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Patrick Fleskes, 21 july 2012
Riding the Max
Shiver the twisted hither,
As jazz beats by on the wings of flies,
Crusty swirled patterned ties,
Waltz down broadways st,
Looking for, an intoxicating new bore,
Of a place where they can drink their soup face,
Oh what a taste! What a waste,
Of non-existence, that silly textbook phrase,
S P A C E
Oh hum on by, my own kind of fly,
Zooming around in giant tubes, we’ll call max lines,
They scalp nature with electrode snap of powerlines,
Gee wiz, what a biz! Transport, cohort,
Money into funny, metal caskets,
So you can be swept away, for dollars a day,
To see the mad taper and escalator,
Caper, the city slaves for.
Patrick Fleskes, 21 july 2012
I Ride my Bike with Both Handle Bars
Rolling, the thundered energy,
Extended and converted, half pipe glide,
The glossy swath of air, thick,
Nestles into the pores, hands tight, locked,
To gears a-shifting and twisting,
Metal chains like messy first love,
A cascading avalanche of work.
The eyes, they’re set, piercing through,
The light spectrums, summers delectable’s.
Blue sky, white tarp, no tent,
No breathe wasted in humid life.
And the pavement, laid down attainment,
To those who’ll rub the sticks together,
And shelter the birth of their ember,
To erect the eventual flame,
Of a soul, elastic, untamed.
True freedom, if we must give this a name.
Patrick Fleskes, 7 july 2012
Roadmap to the Heart, Nasy Detours
The investigation raises the steam,
That jostle the kettle into an unsteady rhythm.
Its exhale exudes a well-bred nervousness,
A jitter, jumbled into stirring, purring,
Music of the air.
A poorly choreographed dance flutters through,
The vocal cords,
They’ve been caught an idea they must express.
Love proves a difficult case,
When compared affections must be weighed,
Feathers are a poor anolog for the heart,
And the tails have no marks at their heads
While breathed thoughts lay hidden ‘neth a sprung trap,
Childish smiles drawn unto the face.
In this theater we take our own seats,
So the screen can yell some new obscenities.
We lick the plate dry and move on to the next thing.
Patrick Fleskes, 16 april 2012
Goodnight
Drinkin' bedtime's farwell kiss,
The herbal concoction believes in,
Only bliss.
Whose essence,
Can be neither believed,
or denied
With,
or without,
We chose the perception,
but we forgot the door
Patrick Fleskes, 16 march 2012
Words I meant to say in Conversations Long Past
Writing what I’m seeing,
On behalf of disbelief,
What I do see, I see,
What I meantosay, I jumble,
Words scrabbled into their alphabetical soup,
It’s all broth, no noodles,
And those feelings attached,
(Oh how needy those
pesky feelings).
Are all narrowed
down
to
its conversational bone marrow.
So What I meant to say,
I’ll engage now.
That there are black holes in-between all living
things,
To which all light bends around the spaces they stole
between us,
(And this universe has plenty
of light to go around),
And every so often, as I was often told,
Brief flashes of beauty, leak through these,
Grids of space/time.
Ring
around this
rosy.
MADE
IN VOID
Oh yes, with great delight in his heart,
No doubt the devil remembers,
With a dismembering grin,
Those unsettled ripples,
Expanding on the surface of the mind,
Soon will turn tides into whirlpool’d un-certainty
And
the world rushes by,
As
if our physical selves are city transit buses,
With
all of the mind stuck on the inside,
Looking
out at the present,
With
the slight dips in broken concrete
AND
With the gentle tug of
the engine
----SPEED
35---
Patrick Fleskes, 12 february 2012
Static Thoughts
Condensed is this cigar box heat,
That Seeps dreamy death sleet,
On Measured notes, to hot water beat,
make this polygraph admit defeat.
Oh so whose to say, whats to say,
As you may, disarray, this ship’s gonna sink anyway
Ticker hearts rusty strings need,
Replacement now, and so they’ll ring, a finite sting,
Shiver now its stormy complication brings,
Inner demons to the mind’s pulled back sling,
A shot of unleaded, raw gasoline,
Whose sordid thoughts bathe blood in whiskey.
Back in, traveling, washed down, this sin, damping,
Weight of yin, has drowned yang, or so they sang.
Clang, clang clang.
Sounds out from the cold iron of this chain gang
Oh so whose to say, whats to say,
As you may, disarray, the ship’s gonna sink anyway
Patrick Fleskes, 21 january 2012
The Drunched and Downbeaten Streets of Portland Speak
The city hisses Leather'd serpent cries,
An icy reminder to the proud Native American graves,
Paved over,
Whose voices still haunt us,
Like velcro slowly being ripped apart,
A sound that clinches the jaw,
In agony of unknown,
Is merely a pan we'll hold under the water drips,
Leaking through the roof.
