Gestalt Apartments
Housing complexes moved to the rhythm of a spider's heart
tricycle trickle down spring soil, full of leaded water tendrils
a many legged, many mania'd persona, of mortar and
brick, drywall blockheaded blueprint - the ritzy wallpaper
you'd find in a second hand metropolitan flat, worn by a
breathing commune of utilitarian buildings without literal
pulse, but the sum is greater than the parts
A stationary Gulliver being stapled down with fishing hooks
and cerebellum harpoons - sheepish men dying
to get a chunk of an oozing headline
Even monsters in closets of these homes have subconscious
qualms. The oldest property imaginable, wheat field greying
in the front. The kitchen smells like a Soviet stone onion,
similarly colored; goes well with the chamber music
An estate encased by birch tress and papyrus neurotransmitters
is founded on orphaned glass, stepping stoned into belongingness
In the known universe, if such a thing was plausible, then perhaps
objects can suffuse themselves into animus mundi
Maybe we're all Spinozists after all. Underground sludge
was blood plasma - the psychosomatic ceiling fan leaving a trail
from the wash room to the morgue to the dog's den
Nobody's home except an earthly allure; a lonesome attic shutter
whose protective width gives shelter to lesser known breeds
of lab rats and failed science majors
The heart of the matter is a mildewy air conditioning unit
the type that deals in Parkinson's dioxide
the reason you couldn't breathe indoors when an electrical storm
severed the spinal chord of casual suburbia period
Cellar doors remain shut; meta-cognitive pursuits unwelcome here
Security system ain't much - the chandelier is sensitive
the window curtains are vulnerable to sunlight
and the tire swing in the front yard is a nostalgic X-ray magnet
the repairs in the staircase are logical fallacies
the white picket fences aren't; skip the formalities
Why guard a psyche with a vaulted conscience when
an open neighborhood policy beckons sugar from the cupboards?
the lawn gnomes will rave about the sweetness of the banana bread
assimilated from lifetimes of SPAM, perdition, old piano keys
and career choices that never came to fruition
Butter-knives reminisce on the good times - when their steely thighs
wore wet molasses thenstead of death copper
In unharsh terms, the metal isn't even suitable for sanitarium vents
or decommissioned train buffers. The lamp by the parking lot
is an unauthorized light source. The swimming pool is paler than usual.
Clothes hangers bob on the surface like project paperclips.
The mind is a terrible thing to wade...
Bio: Erik Moshe is an aspiring lyricist from Hollywood, Florida who is currently working on a collection of poetry about the future of DARPA, robotics and artificial intelligence. He is also attending college for a degree in English. Find him at TheCentersphere.yolasite.com
Housing complexes moved to the rhythm of a spider's heart
tricycle trickle down spring soil, full of leaded water tendrils
a many legged, many mania'd persona, of mortar and
brick, drywall blockheaded blueprint - the ritzy wallpaper
you'd find in a second hand metropolitan flat, worn by a
breathing commune of utilitarian buildings without literal
pulse, but the sum is greater than the parts
A stationary Gulliver being stapled down with fishing hooks
and cerebellum harpoons - sheepish men dying
to get a chunk of an oozing headline
Even monsters in closets of these homes have subconscious
qualms. The oldest property imaginable, wheat field greying
in the front. The kitchen smells like a Soviet stone onion,
similarly colored; goes well with the chamber music
An estate encased by birch tress and papyrus neurotransmitters
is founded on orphaned glass, stepping stoned into belongingness
In the known universe, if such a thing was plausible, then perhaps
objects can suffuse themselves into animus mundi
Maybe we're all Spinozists after all. Underground sludge
was blood plasma - the psychosomatic ceiling fan leaving a trail
from the wash room to the morgue to the dog's den
Nobody's home except an earthly allure; a lonesome attic shutter
whose protective width gives shelter to lesser known breeds
of lab rats and failed science majors
The heart of the matter is a mildewy air conditioning unit
the type that deals in Parkinson's dioxide
the reason you couldn't breathe indoors when an electrical storm
severed the spinal chord of casual suburbia period
Cellar doors remain shut; meta-cognitive pursuits unwelcome here
Security system ain't much - the chandelier is sensitive
the window curtains are vulnerable to sunlight
and the tire swing in the front yard is a nostalgic X-ray magnet
the repairs in the staircase are logical fallacies
the white picket fences aren't; skip the formalities
Why guard a psyche with a vaulted conscience when
an open neighborhood policy beckons sugar from the cupboards?
the lawn gnomes will rave about the sweetness of the banana bread
assimilated from lifetimes of SPAM, perdition, old piano keys
and career choices that never came to fruition
Butter-knives reminisce on the good times - when their steely thighs
wore wet molasses thenstead of death copper
In unharsh terms, the metal isn't even suitable for sanitarium vents
or decommissioned train buffers. The lamp by the parking lot
is an unauthorized light source. The swimming pool is paler than usual.
Clothes hangers bob on the surface like project paperclips.
The mind is a terrible thing to wade...
Bio: Erik Moshe is an aspiring lyricist from Hollywood, Florida who is currently working on a collection of poetry about the future of DARPA, robotics and artificial intelligence. He is also attending college for a degree in English. Find him at TheCentersphere.yolasite.com
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