Joe Ballard Final Piece

Final Word Count: 5,838

Pure, raw, honest, and real. This long piece…whatever you want to call it…it might be pathetic, it might be void of talent, it might be confusing, at times mind-boggling, but it is me. It is my face, my arms, and my legs. It is my tongue on paper. It is my beliefs, my love and my loathing, my pretty side and my ugly side. My ideas have come at various times and places, such as dreams, listening to music, sitting in class, mowing the lawn, pretending to listen to friends talk, watching the Chicago Cubs, reading Harry Potter, walking in the park, and taking a shower. The key to remembering the lines you come up with? By taking Gabe’s advice: keep a notepad/journal/some sort of notebook and a pencil with you at all times. I have done it for years and it has worked wonders. When asked what poetry is at the beginning of class, I had many different answers (all of which could be seen as correct). At this point, only one descriptive word comes to mind: freedom. Think of poetry as freedom. Every author we have read has written in his or her very own style, with some of the more recent authors perhaps taking inspiration from the great poets of the past. Regardless, no two poets have been alike and it is quite clear that none of them are afraid to express themselves. (For convincing, reread the Knox book.) Although I have written poetry for years now, I had previously held back or changed certain words because I was afraid of what readers might think of me as a person. This poem is my blood through and through. I did not edit, nor did I hold anything back. Gabe might have stated the “quantity over quality” theory, but I did not make a single blog post until I was satisfied with every single word that sat in front of me. One could say I was released from myself into a newfound freedom. Now that I have it, I will not give it up. Now I suppose a prologue is supposed to include some sort of preview as to what all the upcoming crazy words mean. I am the kind of person who likes to study and write about the bigger, worldly issues in life, such as politics, religion, global warming, pollution, racism, crime, and love. I used part of a cento to make my mark on gay marriage. Often I am blunt, at times I am satirical. My writing depends almost completely on my particular mood at a given moment. It is fascinating to read the works of others as you can discover the type of person he or she is simply by absorbing their poetry. You not only can discover who others are, but you can discover yourself. It is a beautiful process. This is mine:

Ice bombs. Blondes of suicide. Arctic plates. Drink spaghetti, eat water.There's some random words we learned about. Now I'll incorporate my way. The strange words will apply as intervals. How about an intro?What is poetry? Poetry is everything: the air we breathe, the words we write, our native tongues..like Whitman said, the story of America is a poem in itself. Poetry is you and I, my friends. Poetry is magic.do you know what it's liketo feel the needto be a shadow of yourself?yeah I'm just a good personto whom bad things have happened,when the moon peaks you'll be ableto savour my senses,wash them clean,wring out the lasting liquidwhile the picture skims adjacentto our dimming vision,blinded by the flash-lights, camera, action!Purple petal bears. Rainbow meal. Three-cheeked Gloria.the chemicals ran gently through his bloodlike a disguisingly mellow river untilwe come to a waterfall.this quickly he tumbledover the edgeto lifelessness,solitude.Blind cash. Queen ant. Class clown. Personalized dog.Like the traitor on death's doorstep, begging for forgivenessLike the pestilential vagabond who swears to stop indulging in drugsLike the released jailbird who prays she stops receiving nasty glancesLike the married whore who admires a new bedroom each nightNeed I go on with this?You lock your eyes on the bait and reel in with that mating callHow you continue to get your wish is the biggest mystery of them all.Sober smile. Pink punk phone. Dusty disc. Sullen song. Midtown to downtown.the Asian staggers under a pitiful wagenot due to age, or performance, but to racethe Asian doubts his pursuit up to the big stagenot due to age, or performance, but to raceWhat have we become?so infested by this crazethe praises received as beautifulhave sorely gone to wastethe Asian, now thrust upon the blamestares with sunken eyes behind the metal cagedue to the place from which he camenot due to guilt, or crime, but to raceNot a word to speak against a single soul,the Asian is betrayed by the place he once thought home.Melancholy socks. Frozen hairbrushes. Orphaned Anythings. Broken bank. Shattered sun.Thunderstorm. For them, a time that urges the thought of indoors. A time to be careful. A period representing a melancholy picture. They