4_WUUzdwQ/s1280/maxresdefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho4BVw1Sy9ekVArZn54Xw1g7BZ0XdyZdYe1-Lf-qw3W7amVkaCxPtFyHcR09c1jS8NBugcON5ZmEUoG29s9XbBG3P2cEm1S8qsEPS3nxFxnqmNetboTlcCY0OWqxHIiyOO0rA4_WUUzdwQ/w640-h366/maxresdefault.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div>Kill the Thing You Lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08717260724441251337noreply@blogger.com0