A Mourning Cough & A Shortness Of Death

Lines In Space

2011-11-09T15:51:00.003+08:00

Lines In Space

-Kent Dylan-

It all seems

so strong, so stable;

until, you start to think of it

as a small ball, with a gassy

exterior and a muddy interior;

following, an imaginary line

wobbling to stay in balance,

and moving a degree;

back and forth,

back

and forth:

against a pushing

& pulling sun;

against

time.

Stable,

& Strong.

And it’s

been going on

now, just like this,

for how damned

long?

But

I’m sure -

it’s only when, you

think about it

like this,

that

the possibility

of it teetering off

into the abyss,

even-ever-

really

actually

The Fishbowl Theory

2011-11-08T21:36:00.001+08:00

The Fishbowl Theory

-Kent Dylan-

Isn’t it funny stuff,

air, I mean.

It’s this invisible thing

that you can’t see;

it’s all over you.

We wade

through it.

It makes us more like fish

in a way, closer to the beginning

but further from the truth.

Earth

is our fishbowl,

that’s why people love fish.

We identify with their

existence;

I always wondered why I liked round fishbowls more.

When you look at it closely

we have the ‘Fishbowl

Syndrome’ in many cases.

You see

NAuSeA,

NASA

is like that fish

that escapes,

only for us we need mechanics;

we are a little like TRANSFORMERS in a way

(but that’s a whole other discussion).

We try to escape the mystery too,

just like beached whales.

They are the ones

that have evolved

to enlightenment

in the oceans; the spawn of thought,

‘what if’

perhaps, a

‘maybe’,

‘I

think’

therefor

I die.

It’s much like a ripple.

It starts small and out it goes;

until you have

…

BBBBBRRRRRrrrrr

BLAST

OFF.

Time Tolls, Bye

2011-11-07T21:53:00.002+08:00

Time Tolls, Bye

-Kent Dylan-

Time tolls by; very, slowly;

these days...

and you don’t want to sleep...

and you don’t want; to stay...

awake...

and it’s never your first cigarette...

and, it’s, never really;

your last...

and for some reason, you need work;

to live again.

If time flew by, could you work again?

If cash rolled in, would you smile again?

And, you’re not sure;

can’t really make a choice,

for work; is the devil’s dildo

and you; his favorite bitch

and money, money is better left to God

and time, well; time is not your friend,

‘cause it’s slowly jogging out...

And you’re never fully convinced,

can’t ever really make up your mind;

because work; is the devil’s brothel

and you; his favorite whore;

and time, well... time;

has run out on us

again.

Momma’s Cotton

2011-11-07T17:16:00.000+08:00

Momma’s Cotton

-Kent Dylan-

Wrap that shit up.

Weak at the edges,

but pretty well

woven.

All caricatures;

flawed.

But pretty well

scripted;

rolled.

All twisted and

broken, on old

eucalyptus,

paper trails;

Old,

lifted; rolls.

wrap that shit up;

wrap it up good

in momma’s cotton.

Torn

and browned,

moldy;

dogeared; moth-eaten;

hidden in cracks and crevices;

hidden in holes.

Wrap that shit up,

and hide it well.

Hiber Nations

2011-11-07T13:21:00.000+08:00

Hiber Nations

-Kent Dylan-

He rolls over,

hoping to leave my thoughts a little behind,

but they swarm back

at the bear, pretending

to sleep.

And so,

one by one,

like those bullets; that

can, take down an elephant,

they burrow, into the back of his head,

but I can bear it, in fact, it’s not painful,

he chuckles to himself, and thinks,

if not for the clock, to be honest,

I’d want them to hang around

a little bit, like honey bees

protecting springs.

4:39 am, how long has it been, trying?

He slows down my breath; this never works.

So he starts to imagine himself, sweeping

each one of those thoughts

into a closet

next to my bed.

And not the closet I now own,

but rather, the idealistic version of one:

Strong and sturdy, made from real wood.

The mirror on the inner door copying his movements.

And then, when every one of those ideas, thoughts, memories, images, ideas, thoughts, ideas, memories, ideas, images and ideas are in,

the bear surveys the area, in third mammalian.

There he is-

closet, dustpan and broom,

bear, propped against the door.

And certain they are all there- inside,

not able to see or hear any of them — anymore.

