Poetry Blog by Zach Dafoe

fuck, I had such a fuckin terrible dream ending

You sent Today at 9:06 AM

doing some weird shit in an elevator that just flat out drops 400 stories for like 5 solid minutes in free fall , and you just fall into a black pool and wake up at the top again

You sent Today at 9:07 AM

then there was this book I opened that played a rapid succession of videos. voice over described it as a frin...

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and with that, he put the ember out in the center of his palm, a pain to be carried everywhere. A momento to the nonversation, to half-listening, and to feigned interest. A small simulacra of the mutual, the mentholated, the swirling smoke staining the ceiling in benign passing of time. A manilla mask of desire. A tonguing soreness, piqued at will with the wringing of hands -- a ringing informed b...

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hale steam engine 
shuddering bowels of parts passed
melton jambs of an engine 
vaguely in the shape 
of what was once the idea in the head of 
a mere man. 
a meagre man. 
a meek man, 
squandering his inherited earth.

slewn of all charred flesh
the tracks build on, and on. 
and you can see doom coming 
from miles around;
what a spectacle -- 
what an awe

truly, we are the coals 
...

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aspirated dews
cast cold , and pale
precipitate of wanton whiles
haunted
by the nape
of your neck

caught breathless
in midst-step:

off balance in static
the bright charge of greyn eyes
and a coy, knowing curl,
a shift in the ether
rousing in wake
soft-lashed and comfort-quiet trembles

replete with the distant kiss of brambles

and it feels
so
real

that it can't be as far...

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thru spider legged silk
slid dissonance
to beget grocery lists 
by the hungers of bristling, 
wrestless tithe takers 

now meet makers
at the ends of the earth
carried by arachnid conveyor belts
(digestive polyps, if you will 
but you wont) 

and this poisonous ride through a vacuum--
or at least, the vacuous--
ends 
in a convenient
gift shop.

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tongues tide

lapsing where the fire's inside

purchase granted in crevices born

anew; those defining, wracking moments

where we may whet our ruse:

fleshlessness disguised

as godlessness.

they called me Brindle:

baptized by brine and bristle

brushed steeline, raising thistles

where my lust for life was thought to be

the nuturance of dead. weight.

they ca...

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