must avoid the rain. That is, for them. But for me? Thunderstorm. Rain- the water flows through as the blood in my veins. New life has been breathed into me. I need not provide shade this day. Time for rest and relaxation. The hand of God has waved to me. Many thanks, I shall resume my duties tomorrow. For now, sweet dreams.Golden picket fences. Shallow unicorn. Hockey ball. Soccer puck. Chemical pool.Such beautiful melodies, put with his feelings so he can freely express them and inspire others in his wake with what is in his heart. Strokes of his instrument bring such brilliant noise, he fulfills his passion and awakens others. The fire burns within them all-they sing out of love and appreciation for his songs. He can't help but smile while singing the songs of which tell his stories. Every time they strengthen his happiness, he knows his dreams are complete. He and they are united forever.Red day. Smashed ham. Vegetarian buffalo wings. Sudden streets. Scratch walls.How will our legacy be measured come the day of our funeral? The number of people who care to show? The dampness of the ground? Length of the eulogy? What does it even matter when you're walking stone towers and imprinting funnel clouds? You gonna care that you fade in thought with each passing century? You gonna care if your precious remains are placed so respectively in the middle of three-hundred twins? Oh, wait, I forgot where I reside. The only memory that matters here is the amount of chemicals it took to send you packing. I'm sorry, is that disrespectful? Well that's all you talked about when you were alive so that's all I've got for you here. Death is supposed to sadden us, though...fuck you. Stop browsing the gateway and sleep with bloodshot eyes under the permanent sun. Look like you're still "alive". Stop shaking your corpse. I'll see to it your final bottle is laid to rest beside you. Meanwhile, we'll...actually no, we'll save our tears. Trying to fucking con usfrom the afterlife? No, I think I'll smile. I'll give you life when you take it. Run, cry, and smile for anyone. But I suppose it's too late for that now. There will only be ten people at my funeral,the eulogy finished before a single sullen sob rings out(that center of attention thing isn't for me). I may only die of natural causes, or maybe your brother will get drunk and hit me with his car. Either way, I'll go out with a sober smile. This alone makes me proud, makes me good. I am horrible for saying these things about one who's deceased. Maybe I should've lied- said he was good; he didn't deserve it; proclaimed religion in the dying seconds. God I'm horrible- forgive me? Guess I'll see you in hell.Tiny ladder. Brick bookshelf. Standing smoke. Wilted window. Annoying alliteration.Kneeling down before your throneconfessing to a heart of stoneplanted and grew my sins wholeadults can't turn the lies they toldthe mindless ideas inside my headshow the distance I've been misledyou proved yourself as my little Queenand that scared the shit out of meoh Sabrina, oh Sabrinatake me to the river and wash me cleanoh Sabrina, oh Sabrinagive me just one more tryout for your teamlaughter, kindness, humilitysmiles made of cheap puritycomplements and rose pink cheekbonesyour model of beauty set the tonehand in hand, my thoughts centralizedthe first one I had who'd become all minelingering thoughts of past depressionblind a man from true expressionoh Sabrina, oh Sabrinatake me to the river and wash me cleanoh Sabrina, oh Sabrinagive me just one more tryout for your teamdrunk on pins and needles galoreturned down all the gifts you exploredcouldn't bear to see eye-to-eyewaved a cowards' silent goodbyeshould I ever cross you againyou'll pick out the boys from the menforgiveness is not an issuebecause I've got too much to proveoh Sabrina, oh Sabrinatake me to the river and wash me cleanoh Sabrina, oh Sabrinagive me just one more tryout for your teamoh Sabrina, oh Sabrinawon't you be the flood on this inferno?oh Sabrina, oh Sabrinaa glorified demon can be a hero.A glorified demon can be a hero!What do I want from life? Happiness. Absolutely nothing else is necessary. Be happy, and do whatever it takes to make yourself happy. Does that sound selfish? Maybe it is. I don't care. Anyway, I'm tired of gazing out the window and seeing the millions of people who look the same, act the same, care about the same things. We're all the same; we work, go to school, pay bills, go on a vacation now and then, get married, have children, etc. I want to do something different. I want to do something big. I will do something big.A parting thought for this first piece, something to make you think. For everyone who believes we came from Adam and Eve: if we all came from them, then aren't all humans on earth related? All of us in class, are we all brothers and sisters? Think about that!