He then concentrates hard, on keeping this image

in my head, and in fact, it actually worked once

but ever since; we’d failed.

How come it worked only that once?

Counting never worked either,

nor did a glass of red wine

reading only makes it worse,

depending on the day and...

If he decides to gets up,

to write all this stuff,

(in the closet),

down: it all files away

and I’ll catch only one good line.

“I roll over hoping to leave his thoughts a little behind”

You Can’t Catch A Snowflake

2011-11-06T16:46:00.003+08:00

You Can’t Catch A Snowflake

-Kent Dylan-

People are not all different,

People are all the same.

People are not like snowflakes, or diamonds —

Not like fingerprints.

People are all the same.

And snowflakes are not all different,

Snowflakes are all the same.

They just appear different under closer observà

And diamonds are not all different,

They just come in different classificà

And fingerprints, are just fingerprints; that make us wish

That, we, weren’t all the same.

Deep down, there is no meek.

Deep down, there is only the small waiting; to engulf the large.

Deep down inside, there is nothing; deep.

Only you,

And I, pretending to be differentà

No, people just appear different under closer observation

And they scrutinize one another to prove that they

are not all the same

and they point out every fault

yet, they realize not

that you can’t recognize a problem

you, yourself have not.

because people are not half as beautiful as a snowflakes,

each one different;

or the same.

Oxen

2011-11-05T15:43:00.002+08:00

Oxen

-Kent Dylan-

We behave quite well

most of the time,

& we look

presentable —

for the most part.

We show off,

in the clubs & bars, but;

we eat right — most of the time.

We speak right,

walk right,

and

stand;

upright — most of the time.

We flirt at micro levels, with flitting eye-

lids, and sideways glan-ces,

and we long for

recklessness;

at the best

of times.

And we —— occasionally

break free, and do as we feel

when we can’t care

for the results

and the

opinions

that will arrive

— regardless.

knowing what people want from us,

—but pretend—

that we’re better than that, and

that we can do it right — if we live life right,

if we are honest, genuine; and controlled.

When really, most; of us, want

— to be taken

breaken

and told —

to stand; and wait

on all fours

outside.

Yes,

she, she wear her thigh-high

black-patterned stockings, most of the time,

& he, he... considers wearing those stockings,

only; every, once-in-a-while.

Looming

2011-11-04T21:00:00.003+08:00

Looming

-Kent Dylan-

One day you will ask yourself,

Why did I say that?

and the answer, will be frightening

the answer will frighten you;

one day

soon.

And one day soon,

you will really know, who

is, the real you;

and it’s frightening,

the truth,

your truth

about you.

One day, we will all ask ourselves,

Why do we do, that which we still ...do?

...Do? ...Do?

and the answer,

will be frightening

— even to you.

The answer will loom down, on everyone,

from every room,

and every bookshelf,

every newspaper, and every rack at the store,

from every wall.

One day, we’ll have to ask ourselves

and, one day soon.

That Thing Inside Of You

2011-11-02T20:37:00.000+08:00

That Thing Inside Of You

-Kent Dylan-

That void,

that dark unidentified vast-

ness, that mass.

That thing that stretches out and transforms you,

that grabs at your heartstrings,

puts emptiness in your belly,

doubt in your mind;

good and bad, in your soul;

that thing, that

teaches you,

that makes you question God;

makes you question the meaning of Life;

and all, that encompasses it.

That dark ball,

that glowing light;

making you hope,

making you hide;

and that, at times

makes you wish, you had never been born,

wish, you were never alive,

wish, you were someone else;

doing something else;

being another way,

seeing in a different light.

That thing, inside each one of your cells

is not what you might imagine it to be.

That thing,

that drives man to murder

drive us to progress

to understand,

and ultimately leads us to

misunderstand.

That thing that destroys chance,

and creates the new possibility,

the thing that is inside you.

In your bones,

your mind,

every cell;

that thing, that you;

deep down — inside,

already know

is you.

Kings Of The Open Field

2011-10-30T17:18:00.000+08:00

Kings Of The Open Field

-Kent Dylan-

It was quite a time being there, here; today.

It was quite a time experiencing, the world.

And, creation; in a million different ways.

