Growing To Obluesque '96

Poem By Wilkins Driver

real tin deers pinch greusome town defects
yellow corridoors with picket signs waving
we are the killers who resign with technique
broomstick handles other ditch reflections
stickin out the weather underneath torn deserts
just pause the second and try the attraction
of agonizing relief some better intentions
endure these contractions ice age retalliation
this hope ive found running around the clouds
falling down loving being down
internal trouble im dumbfounded scopes
mingling deception to imbeddled postivity
pannier trinkles of prosperity
undone desks trying to sit among the objects
who relates a finger of touching dietetics
language boredome respects the facial inspections
im done im done with the caressing im done pressing
are the dictions of the dictionary amoung your soul
of your soul ohh real hope no more jokes no more jokes
unaffectionate prospects loving the fun of the world
in the wrong way of mishaps universal grunting dock specks
the water it flows but how would we know
the weight of a spoiled rutine defection
ohh my god will i just realize
once ive died theres no more sequals
to the feelings ive controlled
past prequals the verbs ive overused
and abused every link toward the decipals telling
levitation abusing our bodies like we arent doing it already
up in space we think of outside still
in our bodies on a chair walking up and down the stairs
we are still peeking thrones wondering how these dreams dont die
telling how our words spoke more than our actions ever sold
papacy out of control the disk has tried eminence
dormer however still listening to me and discomfit
truffle our memories ohh the kindess i hold in
if you dont understand alaska dont try it
an understanding of math thats subsidary with the ball of dawn
humming with nouns of misuse
the useless poems they refuse to give us
the tag of dwelling conduct inscribed in the well
away to the flies we kill with swaps out of luck the seal of detention
questionable love triangles in the shapes of ageing
reality opening up to the unfolding
something inside no no no no no no more killing stones
rocks of hail feeling exiles in prisons
the crunch of love deteriating no more touch
though we are just loveless now
pushing each others affectionates possesions
littering nothing but trust no cuts we love ourselves
of course were on thin skinned bones
dealing with this spell that seems to swept us
out in the open we've been dead for years
this wont end with death but life ohh dreaming still its amazing until..........

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