Eclipse Memory (Collection of poetry)

[Trippy Mcgee]

Eclipse Memory

Regret is a tapeworm.

It kills you over time.


ToC:
1. The Butcher of Bellingham
2. Starvation, USA
3. Metronome Sped-up
4. The Dying Party dies
5. Giving Birth to Death
6. Lonely Personals
7. Moon walking on Planet earth
8. Cycle men
9. Born Victim VS. Bullshit hero
10. Scientists get drunk often
11. Ambitions corpse
12. Formerly The Conforming of Al Limbo/ Now the Freeing of.
 

[Trippy Mcgee]

The Butcher of Bellingham/ Poetic description

Totem tall, poltergeist white

Breathes steam even in summer

Eyes like an Italian actor. Serious and furious

Greased, oiled worms of shadow and light falling off a Neanderthal brow

Old paper eyes, like nicotine infecting his brain

He’s a sweating onion, packed into a boiler world, but only he shall explode

Big thunder boots, crashing plates, and chain hooks clatter around when he walks

Blood soaked black apron, like a river at night coursing down his front

His Titan hands enveloped in whale skin grease gloves, he’s left-handed

You can tell that, by the cleaver in that hand. Chipped to being teeth, rusty to being gums

I’ll become a vegetarian if I survive this.  

[Trippy Mcgee]

Starvation, USA

Insomnia veined lemur eyes,

on soul spiraling chins,

witnessing the documentary through blood and plasma screen TV’s.

Ribs for faces, candlestick arms,

pupils being shrunk away by wide whiteness,

the only alternative life style,

they call it a sad sack of suck for the children.

The diseases enjoying the cannibal potluck inside bloated bellies,

moving along to the medusa eyecandy of a donut shop,

their memories are starved to death.  

[Trippy Mcgee]

Metronome Sped-up

A mouthful of butterflies,
don’t swallow.

Lovely angels, full of pleasure,
their gifts blind me.

People at a rainbow steady pace,
While I'm solid black.

Bloody ape hands of tragic survivors marked all over all their skins,
see me nude of those calluses.




Born dead, my shadow came to life.

Friendly Conversations at night as I sleep,

Cold nonsense in the morning as I wake.

The machine means are lost to me,

I’m the metronome sped up in your kaleidoscope industry.  

[Trippy Mcgee]

The Dying Party dies

An optional Reverb,

can sound from knock knocking on a coffin.

Electricity ,

Can pass through your heart conduit .

Lighting up the humming brides at this eulogy.

Celebrate today, Shrimp Molotov cocktails for everybody.

It’s the last step into the haunted attic,

Where sphinxes give free answers, hydras have only one head,

And god is a comedian who never insults.

But my epitaph says it best,

sitting on the desert plot, where tossed over yard chairs

and broken wineglasses now stand as waste.

The etched words now unreadable flatten and warp in the weather,

Which dampens more everyday.

Like our spirits.  

[Trippy Mcgee]

Giving Birth to Death

in times of pigeon inflation and dove depression.

A place of Easter egg demon seeds,

It’s a world where baby’s last breath is a reasonably priced perfume.



Underneath a reapers cowl, I won’t touch my Pandora. Says he wisely.


Over hypothermia steel, careless congratulations thrown around

by filtered faces and apprentice tool boxes. Not for me. Says she wisely.



Don’t bring lambs into a slaughterhouse; don’t show angels into a whorehouse,

It’s a deal.  

[Trippy Mcgee]

Lonely Personals

Scar lying inside diamond.

Warning: Emerges spasmodically.

Looks like

outer crispy shell made of cauterized optimism.

Seeks universal twin living upstairs above conspiracy theory newspaper wrapped Cuckoo clock.

Caution: May be a hollowed out crucifix...



Requirements:

Must be able to sift sleeping sands away of soul-skinned snakes,

must feel like a mountain of blankets with ice cubes between its silken layers,

must have voice that shatters approaching barbarian kneecaps,

Yet

is a timeless whisper, moves Fall's blood soaked leaves, edges around knife-edge corners

To remind me of you.


Looks not important.  

[[.Ichigo-Chan.]]

Those poems were beautiful. Are these your only works?

 

[Trippy Mcgee]

I have works before these ones, but there mainly scribbles and mixed matched pieces and parts that don't quite fit.

I'm going to put every single poem I make in here.

Thank your for your kind words,

any particular one you particularly liked?  

[Pup in Fluff]

The Butcher of Bellingham/ Poetic description

Very nice! I love the description. It really places a picture of this guy in your head and shows people what you're up against.

Starvation, USA
"they call it a sad sack of suck for the children." This phrase seems to stumble a bit and is slightly confusing.
The rest of it is great. Again, I love the description and the picture that you paint of these children.

Metronome sped-up
This one is somewhat confuing to me. It seems more like phrases put that you couldn't put anywhere else.