Forest green song. Chocolate enchilada. The face of a dartboard. Crying sailboats.

I am a vehicle. A truck? No. A car? Probably. I’m small and I want to go fast. I want to be ahead of the pack like the first gorgeous rose that buds in the Spring. I don’t want to be slowed down by policemen. I want to zoom zoom zoom through life and prove I can be something special. Speed bumps and fucking flat tires are always in the way though. Love is like a giant pothole; if you get through the rough part, you’re fine. If you don’t, you’re loaded with more problems than the CEO of AIG. I avoid the potholes. Dance around them. Sometimes I slip. As the car expresses itself, purring engine like a comfortable cat, radio at full volume as the voice you hear releases his or her emotions in their lyrics, I realize I’m the only one here who isn’t expressing myself. Cars and radios are full of emotions. I am the quiet. I am the salad fork. The musician playing a silent instrument. I am the scratch on the ceiling. I am…losing at life.
Sinking groundhog. Wet cross. Bubble pillows. Glorified liars (oh wait, those are called politicians).
I am a painting. Unfinished product of course, but a painting that’s coming along. Like to wonder if my creator, whoever he or she may be, is proud. Smiling, beaming. Or pissed, frowning. Or just doesn’t give a shit. Big Bang Theory says we have no creator, but then who created the bang? Those idiots; everything has a creator, whether or not it’s a godly figure we shall find out someday. Sometimes I feel like a painted figure and the artist left no surroundings, nothing but white. Plain. Nothingness. Nowhere to go. I must create my own surroundings. What shall I paint? Who shall I paint? Where shall I paint it? Dark or light colors? Fate decides paint, and fate will be on my side sooner or later. I wish I could paint quickly, wish I could drive quickly. Never know when Father Death comes. I want my surroundings now. Now. Say “now” several times in a row. Damn it sounds whiny. Pathetic.
Fledgling seashell. Wicker blanket. Bar circus. The nomad in the dryer.
Pathetic like all the annoying dandelions that look the same, take up space. They will eventually be mowed over by a bigger force. They already like to fraternize with the insects. Lowlife shit. Ripped to shreds like a lion feasting on its newfound meal. I am a wallflower. (Check out the book “The Perks of Being A Wallflower”. It’s fantastic.) I am the observer of the world who watches the others stumble through Saturday nights like an alligator in hockey skates. I listen to the thousands of people tell the same two stories daily. The artist did a bad job with them, the artist created a bunch of old 1992 Ford Tempos with the license plate hanging by a thread and an engine running every other day. Two stories. Same version. It’s like a record player on repeat that you can’t turn off. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex and beer. Sex. And. Beer. Ladies and gentlemen, there’s ninety-five percent of your surroundings. I forgot to include a one-night lover. Excuse me. Stunned is the wallflower. Stunned like this year’s winner of American Idol. I don’t get hooked, I go the speed limit.
Open pupils. Pray to light. Anything different. Pleasant boundaries. Toy of fire.
What do I care about the work-in-progress surroundings of others? Their surroundings become mine, whether I want it or not. So I must care, whether I want it or not. I’m in this world too, but I’ll be fine; I’ll never sink into the navy blue words of apathy. I’ll always be the human in a world of robots. America’s robots. Blind. Look so real. Actually, look as real as proof that vampires exist. America needs a hero. Illinois needs a hero. Bloomington needs a hero. ISU needs a hero. Keeping your eyes open is the only way to see what’s not really there. The hero is busy flying down the river of excitement and passion. True passion. Uh-oh, river talk; Gabe will be happy.
Now I’m outside sitting with the insects I hate. Damn flies; I hear but can’t see them. I’m short of ideas at the moment. I’m short period. All good things in life are short-lived. Many bad things in life are short-lived. The earth spins forever; or at least many millions of years. Humans come and go, the circle of life. We’re here eighty years if we’re lucky. Each of us is one in a billion. We are insects. We inhabit. We eat. We live. We die. We have an existing purpose. Life is miniscule.
Red wedding. Bow tie time. Sticky glass. Steady wallpaper.
