God up in heaven was freezing his holy ass off.
Frozen for way too long,
he decided to fix the heater.
He used his omniscient mind,
and he knew the problem.
Then, he worked his omnipotence
and the heater was fixed.
God was no longer frozen and he felt good for a change.
Yet there was something that he hadn’t paid attention to.
God had changed reality by tampering with the heater,
he had extended the magnitude of warmth,
for the heater’s warmth was infinite.
And God had done the same to the infinite cold,
for as he suffered, freezing
–the coldness had been eternal.
he had been the furnace all along,
and the broken heater was his heart.
There was no love left.
The tepid benevolence
was of no use to the people
it was supposed to touch.
Nothing to see here,
only a broken heater.
–It should be fixed!
(Photo credit: MIT-Libraries)
Why write poetry?
When you can choose to sleep
Listen to music and play games.
Why read poetry for that matter?
You can run craaaaaaaaaaaaazy mileage,
and be present
in every moment.
No, that’s not a telephone booth,
but it is a message.
It’s on the book of faces,
just for you.
So, why care?
With so much to do.
There are loads of things around the world,
all kinds of:
writers, movies stars,
business moguls n’ innovators,
Some people are different,
and their interests are much greener;
parties with guests
and an assortment of pastries.
A folk way of living,
coming from an earthy upbringing.
why write poetry?
I’m divided it seems,
But I chose “these”,
my sissy dreams.
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
There he walks,
the lonely man who
hoists his cerulean jacket over his shoulder
as he walks under the denim skies.
Cars drive by as he walks along the dark, voluptuous streets.
He crosses at a zebra,
and he looks back at me.
We say nothing as we have nothing to share.
I decide not to stare, for it is rude
–I turn my eyes up to the clouds,
I search for the moon, but it remains hidden.
I see tall buildings, abandoned buildings.
I also see air conditioning pipes which lead
to chimneys coming out of the street.
The chimneys ejaculate flagpoles for the nearby hotel,
and keep its parking space real cool.
US flags, European Union flags, Finnish flags, Spanish flags,
Italian flags, French flags, and the Union Jack.
They are all there standing tall by the hotel,
the same way the lonesome man stands near me.
He looks tall, and proud.
Looks like a face that nothing would hold down,
but there’s a few words stuck in his eye.
They say, Listen:
My home is cold,
My bones are cold,
The sky is cold,
Her heart is cold,
Life is cold. My heart is cold.
He crosses to the other side of the street,
and I am alone.
I ask myself will the lonesome man find his way home?
The wind whispers, no.
A Child in the Mind
by Miki Korhonen
Somehow I’ve managed to cut the cake,
Scrape the bullshit off, and gather myself
an astounding amount of magic into my mojo.
Maybe I have found my inner child.
I believe he’s with me when I write,
and he’s sitting right next to me
How to live my life
About my identity
But I know he’s disappointed in me
because I don’t feed him.
With no love or sympathy
I force my inner child to live on
dry hardened bread and stale water.
He doesn’t sleep on a bed,
but on the hard stone floor.
I know he’s smart,
he speaks eighteen languages fluently,
but he never uses any of them.
Some say he has no nationality,
while others try to bound him to one.
He’s tan and no one knows where he’s from.
There are times when he runs wild
and throws terrible tantrums,
when I see it happen I get real depressed.
I drown my sorrows in cold beer,
I keep them submerged until they draw
their final gasps of sadness.
When that happens my inner child wakes up cranky
and makes a lot of noise.
He screams, shouts, and wails as
he bangs his tiny fists against walls and doors.
I know it’s my fault,
but I’m always way too tired to care,
so I ignore him and eventually he stops.
All in all, I think he’s good to me
even when he punishes me for my mistakes.
He sticks with me and laughs at all my stupid jokes.
I think he loves me,
and sometimes I think
that somewhere deep in my heart
I love him too.
Written back in February 18, 2012.
A short poem, that could be brought back to life
in a failed resurrection experiment.
Lazy noon jazz charade,
Wearing pyjama jeans,
with eggs on the side,
And the sleeping beauty
Like she was on death row with a smile.
I made a recording of one of my poems, it can be heard right here thanks to this
widget from SoundCloud. How great is that?
Hope you enjoy it!
This a piece that I somehow regurgitated at my workplace during a break. Minimal edits, so I do apologize if it looks rushed. I hope you enjoy this short story. I’m going back to the mundane.
The massive propaganda speakerphones echoed through the harrowingly empty streets as a gray-faced public servant was trying to make his way home. Walking on the streets was always dangerous, even when completely authorized to do so. The not-so-secret police could arrest anyone at any given time just for good measure. If the records were clean, they’d dig until they would eventually find dirt. There was a database of dirt on everything just lying around, it knew everything about everyone.
The database didn’t sleep or eat. It required minimal maintenance and never needed winding. It collected information on all the so-called ideologically or otherwise unsavory vermin. But little did anyone know that the machine’s census was pure and unbiased. It couldn’t distinguish a human being from another and for years it hoarded all the information it could gather.
Undisturbed governments watched as the machine filled itself ceaselessly full of private memories over private memories. Categorizing forgiveness with malice, and sullied love with threats.
At first everyone thought the machine would keep them safe and others likened it to a god who heard all holy prayer. Though soon there was no escape from the police state where everyone was a tiny insect, clawing to life around the all-knowing, decadent despot. The tyranny of information kept the gray-faced man forever hiding.
But there was a glimmer of hope. The machine couldn’t record the ghoulish winds that wailed along the sidewalks. The winds that would forever fly free over London’s lonely bridges.