tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62035742011-04-21T18:06:09.800-07:00hmmmduckiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00667417760636991880noreply@blogger.comBlogger101100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6203574.post-1156905926115009822006-08-29T19:43:00.000-07:002006-08-29T19:46:25.610-07:00

To say it hurts is not enoughWhen what you never thought to fearBecomes the only thingYou fearIt's not enough to say it hurtsWhen it that's hurting isn't clearTo say it hurts enough is notFor me to want it to appearTo me to be most very nearly nearThis obfuscating sphere in whichIts oscillating piers are mooring multitudes of vesselsUpon waters which plain fellows cannot steer.

duckiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00667417760636991880noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6203574.post-1103413665295387572004-12-18T15:32:00.001-08:002006-08-29T19:35:33.050-07:00

Lips too loved by whiskey mugsstare at me, a dying drug.To win , or kill, their cosmic racebelieving one more drink will tracea path made only for the weak the tears screech down her chalky cheeksthe fire cracks the air and nullsthe suffering it wants to pull out of the dying heart of she who never knew she was to bea queen in her own fading eyes. The light is still alive and wakingborn again

duckiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00667417760636991880noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6203574.post-1103412726867934952004-12-18T15:18:00.000-08:002004-12-18T15:32:22.290-08:00

She is my Schmorgasboard of love easily derived from simple methods of spontaneous calculation hanging above her wounded but steady head. Signalling the outsiders with radiance beyond though and power given by a reprimandingly prophetic yet shady dance known only to natives of the newly conformed world we live in. Underthoughts of subconscious angels flounder out of ancient coves of their

duckiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00667417760636991880noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6203574.post-1087767618161676172004-06-20T14:27:00.000-07:002004-06-21T21:07:35.156-07:00

I can't see them anymore. They were so beautiful in their pot. If you tried to count them all, Your eyes would be bloodshot. My mouth is watering for some golden sweeties. Someone help me find them. I can tell this won't be easy. Cause there were twenty-seven yams in my backyard yesterday That's the day a week ago from 8 days from now You say it aint hard to find them "Yes it is" is what I say

duckiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00667417760636991880noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6203574.post-1085255998715954652004-05-22T12:50:00.000-07:002006-08-29T19:41:24.433-07:00

I am so pissedI'm clawing your backDoes it hurt? Good.I want it to hurt.I want it to burnso you will learnthat every time you turnme around your blood will runand meet the ground and come alivewashing you away.I'm nibbling your jugular,eating your spleen, I mean,I mean to see your eyesbulge and scream from the pain you seebut do not see but hearand touch and feel and smell and hearand then see

duckiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00667417760636991880noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6203574.post-1085255406781189742004-05-22T12:40:00.000-07:002004-05-22T12:50:06.783-07:00

I was in my English class when my teacher told us to get out a pencil and paper. "You have five minutes and a minimum of 20 lines. Go." So, this is what I came up with... But he won't slip despite the slick drip from his lip; he will hold his grip on the sinking ship. Far away the shore shines the sea whines and the parrot pines as the deck's grime and the captain, sublime, is getting way

duckiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00667417760636991880noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6203574.post-1085095406857430142004-05-20T15:56:00.000-07:002006-08-29T19:41:06.650-07:00

My 11th grade English class went outside one day to experience the lifestyle of the transcendentalists. So, I thought it necessary to log the occurrence at Rock Creek Bridge...The wheel turns in the tidethe waterlogged underpants disgust me.The long, long, long, long johns remind meof the Cloroxed-capes flowing behind us, alive.Like some kind of Aztec god, burned against the sunthe rim bim bim

duckiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00667417760636991880noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6203574.post-1073533919098898612004-01-07T19:51:00.000-08:002006-08-29T19:39:09.786-07:00

All that I taste spits me out. Nothing will stay. But none of it ever leaves. I soak in loneliness and it burns. I wander in my mind and it burns. Each step sends me farther into the forest where the night deceives the sun and a new light reigns. A new blaze it set forth to govern destiny. The fire that no wind can kill. The fire of emptiness. The fire whose absence magnifies the pain.

duckiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00667417760636991880noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6203574.post-1071376315677690712003-12-13T20:31:00.000-08:002006-08-29T19:42:10.080-07:00

The mountains are like ripples I guess. I wonder why my mom bought this painting in the first place. I think it’s pretty cool. A lot of colors and stuff. But the thing I like the most is the fact that they all blend into the sky. I suppose that’s like everything in this world. It all comes back to itself. Everything’s mixed and swirled into a giant superman ice-cream cone. Ice-cream rocks

duckiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00667417760636991880noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6203574.post-1071363115848249702003-12-13T16:51:00.000-08:002006-08-29T19:40:22.063-07:00

This is an ode to Funky-C Hamsack and Agent Q:.....eckhem.....erngkst YOUUUSHEI!!!!!!!! Have you ever noticed exactly HOW funny things can be at 3 o'clock in the morning? Well, if you haven't, too bad, cause it should almost be illegal. My friend Ben Dorman(Agent Q) and Corey Hamilton(the other one) spent the night at my house one night a few weeks ago, and we had been making poor attempts at

duckiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00667417760636991880noreply@blogger.com