1. |
Werds
13:07
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Rock & Roll
Ozzy Osbourne,
hungover,
is sizing up
the cheese plates,
gelatinous
dip.
He rolls back Saran wrap
and sniffs. His hip
starts to bug him.
The pain’s alarming.
He heeds its warning
and finds somewhere to sit.
Death!
Your bristling
evening wear!
A boar hair
cardigan!
You and me,
we’re sweaters
on clotheslines
in a rainstorm.
A rattlesnake is
chasing down
rainbows
for a pot of Skittles.
It may be
a dreamless void,
the afterlife,
no nightmares,
or tranquility,
or me. Becoming
pollen on the breeze,
a tickle in
the larynx of the universe.
God
God, bored on the internet,
is looking for followers.
God quit the country club
to make a point. Now He seeks
a gig in its pool house.
God's not one of us, but built like us.
God is wildness quieted down,
cold air in the wilderness. God exists
in silver cans of Diet Coke.
God denies us when we need God most
since needing God is to be divided from
divine grace, love, or godliness.
God reconstructs the orange
from the juice. I drink it up.
The Moon
Beautiful women in bellbottoms
kick their boots off beneath
the full moon, the original
disco ball. Crescent moons
drive writers into hermit shells.
Behold! Another rugged
conversationalist! French perfume
gone poisonous.
Shoutout to a kind waitress in Boise.
Beautiful women never bother me.
Life
1.
Crooked wires,
rolling hills,
San Francisco
crazies face
demons all night
long. All day too.
Among them,
I feel strong-
minded, weak-
willed &
overclocked.
Hippies take us out for massive
pizza slices and play Street Fighter,
their pantsuits and big ideas
keep them warm on this breezy night.
I’m shipsick. I’m slop. I’m ground beef
in the chili surprising vegetarians.
2.
I keep a shard of petrified forest in my pocket.
The tree it came from lived and died before mankind was even a constellation of campfires. I write this under the hazy sky, ashen winds of the wildfire burning up the Columbia River Gorge. It was started by teenagers. I’m with them in spirit.
3.
I’m buying shells
on the seashore
from some lady.
She makes a buck
an hour on the
shoulder season.
Come July, the shells
will all have eyes
glued on them.
The money will
come in. Most
will get broken,
but won’t the ocean
churn up
more?
4.
Magic carpet override.
Grenadiers blowing up the beach,
guts mucking up the seaweed.
Blood leaches into sand.
Stupid demons sting the bone.
A vampire’s grinning ear to ear,
the end either is or isn’t near.
The world is leaking
goodness out its blowhole.
What doesn’t splatter onto satellites
soars 1,000,000 empty light years.
Our planet bursts forth digital witnesses.
Frankensteins! No son of mine
will be caught lunging at
his favorite green-eyed
version of a nurse.
5.
They’re drab, our many speckled
conversations. You may vacation.
You may jump off the ship
when the whole thing capsizes.
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tyler berd Portland, Oregon
when not fronting bellwire, tyler berd sings truth and nonsense on his lonesome & with his pals //
love is a mattress, soft & sturdy.
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