Sunshine been keeping me up for days

There was once something sweetly colorful

About your shadows

Linear hauntings

Graceful ancient hues leaving their mark

Like telephone poles in the middle of nowhere.

Let’s say someday

Backwards in our memory

You rock our smiling faces to sleep

Landing in the nothingness of space

And as we float out to our desired empty

Confetti deaths

You scream out one loud burst to the stars

You achieve one last bit of goodness

Shattering down back into the atmosphere

Where everyone indulges themselves

With the best wish they can think of.

the internet knows i'm retarded...

http://www.buzzfeed.com/anteater/face-swaps

I was asked to modify some photos...

i just got the worst retard giggles...

bunnies.

www.sketchybunnies.com

dissonance

summer sounds like lover sounds like such a clusterfuck.

Sunday Track - Decision

Decision
Jim Yates

A product of Sunday clouds.

Open Mic

The crowd had already assembled for the benefit of doubt, to eat up others' suffering like succulent blood oranges. I arrived late, winding through ghettos and darkness and finally forests to a place where at 11 PM the sun sparkled as if from one surrounding lake.

Here it was, this oasis of day with grass and amphitheater and people eager to hear whatever boomed or squeaked from center stage. Starving to know everything false and ashamed about your mind's offshoots, hungry to compare it to the wolfish emptiness behind their own barking faces, which in their collecting had become one lust.

I delivered. Everything. Even the songs, even the secrets, even the Morse code of kid things still tapping veins. And I became stone, polished marble in a moment's worth of weathering. Lapped by the wolves and tire shredded tongues to become a tighter and more indigestible molecule.

Midnight Track - Sweat Plural

Sweat Plural
James Doldenmastre Yates, if you please.

You know what to do.

Socks and Grammar

I mused for days
about whether socks would lay,
or if perhaps they’d prefer to lie
stagnant at a hamper’s base.

It’s a common trap, a trick of syntax—

Socks as objects are always laid,
and socks as subjects will never lay
(though yesterday I’m sure they lay)
and mine have lain for days and days,
stagnant at the hamper’s base.

Midnight Track - Sewer Rat

Sewer Rat
Jim Yates

Sometimes we all need a hiatus to contemplate pointlessness.

NSFW (Not Suitable For Work)

www.flashmountain.net