We were champions of the seas;

the fjords, the skies and beyond.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kings Of The Open Field:

[looking with want,

beyond]

(and beyond that too)

it seems obvious, that in order to function as one,

xxxX The Whole Truth, Should Be Told, To Everyone Xxxx

that all, could be understood; once and for all ––

minus the irony.

& that, instead––of dictating

our lives and our deaths:

*derived of choice*

that we do too-

obviously;

remain

ignor-

Which suits them best.

devoid of, and;

without: fair faith.

and without choice;

and with out approval,

from––

US.

Devoid of our seal of consent;

and, take as they please, when we;

are supposed to be equal,

in obvious rights.

No, things are not all okay up there tonight

nor, were they yesterday; nor; today.

yet still the light of the sun

maintains as proof; our claim

of ownership to the one,

only

One.

The Drawing Board

2011-10-28T13:20:00.002+08:00

The Drawing Board

-Kent Dylan-

People always think that the final product

is gold,

but as always;

people are wrong.

People always assume, that the end result

is where it’s

at.

The sketch pad,

and note book

hold the choir,

but the choir, in the performance

is just there for the show.

No song is as good

as the way it sounded,

in the head, of the one;

who the song did compose.

No painting, as vibrant, as the image

in the mind;

of the man, who murdered it

in its final, demise.

So we should sketch more;

and hide — that,

which people cannot understand;

on dusty shelves,

and, buried out of sight.

Yes, people always think; that the final product

is the way it should always, have been

but as always,

people,

are

wrong.

At The End Of The Start

2011-10-26T18:32:00.005+08:00

At The End Of The Start

-Kent Dylan-

I’ve been to this place before.

In fact, I’ve been here so many times

that all, becomes lost.

I enter the shopping center,

and begin to run.

Passageways lead to the right

— ONLY TO THE RIGHT —

the floor is so well shined, it gleams.

I begin to skate, as-though on ice;

the sensation is fabulous —

I feel like a child, sliding on my socks;

down a forbidden passageway

in a school — deserted, but for me.

YET I AM NOT ALONE.

This place is full of pedestrians

off shopping, or about to eat.

Baby carriages,

full shopping carts.

Singles and couples and families and,

some; just milling about.

I keep on

— STRAIGHT —

I know where my path leads.

I come to a picturesque stop.

Sliding to a long—drawn-out halt;

at the destination

I was heading to, from the start

— THE END OF THE PATH —

to a warm greeting, from the guy responsible;

for this perfectly sparkling floor, that I rode.

And in a red bucket he’s dipping a mop; in and out,

and although, I was looking for the restroom

— AND SEE IT —

(a far less well kept area no doubt)

I can’t help but notice the last shop

— TO THE RIGHT.

Big glass windows; to a sunken white world —

of manicures, hair dressers,

revolving chairs, blow-dryers and, an extremely-friendly-looking staff.

I’m familiar with this, and them;

so much so in fact, that I recognize the majority of the people inside.

And they see me, and are even happier than the previous guy.

Immediately beckoning me, to come inside,

and I do.

To be sure, I don’t need the restroom at all

in fact, in all the times I have visited this place,

I have always come for the bathroom, and now it is clear to me;

that never once, have I ever gotten inside.

I go in and am immediately catching up

with people who know me by name.

Who tell me the general goings on,

who’s come; and who’s gone,

AND SO ON; AND SO ON.

After a few moments they get back to their work,

and a woman — huge in her height, and hefty in part

comes-up-to-me and looks at me hard.

Dressed like a Voodoo Lady, from the American South.

Her hair braided with trinkets;

and an outfit so voodoo-like, I’m not sure where to start.

And she tells me she’d like to read me, my fate.

On her forehead, she has a small hole, that leads in from my left;

and then out again; from my right.

Into it, she sticks a long item I cannot describe;

cylindrical, pointed — made of wood... or something wood-like, but not.

And as she inserts it, her eyes loll back

and she licks her lips — like someone possessed

or someone who’s mind has been lost.

And she takes my fingers, and sticks them in her mouth,

after which; she removes my fingers, (and the object from out, the other side.)

She then says, “The first letter of your mystery is T,”

“T for TASTY alright!”,

she then reinserts the object, (which seems to almost crawl inside),

repeats her routine, with my fingers, once again in her mouth...

