Matt Walker
I want you I want you I want you
I like you I like you I like you
I love you
3 Loves
We can learn something from flies.
Sustaining themselves with the shit
and the garbage we create. I’m sure
they thinks us laughable, as they wring their
tiny front appendages. We just
need to eat our own shit.
Pill to Swallow
The perplexing lines that jut from
the one point in the middle of the
page, make little to know sense
to me and when
I ask, I am cut
like a pig in the
slaughterhouse.
We, the spheres
the triangles and
little ovular bits.
Us fibers string
the tiny inflated
balloons that
wash the body
out, do wash
the body out
We, matter,
grey matter
teeter on the
edge of
a thin,
thin,
line.
I never no me. That is what I know.
These bits and pieces of the world
cannot tell me what I can tell myself.
The Dessicated Skull and the Eye
I.
This blurry line
sent from the infinite,
cast from the Heavens,
melded with the present.
It sat me down, heavy breath
stale breath, stolen breaths
like a child in a classroom.
Anomalies whose very essence
is that, which is so essence-less.
My teacher, the current
coddles you into nothingness
or somethingness, like a feather
down a river- down a white
blurry line from above
II.
I watched a wren
as it pecked at a bag
of meat. The flies were
intrusive and snatching.
Its peepholes, cast staring.
There’s a fear that is beyond
any explicit paranoia-
like an untoward smirk
or wink from a stranger.
The wren’s a songbird.
Having been thrown into
craze by the curdling
blood that stood where it
stood, will feverishly scream.
Its song will never be heard
over the blackness that veils it.
It will just peck at that festering bag of meat
while I watch with a blur.
...
III.
I feel the fingernails
on my back, itching at
that spot; the spot I
can’t reach while my hands
are tied behind my back.
Since, I’ve been spoon-fed
achievements like anchovies
to a seal, clapping like
an idiot just for a fish
while we clap only for a clap;
stuck inside ourselves,
next to one another, left
awed by the roar. I’m there;
stuck in the rafters, clapping.
Counting claps as the world
drifts past my eyes we dive Into
the haziness of blue underneath
us all drowning and draining; bubbling,
blurring into a shallow grave.
...
IV.
Agoraphobic, I keep myself inside
while I plod through numbers I dream
of television. The unforeseen fourth
floor dangles me about; a ragdoll of
circumstance- pomp and circumstance.
The first floor mindset keeps heads
from rolling like yo-yo’s
whose fates are determined
by the child who forgets to latch it
on to his fourth finger. We’re as independent
as the one’s and zeroes that our computers
speak. My TV dreams become nightmares.
Puffs of smoke billow from the tube;
people telling us we’re not happy.
Happy? What of slavery? Civil War?
I’m content here watching numbers
while I get fat and cranky and cry
myself to sleep at night. Until
the body smudges with the seat and this lack
of distinction blurs all beliefs to something
worse than apathy.