Each drip pluses with your heart beat,
While your eyes adjust to the dull tick of time,
On old clock strung over head,
5 mintues late,
It's counter broken,
To live here is to always be present in recent past,
Lookin' out the window into the present future.
Patrick Fleskes, 29 december 2011
River
The river is enlightened flow of matter in physical form,
OH COME ONE! COME ALL! See the way atoms sway without,
Microscopic introspective help, without a Discovery channel,
Overdubbed voice actor whom knows not the things said,
Only really chosen as a means of pretty voice filler,
'Cause knowledge is purer when spoken in ignorance t' fact...
Perhaps? Never purer than matter, surely, river water will never,
Act out political campaigns, or sell ya somethin',
Truth is free, free is truth, truth lies in mind's,
Spaghetti’d mess of neurotic receptors an' receivers,
Chemical response, negitive/positive, input/output,
Binary trail of 1's an' 0's are deceptively simple,
Need t' break mold of over thought, uncoverin' greek sculptured form,
The holy AH HA moment innate to all art's completion.
Lovely, for the sake of bein' lovely. Perfect, 'cause why not?
The Universe.
A self fulfilling prophecy.
The river in the end is just a river.
My mind, just a mind.
Its got a couple spots were thoughts leak out,
Those never committed to memory.
Blacked out with sharpie, a product of the void,
Delete key or formless form that can be bought.
Delete this.
Patrick Fleskes, 29 december 2011
South Jetty
Quilted pattern'd sea under draped curtain cloud, drenched in sunlight,
Carrying the halo’s plusin' from Sol, in hypnotic twist,
Lullin' all those existin' under it into soft consciousness,
While my flat soled foot, shoe'd feet, stand in bemused ecstasy,
On landlock'd jetty of log an' rock's demand, where the ol' Columbia gaves way,
T' the sea, a vein flutterin' blood t' the blue heart,
Spread like butter over wheat bread, dirt land.
Air is thick illusion of “fill in the blank”,
Pictured invisible forces, made salty,
While waves clashin' boulder-jetty-construct with venomous Neptune spite,
Unlashes a cascadin' rhythm of robed monk chanted OM's,
In the cathedral stain glass mirage muddled in watery reflection.
South Jetty, your misplaced directionally, as you cling higher up the shpere,
Than most account for south, with chill'd winds, beltin' like bitter cough,
But nature neither excepts nor denies its labels, humanistically attached,
It is impartial t' all things, a true moderate!
The middle way is the only way,
We'll feel comfortable in this flab of structured flesh,
The middle way is the only way,
That us an' the sea lie these burdens t' rest.
Patrick Fleskes, 29 december 2011
Every Street, a History Whispered
All aboard,
Deafening tracks we’ll make,
The one’s silhouettes take an’ never,
Breathe back, wordy breathe of tenderness,
Never eyes of respect, I detect another white noise will,
Carry us, the sail,
This city, the port,
We’ll drink cuss an’ smoke the world dead in an instant,
Lose ourselves completely.
Vomit on the curb. < As good of a symbolic message if any
Damn the medication.
We need a new sequence of rhyme,
While we pick apart this pocket watch.
A looking, an’ a hootin,
Like that slow train-a-coming.
All relating and being of the essence.
Time.
Patrick Fleskes, 28 december 2011
Mediations on the Bhagavad Gita
An' now I hope the world shines on,
All bearin' leafy green similes
In-between atmospheric distortion,
Perceivin' distance makes Van Goth blush,
Rosey flesh, undercook'd peace,
With side orders of bliss.
"All the world is green", we'll say,
In passin', tho the word not need utterance,
Meanin' is innate t' life, whom only understands matter,
Is there truth greater than atoms? pure energy?
Oh come now, human entanglements are merely attachments,
Latch off!!! Disconnect!!! We'll be free, we'll be with eyes open'd,
Bhudda's all!!!
Impermanent nature of object reality,
Pain an' pleasure an illusion’d sphere,
All birth'd men an' women all bathe in sight,
Of eyes glassy orb containin' summation of universe,
All spherical bodies an' essences,
A perfect shape for existence!
Somethin' physic's musta dreamt up in beautiful, lustrous sleep,
Sleepin' of sleep, a dream is another orb trapped inside another holy body,
The universe is merely a Matryoshka doll,
An' Russian carpenters must be humor'd saints,
Less desolate than most! Spreadin' their onion skinned philosophy,
So trivially.