“And then I, I for…” and then she stops

still holding my hand at the palm, my fingers salivated upon.

I turn my head in bewilderment, look to my right;

to the person at my side, and ask

“I for...?”

and when, I look back,

the Voodoo Lady

is all but gone.

And I repeat,

slowly, and more deliberately — this time,

“I, for what?”

The World Of Lost Arms & Legs

2011-10-25T21:39:00.002+08:00

The World Of Lost Arms & Legs

-Kent Dylan-

There is a place, where all the people;

have lost a limb——

with some,

it’s an arm

— left or right —

with others, it’s a leg

— one of them

at least, but

sometimes

— both —

yet, they go about,

(as we normally do)

quite unaffected;

and seemingly

oblivious,

to their

lack; of

appendagies.

One swims, naked, without a leg

(cut clean off, surgically — it seems)

you can see the bone encircled

by fresh-meat and flesh—

there’s an obvious lack of blood;

for this water is blue, tranquil

and not bloody-ink-red.

And this seems neither strange,

nor is it

“out-of-place”

within this world,

of lost arms and legs.

Everyone,

sits ‘round the pool; chatting,

smiling, and sipping on sodas—

pulling white-meat from drumstick,

and shading their eyes with sunglasses; &

yet, there seems little concern, or need

for a single bandage or tourniquet.

Perhaps, when one has lost one of his

or her

limbs,

there is little need to be concerned...

[unlike the concern needed in such a case:

where one is forced,

to chew ones own arms off,

or removing ones own leg;

with a pocket knife

while stuck

‘neath a tree half-dead, or, shot

to shit, in some ungodly war —

yes, very much unlike said examples.]

perhaps, it’s more, that when we are all, lacking something,

at the very-same-time, and for the very-same-reason

— that we lose sight of the oddness;

the bizarreness, of it all.

Waking up, one might feel concern,

but once placing a few calls,

reading the papers,

and watching a spot of the news —

only to find out, that you; are not, “one of only a few”,

perhaps then — you just accept it; as it is, and settle back down

and then perhaps; go for a swim, to relax...

in the land, where all;

have only but lost,

a few limbs.

The Pink Of Bubblegum

2011-10-21T20:49:00.003+08:00

The Pink Of Bubblegum

-Kent Dylan-

Love is a bear trap covered in bunny fur,

soft and fluffy; in the breeze.

Love is mousetrap

covered in cheese.

Love is a steel cage

camouflaged, perfectly,

appearing as an open skyline;

willing, wishing; to take you to another life.

Love is a machine-gun the pink

of bubblegum.

Love is a tank.

Glazed; in coconut.

Moving, serenely on a tea-tray —

littered, with knives and little, paper-plates.

Love is a sunset briefed in the grief of your limelight.

Drenched in your sweat,

chasing leprechauns

whose rainbows

— blackened —

are neither yours,

nor theirs to give, or receive.

Love is a story that you can’t quite fathom;

but still feel compelled to read.

But perhaps,

most-of-all

— love is that bear trap

covered in the pink of bunny fur

seemingly soft, and fluffy in the breeze.

Waitlessmess

2011-10-20T15:48:00.002+08:00

Waitlessmess

-Kent Dylan-

I’m lying in bed,

about to nap

— there is a typhoon arriving,

and, no work tomorrow.

Water is spraying against the windows,

as though, it were being flung, at high pressures and speeds

out of a sprinkler system

attached to the

eves.

As I begin to drift off,

I am suddenly (at first)

stricken with the strange sensation of something oblong

— forming — between, my arms and my chest.

I wake, startled, to find that it’s still there

and that this form, has become more definite:

for although I can not see it, and it is invisible to me;

I can sense that it is, about the size, of a small child.

With a head, two arms — a body and legs and

yet, this is no child to be sure

and it is; incredibly strong.

I have to fight it with all my might

just to keep it, between my chest and arms,

— as I fear for what it will do if set free.

I roll around holding it against me.

Pressing it as close to my chest as I can,

I begin to roll over it — towards the edge of the bed;

its form pressing hard against me

light as air

and just as

transparent.

By the edge of the bed,

I have rolled completely over it;

and we both plummet to the floor

or, at least, I had hoped so.

For, I had thought that by falling on top of it

I might crush it between me and the ground

or at least, knock its wind out.

