command T, my city on the screen.

scroll-click, the world in my city.

Enter- the patient, the bum, the movers

Into my cell- I can mute the sound.

Push and select, champions of unrest

You occupy my mind.

Charged, plugged into a three legged shackle.

I, connected to a hand held tactic of fear.

Option, increase vision resolution

and increase volume of passion.

Go, sound is heard.

Search, solution is problem.

Esc control, delete command.

Shift, shift, shift, shift, shift.

I, do not return.  

command T, my city on the screen.

scroll-click, the world in my city.

Enter- the patient, the bum, the movers

Into my cell- I can mute the sound.

Push and select, champions of unrest

You occupy my mind.

Charged, plugged into a three legged shackle.

I, connected to a hand held tactic of fear.

Option, increase vision resolution

and increase volume of passion.

Go, sound is heard.

Search, solution is problem.

Esc control, delete command.

Shift, shift, shift, shift, shift.

I, do not return.  

I’m só free.

I’m só free…

I’ve néver had a needle touch MY skin.

I’m só free.

I’m só free…

I’ve néver-busted skin

And

         Drip-

Drip-

                   Drip-

Blood.

(Silence)

I’m só free.

I’m só free…

MY hands-have néver- gripped bars.

I’m só free. 

I’m só free…

I’ve néver-busted skin

And

Óh…

        ÓH…

                   Óh…

(Noise)

Blissful Noise take away my silence.

Sometimes-
it feels as if the air around me was escaping,
as if every gasp of life
was was repelled by my essence. 

My thoughts have been diluted.
It’s as if your exhaust
was pumping directly into my lungs, 
consuming every organism. 

And still-
I thirst for your saliva.
As if I was drowning in the
sour-bitter-sewage of your mouth.

You are an alley of 
junkin’ disgusting infatuation.

This is my second post for this blog. Enjoy! 

My response to Sylvia Plath’s Tulips. First poem I am publishing on tumblr. Exciting. Here I go. Here is a link to original poem http://www.sylviaplathforum.com/tulips.html. 

The Tulips are gone, their oxygen eating-
Vivid bulbs have been unscrewed.
I googled death, today.
My fingertips tipped around
The keyboard spelling f-l-o-w-e-r-
O-f d-e-a-t-h.
I think this has been done before-

I bought you a poppy.
It wasn’t easy to find,
There were pebbles evaporated by water-
Children, nurses, and a husband probing judgement.
No use for needles, I didn’t stab
The flowers extracting the noise.
I stole from Emerald City.

You tilted your head,
Your hand held a glass of purification.
I opened the latest prescription of
Certified invalid useful information-
Wikipedia said opium, morphine, and codeine
Were children of that eternal sleeping
Tombstone emblem that worked on Dorthy.

You swallowed the poppy.
I kept some of the seeds to make bread-
I drank from your salty sea to wash the dryness.
Red- the poppy was red.
Your veins connected to mine like some Frida portrait.
I watched you in that poppy field-
That hospital bed was covered by a web sheet

Of google images of a bus full of nuns and priests
on Catholic guilt trips, I rode that bus to say
I didn’t want the poppy seeds-
I told the priest at confession.
But Sylvia said I didn’t know freedom.
The tulips were too loud-
I could hear them through my eyes.

Finally, I had the good witch transport me
To Health, and Slyvia into these lines.
These copy-cat words won’t daze you into her sun,
Or free you from her overloaded boat.
While on board, I trapped myself into her luggage.
I squeezed my pen into her family photo,
No-I’m not free.