Whitman was right you know. The world would be a million times better if humans shared more qualities with animals. I love my dogs. Every time I come home, they look at me with the excitement of a five-year-old who’s just received a new toy. I’m the stranger they recognize, I’d just left for four years. No judgment. No racism. No war. No adultery. No. All they know is love, affection, trust and loyalty. I’ve been saying this since I was twelve, literally. Dogs are better than humans in countless ways. Gracias Walt!
Gotta keep the whole weird word thing going, I love playing with words.
Tree puzzle. Salt buffalo. Frame spray. Control pen. Recliner call.
Sorry for practically slating mankind. Everyone has a hobby.

Suddenly I feel, uncreative. For five years now poetry has raced through my veins in endless circles like a NASCAR race. I listened intently to everyone reading his or her (changed) poetry in class and they blossom with creation while I rack my brain to keep the running pace. You were all brilliant. My problem remains as it has for so long; a lack of confidence rules ruthlessly over me like a Russian czar. The rain pounds the ground outside, or maybe it’s just tapping the ground. Yes, it is a gentle rain. Lily Allen is up next in my stereo; she reminds me I am not pounded by masculinity, it just taps me often, like the rain, just to remind me that it’s there. I wonder why many men, even at our age, still cast a scathing look and scoff when they find out a fellow man listens to music like Paramore, Tegan and Sara, or Lily Allen. Or because I write loads of poetry; or because I like American Idol; or because I’ve read the Twilight series. As if I’m the estrogen in the testosterone group. As if I’m the rainbow in the thunderstorm. As if I’m the herbivore in the steakhouse. You, true men, are the insecure. Outwardly passionate, inwardly frightened. You are the cancer. You are the conservatives stuck in the last century. You are the raining forks and knives. Subconsciously anti-feminist.Rusted midwinter. Blind apparatus. Underwater television. Fooled time.The rain now pulverizes the grass and concrete, what did it ever do to you? Such anger; the godly figure upstairs is angry tonight. What did he do? Maybe he should smoke a cigarette to relieve his stress? Perhaps he lost a game of poker with the devil? Is his mind haunted by thoughts of possible financial instability? Is the laundry finished? Or maybe he’s having relationship problems, or Perhaps the economy’s affecting him as well, or maybe he didn’t get on the game show he wanted, or maybe his favorite contestant from The Bachelor got voted off, or maybe he can’t find that gospel CD he searches for, or maybe the number of Atheists is getting too high for his liking, or maybe he saw his ex-girlfriend as jovial as ever and he’s secretly furious, or maybe his internet connection is down, or maybe he didn’t get the movie part he wanted, or maybe his heavenly curtains don’t match his heavenly couch, or maybe the concert he was planning on attending was cancelled, or maybe a good friend has fallen ill, or maybe his favorite soccer team lost the Champions League final, or maybe he’s upset that vinyl is making a comeback, or maybe he’s got acne and can’t get in to see the dermatologist, or maybe he’s forgotten the purpose of creating millions of galaxies, or maybe he’s homophobic, or maybe he lost his pet rabbit, or maybe he cut himself shaving, or maybe he got a bad haircut, or maybe he realizes that he’s just getting old. Maybe he just needs a few beers, it’s not like he’s driving anywhere. Did anyone ever prove that god is a “he”?Toad stool. Mock watch. Tenacious seashell. Stargazing cell phone. Cellophane dream.Banana skin racesWhen the cold of the summer arrivesThe spoons will rehearse, rejoiceIn the mountains where basket fires ruleNo trashNo salivaLooming moonProvides a true shineOver the tinted windowsOf the lucid liar.A day later, still the rain pounds the ground. The birds are out, chirping, or singing, beautifully and searching for the worms of the earth. Always out, no matter how god is feeling. Maybe they are endlessly happy, or endlessly alert and protective. God is still angry. A wave of his hand and lightning cuts the sky teamed with a lion’s roar of thunder. Why does he sit up there and allow bad things to happen to his creations? Global warming, slavery, racism, war, politics, child molestation, greed, tornadoes, hurricanes, cyclones, drugs, cigarettes, guns; what has mankind done? Suddenly I feel, creative.
