Read my shit so I get famous and stuff.
Let’s start off with a kick in the gut. Think you can handle it?
Segue into something lighter:
This is obviously good and validating of my worth as a writer because it’s curated.
Now this because it’s relative, kind of.
Another forced segue:
Now this shouldn’t even be here.
Now these two are heartfelt and serious, yo!
Another curated piece which totally means it’s worthy of your time because one person has selected it for curation. Enjoy!
At the university of transgressions,
between offensiveness and escalation,
classes dismiss for the afternoon,
students out-flowing to the toxicity-plaza from various buildings:
The police-brutality-building to the north,
abuse-of-the-word-“snowflake”-building to the east,
half-the-country-in-deep-denial-building to the south,
wrongly-ascribed-as-an-INCEL-building to the west.
The students converge in the middle
and head to the cafeteria, rundown, seedy,
and potentially dangerous; anybody can be a sexist racist nationalist.
Apolitical-Douche-Bag-Brad and justice-warrior-bitch-Britney,
in a love/hate relationship, sit down at a table with their lunches.
“I can’t believe my professor,” says Britney, “First off, can a man teach this class?” She’s in a class called toxic femininity-studies,
To vacation in purgatory,
I pull a waterfall’s slipknot
and enter an alleyway-maze of in-betweenness
where ordinary life exists. I find no city streets,
no reincarnation-booth, transcending to extraordinariness. On one side,
there’s hell on earth. On the other,
there’s a publisher’s future email,
Accepted living, or a rejection-death:
well-traveled through probabilities,
waiting in the dark
for a possible return to the world.
While we can’t achieve immaculate bliss of another life,
we settle with throwing pleasurable little stones,
skipping across day’s pond. How far can my will’s birds —
stalk the trajectory
through sky’s miniature golf course of…
over flowing white,
bridges one brain to the other
and colorizes the space between.
Perceptive red is shaded with logical purple,
leaping its faith to intuitive orange
of gathering said meaning,
if not there’s conversational self-correction:
“What do you mean?”
a prompt to readjust the makings of primitive poetry. Then the method in which we’re understood changes; Reinvention of the how
to better communicate the why. “Oh, I see,”
which is vocal eyes gazing into the other’s soulful valley.
Laconic insectile words crawl through. “Excuse me?” I reply,
to the pain of articulating to oneself to…
“What’s your date of birth?” The orienting question,
fixing the self-vantage which peters out to
an infinite-headed cat of history,
that closes all its eyes but one,
which calculates the rest of itself.
It calls the fractionated reflection you.
“What’s the date of my unbirthday?
What’s the date of my death?” I answer with questions.
The crawlspace between 1984 and my death,
is the expanse of which I exist.
Please check the correct box until you die.
I mark the bum’s cardboard box of consciousness,
homeless in the cosmos. “WILL WORK FOR TRANSCENDENCE”
“I heard he works a…
An atom awakened from a dream of being a human.
“Is life itself too big for your mind?” the words echoed from a world away to wherever the atom was. Then it saw its neighbouring atoms, consisting of something.
“Is the scope of the world far too massive for you to process and shape to your will?”
The mind’s eye of the atom pictured a pot as a human pictured a body, but where was it? “Well, now you can design your own personally customizable future, and graft it onto your life seamlessly!”
What future can escape this? …
Internet’s anesthesia projects planktonic capsules of stimuli
that drift into his eyes’ devouring-bristles,
and release pixels of happenings,
numbing his beloved void in case he feels pain in his lonesome.
The binary of the digital and imagination compose together,
and influence his thinking,
extending to megabytes,
virtualizing an ineffable experience:
encountering a poetry podcast, an engineered airborne virus,
by chance wafting in the direction of his browsing. Before he knows it,
sound infects his ears, hearing:
[“Today we have ‘I’m Totally Humble, and Not a Douchebag’ Brad,”
says the interviewing host. “He’s graced with net-fame by an audience wanting fame…
I only knew grandpa from photographs:
the stone past heated to lava
burns the present
erupting from a mind’s volcanic ghost to a touchable idea.
Its intangible self swims in the river of historical cloudiness, flowing beneath
My niece’s imaginary friend is a robot.
Artificial intelligence is her conceptual plaything,
borrowed toys from humanity’s theoretical airwaves.
Her brain accepts the transmission,
so she can extrapolate the life-effects of
having a robot as a friend.
At four years old,
she mourns impermanence, of technology
when her iPhone dies.
That’s when she conjures her robot friend.
She never wept for…
I suffered a psychotic episode fifteen years ago at twenty. While most twenty-somethings usually went out, drinking and partying, I stayed at home questioning my reality in the form of writing poetry. Honing my craft painstakingly tormented me because my writing failed to resemble my waking dream, a lurid phantasma.
I was psychotic after a breakdown from the cumulation of tragedies: my brother’s death, my sister’s overdose, causing brain damage, and my father’s fatal heart attack, the fateful trigger. However, I figured out how to express myself amongst emotional and mental chaos.
It was impossible to describe the psychotic episode…
Child watchfulness absorbs a window, of rainwater.
And spaciousness floods the living room,
dwelling in the glass as its apparitional counterpart,
wearing droplets, trickling talkatively.
All vocalize narrative aquariums in a world of opposites,
mirrored numerously into warpages upon warpages,
so galactic whales wage war with Aztec seahorses,
and humanoid-seascapes swim to the stars.
The two converging,
the whales make peace with the seahorses via the diplomatic seascapes.
one droplet’s in a transparent Ferrari,
cruising through life. One is steady,
undulating happily. One’s satisfied
in moderation. One is complacent
in stagnancy. The child,
wills the droplet to motion,
Clifford is a writer and poet from Long Island, NY. He’s “mentally Ill” but considers it a gift with consequences from a generous muse.