The Dying Party Dies
"Celebrate today, Shrimp Molotov cocktails for everybody." I love this line. It really shows how bad things are hidden in the good. It's also reflected in the rest of the peom and, honestly, I missed it the first time I read it because it's hidden so well. It's one of those peoms that leaves you thinking because you don't really understand it and then you read it again and it becomes more clear. Very nicely done.

Giving Birth to Death
Very interesting. I'm not sure what else to say about this one.

Lonely Personals
I'd love to see something like this actually posted in the Personal Ads. Most people wouldn't understand but would just call because of the whole, "looks not important" thing. You might even get most of America to take out their dictionaries for the first time in years! I love it.  

[Trippy Mcgee]

Thank you Pup in fluff.

The sad sack of suck isn't my best, and I really should throw it out.

And Metronome Sped-up is confusing, it basically talks about people who don't fit in.

I appreciate your input.  

[WildWildWindWhisperer]

Martyr Dren

Giving Birth to Death

in times of pigeon inflation and dove depression.

A place of Easter egg demon seeds,

It’s a world where baby’s last breath is a reasonably priced perfume.



Underneath a reapers cowl, I won’t touch my Pandora. Says he wisely.


Over hypothermia steel, careless congratulations thrown around

by filtered faces and apprentice tool boxes. Not for me. Says she wisely.



Don’t bring lambs into a slaughterhouse; don’t show angels into a whorehouse,

It’s a deal.

****
Profoundly beautiful.

......WildWildWindWhisperer wink  

[Trippy Mcgee]

Moon Walking on Planet Earth

Part I.

Will Try,
cockroach farming to rid ourselves of rats
but the latter will have soft wind smoothed carapace, beloved toy store window charisma, and haunting japanese trading card eyes.

Gray Cityscape mice fur everywhere, falling off their receding hairlines.
Or is that mine?
They would've grown better with natural radiation from steam pipe trees and exhaust burning rivers. Wrinkling your nose at the sunshine cracking the dirty glass dome, I'd rather have the body fluid scent of fresh hot metal.

Part II

Will try,
to turn coal into a candied chocolate,
christmas will never be the same, catching ash flakes on your tongue from the genocide crematory, their burning the world up to replace with new pavement.
Saturated paper cows get replenished on our fuel turned fudge. Maybe it was poison to humanity, unlike most things processed and stamped, going through rigorous bribery courses, and tax form filled punching bags being thrown in the way of approaching saints.


Part III
Will try,
moonwalking on planet earth
assisted by anti-gravity wires, hooked into you like puppet strings, cheap thrills to put another jack-o-lantern smile for the daily halloween drive

the nights sublety enhanced by plastic globed strobe satellite lanterns, put there just so
staring from the balcony above whining wine vultures, it'll be just like romeo and juliet before fate intervened
course they'll drink our clock breaking weed killer instead
available now at a store near you.


Epilogue
In the end, when bald eagles blood is the caviar of the rich, the fish are given walking tanks to buzz around in, and we'll succeed at faking our victory, just so our superior won't think us lazy, I will be looking out the window of the 99th story talking to my wife about coaxing the man upstairs into leaving.

Boring. Like a cranium drill.  

[Trippy Mcgee]

Cycle Men

Chalk splashed Grizzled grass, impatience with the world reaching out through sprouts hiding his specially prepared Picasso demeanor.

I, shadow, silently splurge with inked sin, one of horrors he will avoid.

Observing my prism colored predecessor (in umbrella fit tans and shades he wears), while I indulge in two-sided reflective influence (A 2 dimensional bucket of sound) something else that won’t fishhook him. I think, I remember, I envy, I (strangely enough) become the Wiseman.

He’s stepping around on his chessboard favorite tiles (white plastic pope goes first). Outside he try’s to bypass his heart and take the plunge into the lined ladder road leading to salvation.

Beyond this paranoid prophecy pixilated avenue, is a collection of wheels.

His ticket home, his hat for balding, his s**t sundered blanket that he still loves is there.

I don’t know if I was he. Memories like the red hued psycho thriller in front of me.

People like me broke the cycle (Sane or vacuum commercial conformist?), people like him live it still. (Broke down, or genius of the next cult classic?)

Should he survive the street to his societal sickle cycle? (Death of life by inattention) Or hover past grounded salesmen like the hawk he is? (Death of hope by continuity)

I don’t know what would be worse.  

[Trippy Mcgee]

Born Victim Vs. Bullshit Hero

Peeling off Sacrificial petals,

They Bombard pretty brass walls, tarnished easily by tollbooth riddles.
(You all have barbwire baited polygonal hearts)

Narrow-minded numbness.

Here for Gods charity, talking around pitfalls, your logical licked mezzanines fall before truth.

But standing unabated, a pigeon graced graveyard angel, frozen by trust that this is

the unreal real.

(The black suited billionaires helping the withered woman escape traffic, only for her to find that her purse is missing.)

You, green armored leech, with snap on legs gathered from your victims,

Me, a tossed around fishbowl, my eyes seeing through warped glass.

After all, survival of the greediest.