Built up on a ten foot pedestalThe likes of which Goliath would be proudNow you must perform for the monkeysChanting as the sticks become knivesViciousScathingFerocious1-2-3-4Hands clenched so tightlyVeins are puncturedGlass rescinded to the end of the busted skyHope is the destroyer of dreamsGreat expectationsNo expectationsSeasons sold to the third planetIn the next galaxyTwenty-first day and ageThese people, they can never know the meaning of freedomBecause they never knew slavery.Collar lights, wind brushes, rusted plastic, unconfined locket, joyous pastry.Beaming face of hellTearing it downThe writing on the wallTearing it downThe dancing shoes of hateTearing it downCheap purity of trustTearing it downThe shade of an impostorTearing it downAnd paintingPortrait of a hugging faceAnd paintingFootsteps begging for destinationAnd paintingMiles of implanted loveAnd paintingRestrictions on maniacal bullet powderAnd paintingChemicals into invisibility.Carpet laws, drum soda, green cleanliness, cat worship, dart farm.Maroon silk clouds the roomBottom lip of the ax curlsIs it a smile or frown?Ready to kill either wayStrike at its desired momentAt its leisureLike a blind angelA pattern in the cloud of silk reveals itselfA smileA faceA nameFlee the roomRun through the ice beasts and turncoatsRun to the edge of the worldIf the world’s a sphereYou’ll fall off sooner or laterNo balanceNo controlMaybe land flat-footed on a starOr a galaxy twenty meters below oursLike the underside of a bookshelfThere’s always something moreThere’s always something more.Just ask God, he knitted the picture of the universe, sewed together the planets, dashed in the stars...Why would he have wasted his weaving time making millions of stars and planets to give life to just one? No, there’s life and blood racing elsewhere; it is simply an endless unsuccessful search. Remember, dreams never end.Fish wing. Fiery water. Lead pen. Red air. Crumbled metal.What’s the world without poetry? Like Harry Potter without a wand, like a plant that will scream aloud in agony, like television without Larry King, like a school without students, like America hating football, like George Bush returning to office, like an anorexic begging for food, like Disco coming back, like being able to hear the sound of taste, like Paris Hilton running for office, like an ice-cold July in Louisiana, like an atheist praying to God, like a vegan chowing down on steak, like a drunk police officer pulling over a stoned driver, like having a pet grizzly bear, like spotting a penguin roaming downtown Orlando, like an athlete who hates sports, like the GEICO Gecko with an Irish accent, like a sober Amy Winehouse, like a turtle outrunning a cheetah, like MTV showing actual music videos and not crappy reality shows, like an English major who hates books. Thanks for asking, but luckily we’ll never have to find out.Time idea. Blanket plug. Bearded rose petal. Flannel octopus.The ponytail parades are onIt must be the week’s endSit downAbsorb itCollapse it into your brainVacuum it like a died out habitAnd draw the linesTo your final destinationIt won’t be long now.It won’t be longTheir march is straightYou must turn down the alleyOf a thousand choicesYou have no choice.Rhythmic nose. Young words. Poison tongues. Teaspoon laws.What time, what yearWas the millionth hour of earth’s existence?FascinatingYet tediousWe wonder but don’t care enoughTo exploreSearchDiscoverFulfillUnsolved mysteries leave one furiousMany apatheticSoon I will break freeOf these chainsAnd you’ll hear the self-declarationInto the empty streetC-O-M-P-L-E-T-E!