But alas!, instead;

we float toward the ground

as though, together, in the air we are

weightless

or very close to it.

It seems to take hours to float down,

and when we finally hit, there is no impact

what-so-ever.

The sensation, is that —

of falling into a billion feathers

minus, the feathers.

I lay there breathless;

and finally, alone.

Next to me the curtain,

and outside;

a dog.

I bang on the window,

but the dog doesn’t look up or move.

The rain has stopped,

but just a moment ago,

the window — full, of droplets on the pane

flung there, from oceans away.

I crawl to the refrigerator

remembering that I have my father’s gun

and imagine how I would defend myself with it;

by punching, and then, on contact, letting a bullet go.

Morefully & Lessdistracted

2011-10-19T17:47:00.000+08:00

Morefully & Lessdistracted

-Kent Dylan-

I went — to the places we went together,

when, we were together;

and I must admit,

they were better — when you;

were at my side.

I saw — the things that we saw,

that I saw; that I missed,

and what you, probably saw;

and I must admit —

they didn’t do much —

for me — this time.

I ate — things we ate,

I drank — things we drank,

I saw people.

They looked and smiled,

but it didn’t mean a damn

thing — now that you were

gone.

I went back — to the old

shops, where you and I;

found the things we liked.

To the temples, to the shrines,

up the stairs we walked

— that time

but as I’ve said

— I was alone,

and I didn’t like them or it,

as much — this time.

I went — and I went — and I, got tired

— of thinking about it, all the time.

So, I went — where we’d gone,

to watch the sunset; that time.

I remember it being beautiful...

before, but I must

admit, that the time be-

fore I only glimpsed at the

sun——set. The rest of the

time, I was admiring you; who was the real sun, setting in my eyes.

And, even thought the sunset

didn’t do much for me

— this time —

now that you were gone;

and I was once again alone,

I sat and watched it

lessdistracted

appreciating;

morefully;

what I’d had

at the time.

Screened Against The Dust

2011-10-18T21:31:00.000+08:00

Screened Against The Dust

-Kent Dylan-

All things in the galaxy

are indeed a spectrum,

caught in a reflection,

of a sound wave; and in a light

— each thing in its own entirety;

a reflection unto itself.

Transposed from

millions of lights away.

Projected & reflected;

formed & refracted

— in a different

dimension

of time.

All things in the galaxy

a spectrum

caught

in a reflection

— in a sound wave,

a refraction unto itself.

Each color falling upon a different

filtered mirror-ball of the round;

cascading down a waterfall,

floating in the wake

of its own time.

Colliding, crashing & leaving its impressions; of itself, on itself,

on us, who are filtered though an atmosphere

screened against the dust —

projecting

our own light

— from millions of light years unbound.

Our Distractions, Dangerously High.

2011-10-13T22:04:00.003+08:00

Our Distractions, Dangerously High.

-Kent Dylan-

We are always more interested in the moments,

between the events, than the ones; at

the beginning.

We are always more interested in the wars,

than in the magic of our ways,

& of our many trueisms.

More interested in

and of, our woes

and of our destruction's

than our building’s

and re-moved

obstructions.

More interested in the secrets

and dirty deeds;

than the whole picture as it shines

— in an exact moment in time —

in its exact form.

More interested in the tabloid scenario scams

(envisioned by the FIB’s),

than that which is

really going

on.

Our security dangerously low.

Our scrutiny, dangerously high.

We are more interested

in the moments,

between the events;

than, the one at the exact moment — of death.

More interested in what we thought we saw,

what we thought we heard;

— what we; thought —

than that which

it really

is.

Our Distractions, Dangerously High.

2011-10-13T22:02:00.000+08:00

Our Distractions, Dangerously High.

-Kent Dylan-

We are always more interested in the moments,

between the events, than the ones; at

the beginning.

We are always more interested in the wars,

than in the magic of our ways,

& of our many trueisms.

More interested in

and our woes

and of our destruction's

than our building’s

and re-moved

obstructions.

More interested in the secrets

and dirty deeds;

than the whole picture as it shines

— in an exact moment in time —

in its exact form.

More interested in the tabloid scenario scams

(envisioned by the FIB’s),

than that which is

really going

on.

Our security dangerously low.

Our scrutiny, dangerously high.