Patrick Fleskes, 28 december 2011
Wasted Motion of Decay
I feel in times like these,
Un-ease, the world upside-down facin',
God's glaring naked gaze,
Bourbon soak'd decisions guiding society,
Down light-less tunnels, hushin' us sweetly with passin',
Comments of normality,
“It’s ok, ya still can breathe”,
But this atmosphere’s getting thin breaths in-between,
Prolonged submersion in napalm,
Get this damn earth a gas mask.
Just spent my last two dollars,
Last two dollars,
Gonna built me a cardboard grave t’ rest in,
Requiescat in pace,
As we’ll circle Hitchcook’s silver-screen’d drains,
Remembrance of past goldfish lives.
You an’ me,
At yardstick’s length, imagined laws,
T’ lines that aint never existed,
Even in your wildest, un-natural dreams surreal paint drip,
Wasted motion of decay.
Patrick Fleskes, 28 december 2011
The Somber Tick of Fall
Damp winds exchange in space-time gaps,
Winter'd thoughts, patchwork plans,
Sown in a pathetic, homely beauty,
Rag an' bone.
The apparent outside is gettin' hostile,
Shadows replace physical appearances,
Turnin' sidewalks into extended silhouettes,
Molecules dance slow in clouds.
Sad waltz's.
Stillness wipes the atmosphere clean,
Impartin' sleep, wakefulness,
An extended blur of moments,
Piecing narrative together,
In dull raindrop slur.
Patrick Fleskes, 25 december 2011
Tom Waits
Heated pipes shootin’ out shackled rivets,
Madness is mechanical, steam outlet,
Body is a disease hive, germ-dependent,
Can’t dismantle the benefactors,
Piece by piece
The roof collapses,
Leavin’ dogs hissin’ blank apologies,
Whilst dead eyes gleam a darker shade of black,
Death don’t bargain bin shop souls.
How coy, it creeps.
Dismantling us human beings.
Atom bombs sterile.
Clean Hiroshima.
Patrick Fleskes, 25 december 2011
Proof
Here the supposed I am again,
Lines in between ledges, falling symbols arrangin’ into comprehension,
Logical plain of thought meetin’ cathartic end in ink drop.
Wisdom, a lyrical sting t’ the mind as it bounces away,
Always wantin’ more,
More…
The mind fest of knowledge
Fat-heavy flesh,
Seriated canine teeth,
Take drunken, percussive stabs,
'Tis never satisfied.
Oh what grace does introspection grant?
All actions can be diffused by their inherent silliness.
I exist… I suppose,
Therefore I’ll pound these damn keys till they work up,
A satiable monologue.
Birth an’ death carry documents of proof,
Why not life?
Patrick Fleskes, 25 december 2011
Sunshine Sutra
Mornings tarted mouth sunshine,
Sweet honeyed dripof the ancients,
The soil is now errect, attentiveness t' catch,
Aloof energy,
Conservation of pure life,
Essentially.
The sensation of sight,
Leaves the moon in weary sleep,
Of it collected dust,
And space be a black caverous mircowave,
dust carried off on waves an' radiation.
Particles everywhere!
Invokin' marenatte strings,
The invisiable chemical reactions,
Carry pure spontaneity of choice.
"Are ya a comedy or a tragedy?"
The Doctor asks as his hands slap,
new born flesh.
Latest comments:
4 may 2024
Weronika
Boli bo rektoskop to nie gadżet analny, więc
4 may 2024
Jutro jest niewyrażalne i nie do odgadnięcia.
3 may 2024
violetta
Drzewka do jedzenia:)
1 may 2024
Tak;)
1 may 2024
kb
złotej*
1 may 2024
kontoler żłotej poświaty
1 may 2024
samo życie, każdy swoje brudy ma, lepsze czy
1 may 2024
romantyczny to romantyczny, prawdziwy taki
1 may 2024
ten ketchup to fakt, trzeba przypilnować przy
1 may 2024
interesujący przekaz, jak dla mnie o własnej
1 may 2024
ucieczka z przewidzianym powrotem to też stabilizacja...
29 april 2024
Nie jest niczym podyktowany:)
6 may 2024
wiesiek
6 may 2024
Satish Verma
5 may 2024
Satish Verma
4 may 2024
kalik
4 may 2024
wiesiek
4 may 2024
Satish Verma
3 may 2024
wiesiek
3 may 2024
Satish Verma
1 may 2024
Satish Verma
30 april 2024
Satish Verma