I’m sorry for the dead- today- (258)You cannot put a Fire out- (259)But when the News be ripe- (334)When Peace was far away- (362)Upon the Floors of Fame- (467)There is a strength in proving that it can be borne (501)In keen and quivering ratio (58)We dream- it is good we are dreaming- (259)The Living, for the Stars- (674)Is the unknown peninsula. (716)The Pendulum begins to count- (314)It will be Summer- eventually. (162)Wolfe demanded during dying (336)Touch lightly Nature’s sweet Guitar (596)As Robins- Sire and Son (652)Walk boldly up and knock- (693)How they will tell the Story- (305)As Players at the Keys (148)Over and over, like a Tune- (174)And when this world- sets further back- (300)If it had no word, (433)Lest any doubt that we are glad that they were born Today (516)He is alive, this morning- (517)Other Boys are “lost”- (644)Even Nature herself- (581)Would help him to conceal (666)And doubt that you are mine- (204)As Ankles of a Queen- (146)Called Heaven- (112)It intimates the finer want- (356)For Greatness, that is ill at ease (388)Is sorry, some, for me. (475)How soft a caterpillar steps- (615)In frantic melody! (466)Have any like Myself (360)Of unattempted Gauze (436)Informed the hour had come (695)Or other heights of Other Ones (362)Had not Shakespeare wrote- (363)On Time’s first Afternoon! (74)Without a tighter breathing (460)In all the deepest Sky (534)As Twilight long begun, (642)At least within my Tree (643)The World- feels Dusty (351)Gone- as soon as known- (368)The first We knew of Him was Death- (466)And that is His business- not Ours- (149)Who influences Flowers- (186)Whose hissing Corals part- and shut- (295)His Mind were going blind- (484)Your thoughts don’t have words every day (616)Enough is One- (660)As if my Soul were deaf and dumb- (282)The Sun ran miles away (499)God gave a Loaf to every Bird- (386)Indifferent to Him- (334)The most triumphant Bird I ever knew or met (554)Then offered as a Butterfly (482)Of the Poorest Bird (483)That makes the Fences smile- (258)If I could see you in a year, (249)I deem that I- with but a Crumb- (386)Empty the Hearts that purchased you- (588)As if the Checks were given- (480)It was a quiet way- (480)It feels like Poverty (494)I could not care- to gain (326)And when Your little Lifetime failed, (312)I noticed People disappeared (514)And went or waited as they liked (558)The long sigh of the Frog (587)Precisely their necessity- (597)Until they look around (630)To thy reportless Grave- (670)And could not value- Air? (139)A giant- eye to eye with you, had been- (139)A Favor so remote- (255)We start- as if detected (269)As Sleigh Bells seem in summer (458)Is not Ours the chastising- (532)How nullified the Meadow- (559)Of Ecstasy’s impediment- (625)I’d not believe it if I heard (682)And I, bewildered, stand- (153)At the Setting Sun- (106)Sorrowful- as certain- (315)That I stopped gauging- satisfied- (370)In Their Eternal Faces (371)For news that they be saved- (426)When Excellence be dead (464)Required a Blow as vast- (570)And hearty- as a Rose- (571)The flickering be seen (352)Till when around a Height (482)We both and neither prove- (547)To flee from memory (546)Crisis is sweet and yet the Heart (604)Arraigns as it sings. (653)We wear our sober Dresses when we die, (652)They’ll recollect how cold I looked (416)I know for I have tried (497)

You could go to the Underground’s platform (92)An architect (185)Stood stolid (149)Until- before his eyes (196)He moved in light (168)Jesus pay for the working soul (85)All gay transport soon ends (25)Heart, be still. (25)One translucent morning (37)I don’t suppose a man ever, no, I don’t suppose a man ever (74)Put the spices in the wrong place. (95)Look around, dear head, you’ve never read (100)Past the Tower that can be seen (220)On a winter wave ride. (227)Beautiful girl- (185)In grey weather (184)Hit home (130)At times I sit in the dunes, (108)To pour wine over cabbage (200)Under wild flowers sons (210)I’m rotting here- (222)The maples along the river (223)Smack the sweets-seeker (251)While you on a stool (141)Gather all the old, rip and sew (102)To see the man who took care of our stock (103)But for you, little one, (128)Consciousness is illimitable (148)Could you be right? (129)Saw many die of cold and the whips (165)I’d be a never-museumed tinted glass (130)If they’d give me a job and I didn’t get bombed (96)Sleep and it won’t matter. (119)Don’t fall in love (193)With brilliance (204)My friend made green (221)Lived simply. Gardened. Saw visions. (226)And gave us a first-hand country shake. (103)Her hair is high. (107)And she could shoot (262)Thru the mouth (269)Of fishes (256)From Newcastle on Tyne (254)To be wife and kid (96)Where the water rose (262)I go to school to her (273)Sleep’s dream (287)To stop for breath (296)How she loved. (252)You are lovely (199)While sitting. (191)You in the leaves sweetly growing- (172)You are my friend- (189)I love you. (185)