We are more interested

in the moments,

between the events;

than, the one at the exact moment — of death.

More interested in what we thought we saw,

what we thought we heard;

— what we; thought —

than that which

it really

is.

Where It All Goes

2011-10-12T20:24:00.000+08:00

Where It All Goes

-Kent Dylan-

With my foot in a sock

and a pink plastic bag over it,

— inside my shoe —

I go out

into the rain.

I have to be thank-ful for the pink

plastic bag though;

it’s keeping my dry-sock dry

from the rain; let through

the hole, under my foot.

And I’d buy another pair of shoes,

if not for this — and other — poems.

So, if you’re reading this — in a self-published book —

it might help-to-explain; where all the money went

for a never purchased pair of shoes.

People often muse, about the artist in his

raggedy cloths;

but rarely do they realize

that it’s into the art, that his money goes —

while we download, and think it’s great,

we think it’s a trend.

We think that

artists are trying to be aloof,

and I suppose there are those that are;

and those that do.

But not me with my foot in a pink plastic bag

inside of my shoe.

And so I went into a shop wanting just,

to try on a new pair of shoes

but couldn’t —

too ashamed to show the clerk

my pink bag, over sock; shoved into my shoe.

But I wrote this poem:

My umbrella tries to cut off my finger — when I attempt to open it.

Bites my thumb — while I try bending the arms back, into shape.

And it tried, thrice — to poke-my-eyes-out

But luckily — thrice; before it could

I noticed that.

And yet, I can’t complain.

And who knows;

if perhaps, you are reading this — someday — in a mass produced book

(but not today) and I;

if I am still alive (because sometimes we are not),

then maybe today

— this day —

thanks, in part; to you

I’ll have no pink bag on my foot

and perhaps — even

a new pair of shoes.

The Mechanized Harp

2011-10-11T22:10:00.000+08:00

The Mechanized Harp

-Kent Dylan-

When any man tells you that she, has

found; the woman of his dreams,

just believe.

Only he; knows the nature of her dreams,

and what their nightmares look like,

and how long the nights;

have been.

Or, how long, he will sleep

with her.

….........................................................................

We are always singing songs, that sound;

as though, they are about a woman.

We are always writing books, that read

as though, they are about some girl

— who broke our hearts —

but we are not.

We are singing about a man

who plays

a mechanical

harp;

and it is he —

who is breaking our hearts,

and tainting our dreams;

sending us all to hell —

who is shaking our world,

to the ground &

under the seas.

For his pleasure,

and

his alone.

….........................................................................

When any woman tells you that he, has

found; the man of her dreams,

just believe.

Only she; knows the nature of his dreams,

and what their nightmares look like,

and how long the nights;

have been.

Or, how long, she, will continue to sleep

with him.

Typewriter No-More

2011-10-08T14:56:00.000+08:00

Typewriter No-More

-Kent Dylan-

We used to need the sound of machine-gun fire to ease the soul,

we used to need the sound of rat-a-tat-tat-tat!

We used to need the sound of German typewriters — well made,

rat-a-tat-tat-tat-boom!

But now, with war all but gone from our view

(though not truly gone

simply, we; ourselves have been removed)

now — we never hear the rat-a-tat-tat!, anymore

— and, with the sounds of war, so far off from us now;

we need the sound of them less-and-less; till, no-more.

Now, we settle for the pitter-patter-pitter-patter, of Chinese made

keyboards;

and the sizzling sound of chips all but frying, ‘neath the keys

and the new words — like the new keys — too;

have very little meaning these days.

We used to need the truth of the uneducated fool,

the wisdom of the unwilling to be changed by the masses of the world;

but with the education and the conditioning so well refined these-days,

we need words of pure wisdom; less-and-less; till, no-more.

We find them oft’

offensive,

disgraceful,

condescending,

disrespectful & crass.

Yes, we too; have been changed like the keyboards.

We now like the sounds of pitters and patters best;

as we like the sound of good music & of good books

less-&-less; until, all-gone.

Yes;

We used to need an explosion next to our beds;

rat-a-tat-tat-tat-boom!,

to curdle our wills,

we used to need the sound of machine-guns firing

rat-a-tat-tat!

to free our souls;

but these days, we’ll settle for a sound sleep

or a night of

good

rest,

instead.