rosetinted's New Writeups

sun might not come up tomorrow (personal)

2013-05-14T06:59:02Z

I don't know what to say
is this my grief face? For a man unknown
for the path not hoed.

Is this my distance,
to see and never see him? For a man so woven
and unwoven at once.

In the distance a snake, circling,
the blind wanderer, bearing a lantern,
caroling, curtaining, calling out in the night.

I will go furious, you know (opinion)

2013-05-06T20:48:28Z

I am the last of the nuclear fall,
meltdown, an experiment of a derelict doll.

Am I the hammer, the nuclear glass?
The bellwether, lover, or cold poison gas?
No, I am no hammer girl, poison or doll,
positioned or purchased or radium thrall,
no mother mary to open my legs for a god,
no villain or hero, from uranium cast.

A coat is a thing that keeps the rain off your skin. Why would you want a thing like that? (opinion)

2013-05-04T17:21:20Z

monkey rides a dragon,
the dragon's on the moon.
the tea you gave me is full of blood,
and bruised and dirty shrooms.

morning glory daydreams,
the vines are grown by noon.
trumpets make for sunset streams,
and a jaunty monkey's tune.

maude the cat is curious,
the cap is on the log.
she's grinning rhymes and smoking dimes,
and torturing the dog.

hanuman's a playful sort,
on his dragon on the moon.
trumpet tunes and afternoons,
and a jaunty monkey's tune

Fuck kings, let's live like assholes! (how-to)

2013-04-24T04:50:02Z

Maybe you should go fuck yourself
with a rainforest or two,
Maybe you should go get over yourself
grow veggies with something other than poo.

Maybe you should eat a steak or three
it's good to devour meat,
Or enjoy the glee of a honey bee
it's a good and golden treat.

Read your politics like your Trotsky
your Kant, your Debord, your Marx,
Break a windshield, you fucking Commie,
and get a paying job.

Drive your Lexus like a Civic,
your Mercedes like a bike,
Give up your fucking nature hike,
and eat a pretentious, preachy dick.

I want the decomposing grace of the forest floor (place)

2013-03-30T22:32:55Z

Feed me on apple blossoms
for I've been gone too long. The gardens
have been given up to grass. The stones
where our cats and dogs lie have been dug up
the bones have been gnawed by neighborhood dogs.

Bring me baskets of cherries,
big, red and full of bitterness. Feed me
bites of pink honeysuckle
and summertime mulberries.

Give me back the past
for time is a thief and
childhood is fleeting.

Things the rooted said (and fed me mustard and honey) (poetry)

2013-03-18T01:40:54Z

You can clean the dirt from the face of the debutante girl
or catch a ride to the protest, if you don't care,
ride porch-rail cavalry off the parties
or plant rust and honey in the sideyard colony.

In this town it's roots rust moss and anarchy
she said, and fed me mustard and honey in the rainshine,
and you can trace the veins in seven bridges bowing, but we
burnt those temples long
ago.

And I don't know much about that, I thought, but we
look for what we're missing. Come home to exile in immigrant city
with a thousand dirt-smeared faces and a raining heart.