Spoke with my memories last nightTold them to stop raising their voicesLike an uprising against a dictatorHaunting me like a walking tree ghostCasting its thin shadow upon a sunny nightmareThey said we are controlled by one thingLike you, we age and slowly wither awayWith each breath from father timeWe are the true ghosts,The ones you can’t prove existBut are sitting in the front rowAnd I asked themAre there green-eyed vampires tooIn this waltz?Hand in hand they goLeft, right, left, turnFree to be themselvesWithout wantOr thoughtOr wishingFor a change in the bloodthirsty atmosphereHell’s bathroom. Atom brick. Gregarious toy. Ash blowfish.Have the records put into placeThey must be ready to shoutFor the heavens when he walks on stageThe most terrifying glances cast acrossA troubled beach with sweltering magnetsHope you bought your upstairs ticket,With a worsening withering worldThey’ll be selling out quicker thanGlistening fireballs on the subway tailgateGet into space, be ready for the crossSo you can finish, become a heroLegendConquerorTalismanicMythical to the othersHated by the old and the jealousRetrieve the trinket and fallInto a false validity and riseInto a true insanity of blanket rainPretty luck. Tongue wire. Awkward desecration. Reflection affliction.The smileAn addictionAn expressionA charmA measure of timeThe maskA shadeA protectionA mysteryA hiddenThe faceA novelA plightA dayA nightAs I make my plans to continue this game,I consider the irony that I don’t know your name.Hoping the pluck the feather to gain a little fame,When baby feathers show you’ll know who to blame.Scarlet affairAs cities burnTears for fearsYou, me, and everyone we knowOn the receiving end of sirensThe dear hunterTrack LydiaBilly TalentIs under oathAt madina lakeAlive in wild paintClassic caseThe beautiful mistakeLetters killNightmare of youFuneral for a friendSaves the dayBrand newYes…In shallow seas I’ll sailGlass handed to the kitesThe bridge is falling upFrom thirteen stonesFact and fictionForget what you knowFragile?IlluminateFinished being coolHow to translate the name-Light the matchesLet the hand of fire snatchShredSlitherLet it mold youDon’t fight itCause you’ll just burnDon’t wanna go to hell?Take a bucket of water with youVideo shorts. Grinder monkeys. Head heels. Ecstasy frame.When red angry cardinal starts to cryLike she means it,Tell her he was drawn too prettyMaking her acting a world of the pettyLet her flash the silver wings on air,Feeling good only lasts so longBirds can’t fly when the tide breathes its songShe’ll drown so far she might learn prayer.Cheese popsicle. Laughing palm. Wall movements. Calling cards.I like to play hearts(not just the computer game)because you don’t know what will come outYou have to play and observeWhat choices others makeRound and round you goHoping to get hold of what you wantA little luck, a little skillA family feudOr twoOr a thousandMany times you loseEnd up playing solitaireTemporary failureFreedomBoredomNothingRemember what you knowPump the tiresFor round insert numberEventually you winThere’s no better songThan one with a victory danceThere’s no better sightThan beating hearts rising

When fate attempts to assassinate us
Will you let the waterfall claw you down?
Will you thank the concrete for bearing
The climax of your existence
For standing tall in the face of the obese
And the vehicles
And Mother Nature
And not complaining, once.
Will you plea for forgiveness from the grass
For all the hamburger wrappings
Half-empty beer cans
Cigarette buds
Saliva and mucus-filled napkins
Vomit
Did the grass think it was funny all the times
You used it to piss?
And not complaining, once.
Fucking right, on your knees and beg
Will you regret not standing up to those
Who sliced through the rain fore…..
Never mind, they’re already dead
Maybe if you ask nicely
You’ll have the honor
Of your grave being placed among their own,
If there are any still alive to decide your fate.

Young life
Great expectations
He either fell in love with famine or disease
The city is at war
Mad world
Playing with fire
Christian’s inferno
Vampires walking wounded
Wake dead man, please wake
Ghostly reminder that
He was made too pretty
New medicines can lead to a new hope generation
No need to look grave
When I hit the ground
You can take the money and run
Just leave me tea and sympathy
I’m at the top of the world
You were the cancer
You should know
You’ll never walk alone
It’s only fifteen steps
Until we tumble with the stars

JOE BALLARD