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All the Limp Birds are Flying

All the Limp Birds are Flying. This Is Not Art. Poetry to Split the Social Order. Wednesday, April 4, 2012. The kitchen light keeps flickering. My hands feel thick and clumsy as I tie the rope around the chandelier. Everyday I find something to die in. Today I will die. Resurrection seems so horrible. I pray there is nothing to pray to. My fathers wedding ring is around my neck. A chain to sustain my guilt. But I am not as strong as you. That is What the Flowers Sang. I sink I sink. To not sink back in.

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All the Limp Birds are Flying | allthelimpbirdsareflying.blogspot.com Reviews

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All the Limp Birds are Flying. This Is Not Art. Poetry to Split the Social Order. Wednesday, April 4, 2012. The kitchen light keeps flickering. My hands feel thick and clumsy as I tie the rope around the chandelier. Everyday I find something to die in. Today I will die. Resurrection seems so horrible. I pray there is nothing to pray to. My fathers wedding ring is around my neck. A chain to sustain my guilt. But I am not as strong as you. That is What the Flowers Sang. I sink I sink. To not sink back in.

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1 skip to main

2 skip to sidebar

3 a pair

4 flashing dreams

5 i am sorry

6 to waste

7 i attempt

8 posted by

9 no comments

10 email this

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All the Limp Birds are Flying | allthelimpbirdsareflying.blogspot.com Reviews

https://allthelimpbirdsareflying.blogspot.com

All the Limp Birds are Flying. This Is Not Art. Poetry to Split the Social Order. Wednesday, April 4, 2012. The kitchen light keeps flickering. My hands feel thick and clumsy as I tie the rope around the chandelier. Everyday I find something to die in. Today I will die. Resurrection seems so horrible. I pray there is nothing to pray to. My fathers wedding ring is around my neck. A chain to sustain my guilt. But I am not as strong as you. That is What the Flowers Sang. I sink I sink. To not sink back in.

INTERNAL PAGES

allthelimpbirdsareflying.blogspot.com

1

All the Limp Birds are Flying: May 2011

http://allthelimpbirdsareflying.blogspot.com/2011_05_01_archive.html

All the Limp Birds are Flying. This Is Not Art. Poetry to Split the Social Order. Sunday, May 15, 2011. The whites of your eyes are on fire. Sometimes I want to live in my nostalgia. All the Limp Birds are Flying. Saturday, May 14, 2011. All their hope has been razed to the ground. All the Limp Birds are Flying. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). All the Limp Birds are Flying. View my complete profile.

2

All the Limp Birds are Flying: January 2011

http://allthelimpbirdsareflying.blogspot.com/2011_01_01_archive.html

All the Limp Birds are Flying. This Is Not Art. Poetry to Split the Social Order. Sunday, January 30, 2011. Baby doll heads litter the highway,. A path one can follow back to the plastic womb we all emerge from. To think that people live here. With the asthmatic stacks whispering smog all day. Blanketing the harbor with grit. All the water is filled with six eyed fish who. Eat the refuse our minds spit out into the world. We eat the brains of each other. Little ants crawling to be the first. Having to li...

3

All the Limp Birds are Flying: Shadow

http://allthelimpbirdsareflying.blogspot.com/2012/02/shadow.html

All the Limp Birds are Flying. This Is Not Art. Poetry to Split the Social Order. Monday, February 27, 2012. Stabbing holes in the sky. Gnarled knives of fire carving darkness. Into shards of shadow. All the Limp Birds are Flying. September 11, 2014 at 4:17 PM. Captures the feeling of pain and consequently seeing everything as an expression of said pain. Thank you for the poem. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). All the Limp Birds are Flying. View my complete profile.

4

All the Limp Birds are Flying: April 2012

http://allthelimpbirdsareflying.blogspot.com/2012_04_01_archive.html

All the Limp Birds are Flying. This Is Not Art. Poetry to Split the Social Order. Wednesday, April 4, 2012. The kitchen light keeps flickering. My hands feel thick and clumsy as I tie the rope around the chandelier. Everyday I find something to die in. Today I will die. Resurrection seems so horrible. I pray there is nothing to pray to. My fathers wedding ring is around my neck. A chain to sustain my guilt. But I am not as strong as you. That is What the Flowers Sang. I sink I sink. To not sink back in.

5

All the Limp Birds are Flying: Better

http://allthelimpbirdsareflying.blogspot.com/2012/02/better.html

All the Limp Birds are Flying. This Is Not Art. Poetry to Split the Social Order. Sunday, February 12, 2012. Veins stretched to the earth. Burrowing down into the center of the heart of the heat of the world. To destroy the demon lurking inside. Of this world that is a cancer. A cream colored abnormality. With vomit bumps and bruises. I am wet inside like a cave. I am a battery caked in crud. The planet is a Giant. And I want it to Die. I Think This Will Get Better. All the Limp Birds are Flying.

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All the Limp Birds are Flying

All the Limp Birds are Flying. This Is Not Art. Poetry to Split the Social Order. Wednesday, April 4, 2012. The kitchen light keeps flickering. My hands feel thick and clumsy as I tie the rope around the chandelier. Everyday I find something to die in. Today I will die. Resurrection seems so horrible. I pray there is nothing to pray to. My fathers wedding ring is around my neck. A chain to sustain my guilt. But I am not as strong as you. That is What the Flowers Sang. I sink I sink. To not sink back in.

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