Animal's House of Muse

Vibes to Feed the Hasty Soul with the States of All that Matters

Month: July, 2012

Buzz Went Fred

Yet again
In between
Screen and Window

At least
I have
Fresh Air

It relieves the
Throbbing of Concussion
With new Promise
Spread my Wings

Deep Breath

No waiting for Rescue
Must stay Pressed
Against Glass
Ignoring Spritz

Until the Pounding
And I can

My Way
To the Decay
In the Corner

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Numbness Is Tricky

I keep telling myself
To leave depression to the experts
But it seems to be
My last defense;
Last stronghold
In a war against my beginnings…
If I could only suppress
My Being until the shells
Cease to fly
Then maybe I’d survive
An all-out, dead sprint
Through no man’s land,
Call me a coward,
But if waiting out
This barrage is the only
Alternative to obliteration,
Then I’ll just save this fool-heart
For another fight,
Ideology, thanks…

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Uncle Solomon’s Beard Reeks of Spirits

“If I remember correctly…

It was a bright and calm night
For the sun had yet to set,
For some reason

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There’s a Whole in Left Field

True gifts are given without expectation-
The universe expects nothing of you,
So expect not a thing of the universe.
Though cold as the farthest reaches of space,
Where no one can hear you scream,
These conditions are ripe for the pickin’
If subterfuge would only dream;
Would only dare to nourish itself in full
Before opportunity frantically finds itself free
From this tangled web of fate we refuse to tend-
My friend, the time is nigh…

I’ve lain in wait for too long, now,
And the stench of what’s passed hangs thick
In embodying what is expected of me,
I will breathe as a tree
In my conversions,
I will be swift…

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A Hymn to the Faithful

Oh come all ye dreadful,
Sunken and disfigured
Oh come ye, oh come ye
And feed from my own hands
Come and behold what
You call your broken spirit
I swear that I’ll adore you
I’ll unfold a wholeness for you
With darkness I’ll implore you
To die with might, my Lords

Oh come all ye fearful,
Shaken, prostrate, confused
Oh come ye, oh come ye
And rest your head on mine
Come and behold what,
Left unchecked, consumes you
I swear that I’ll adore you
I’ll unfold a wholeness for you
With darkness I’ll implore you
To die with might, my Lords

Oh come all ye persons,
Haughty, disillusioned
Oh come ye, oh come ye
To the ends you cannot stand
Come and behold what
Became of all creation-
It won’t be that which knows you
Your guilt will overwhelm you
Yet with my aid, will cleanse you
Let’s die this night, as Lords.



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Wrong Line at the Bank

The light drips from the ceiling like sweat from a whore in church- knowingly, and with grace- it drops from my environmental heaven onto my scorched eyes with a splash. F*** you luminescent, fluorescent force of disregard- how dare you drip in contempt for whom your essence will splat upon? And despite this relation I must endure my own standing here, at present; having to reconcile your beauties with the power you bestowed upon my eyes, with hopes that such an effort will transform this moment into that which doesn’t feel so much like waterboarding for the ocularly impaired.













Copyright Keli Birchfield 2012

According to “It,” That Is…

Mornings shall become progressively brighter
Hold close your body and works
Protect your sproutling from unseasonably high winds
And eventually it will stand on its own accord



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Gold Bond Medicated

At present, I find myself to be a festering blister on the corned feet of fellowship; on the verge of bursting from the pressures of shoe, sweat, and sock, and the friction bonding said elements to the flesh for as long as there’s a path of dignity to trod upon. With barely a flinch of notice from the rest of what’s moving I’ll soon pop and puss beyond my containment, soaking through the environment which bore me; saturating the presence of body with fresh possibilities, capable of a viral rampage the blood stream would not soon forget; creating a catalyst for the fevered dreams of a morbid motion forced to rest it’s hard-pressed feet in clear waters, and it’s head upon the soft banks of redemption- though a nasty fate shall befall my juices, the active manifestation of our imagination must be pressed to the limits of expectation if we are to ever learn to not be so hard on ourselves; and if we are to ever learn to rest long enough to properly dream our way towards a softer direction.
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In Dealing with Bad Habits

I still have yet to find a purpose for my wallowing in unyielding pain
There must be some sort of spiritual benefit,
An enhancement of any kind that would reasonably place these random acts of violence against myself within an overall system of growth and progression,
But what must be is never how it seams itself together;
For there is a hand unseen accounting for the frayed stitching of space and time.
Without rhyme, reason, or rhythm towards which to shake a stick
I march on in self-loathing
Hoping that one day said self will subside from vision,
And that I would smite someone more deserving for once…
Or at least learn that violence is hardly ever the answer,
Or the question for that matter.

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Hung Up

Even the strongest of men carry some cosmic weakness too heavy to uphold; that is until the worst of moments when said weakness defies gravity itself and all that we hate hovers before our eyes, embodied by seemingly unending waves of disillusion. Ride the waves until your float is calmed and that which grounds strength and weakness altogether is revealed- as it turns out, eternal goodness founds our relations and not the inessential necessity of gravity.
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