Tag Archives: art

Jim Jones Could Sell the Air Back into Lungs

Tin can man dance.

Hear the machinery adjust to the steps.

More oil for the gears if he falters.

More air pumped into the lungs.

He’s got poetry tongues and venomous prose.

Spit it out in rusted bones.

Close enough to his breath and you’re oxidized.

Construct it piecemeal if it’s not enough.

Build a better practitioner of impatience.

Jangling metal’s alluring tune;

a myth of progress in robotics.

Faults for a day and rises in three.

Divinity achieved in glassy eyes,

and the glassed eyes watch and pray for a visit,

turned about in the factory floor.

Production goes for more years to come.

The ink never runs out for us.

They tap away on the screen.

Sell out for a knife or two.

Heretics abound with the wool over your eyes.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

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The View’s Different Twenty Stories Higher Up

Hooked on a minimum wage addiction.

Survival instincts force a coup of the living room.

Dug into the furniture’s trenches.

It won’t improve in the climb.

The only rising thing is the mailbox.

Seeing red pile up through the cracks.

Trade time for commodity.

Shivering in warmth.

The chill is a fever spike,

failed to sweat out in isolated fits.

Deals run short on purchasing a halo.

Lose luck on happiness and currency.

Drop out and let a house of cards fall.

Drop out and a stray breath blows it down.

Drop out and worries subside subsequently.

Drop out and have it end.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

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Psychodynamomania

There’s no privilege in provoking secrets,

daring closeted skeletons into the light.

Shoveling out all with the pocket lint,

let the bones rattle when pressed,

bounding from room to room without a change in either,

and the story reverberates from start to end

exactly as it started and ended prior.

Swing back,

load the shot,

down the whole if it’s been said before

that wings mangled in barbed wire aren’t fit for flight.

A mess of veins makes for a soothsayer’s tongue,

adorned with rust from telling dated tales.

Taken stock of archaeology’s understanding,

let fly the trigger if it’s been seen before

where that which we vie to keep comes to the grave,

wrapped in the ash and tatters that severs the biography,

clasped hands clinging to visions through a forged glance.

Of every era is that urge to believe

dried blades are made green on the other side.

None questioned if we were seeing grass or growing weeds.

And in taking what cannot be taken,

the best to be seen in autopsy

is what has been unpacked from room to room,

demanded to return out of hindsight’s scope of focus.

Swing back,

load the shot,

slip on control if it’s been known before

that cycles observed repeat if repeated

when no attempt is made to dismantle machinery,

but another shuffle off to white walls,

emptying out secrets,

waiting to reaffirm the emptiness yet to discover.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

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Crooked Ships Lost in the Night

Penciled arteries are smudged over,

turned too often in shaking hands,

steady once in a simpler, prior era.

Preserved ink is a breath away from shattering,

sentences with the fragility of glass,

details absent seconds after an utterance.

The body abandons first,

as is predictable in passages;

the unfortunate truth of understanding unknowns

beckons with a price tag attached.

It’s the betrayal of the mind that hurts,

never expecting to succumb to blank slate photographs

that themselves will be rendered to less.

It’s the crumbling interior of consciousness,

matter escaping into bottomless drains through cracks in clasped hands.

We may only take so much when we begin to leave,

and palms are made empty come the violent/unviolent ending.

Come back quickly if you could.

Return swiftly if it pleases.

I feel a fear for who becomes the next target,

and I’ve begun to forget your face.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

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It Was Enough to be Called Our Own

Hear the whisper of severed chords.

It’s ending tonight.

Innocence disrobed and robbed of excuses,

we stood around the smoldering shreds of a paper town.

Cutout ideas and origami architecture on the bedroom floor

posed a riot against our past selves.

The city outside the window was wrong about us.

In a riot against our shadows,

stamping out heartfelt hard truths,

I swore the taps echoed like poetry,

where we danced in a dream adorned in white.

A trembling hand held in a steady palm

felt a distant isle shrinking in a haze,

familiar made foreign where recognition stood.

Fingers grazing now recoiled

while foraging for whatever was there before.

Our sky of blankets, propped up by youthful assurance

swung by the wayside in our turbulence,

shaking the parchment roof to heel.

We asked for another round of the glass we shared in the moment

when terra burst from blankness,

drew forms on a paper town,

but hope only lasts so long in dried ink and crumbled lines,

and the folded lies come to flourish last.

I swore in the lessening glow

we danced in a dream adorned in white.

In our makeshift metro,

the city was silent at the sight of untangled stars.

It had to crash eventually.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

You can check out my KoFi account here 🙂

Our Inherent Fiction

See the actor became the liar.

The lessons learned propose a fresh perspective:

adopt gold through sewn doubts

and an image limited to the pen’s mouth.

The great irony comes to play

that when rendered digitally

a mask is only half full,

the glass even less,

with regrets in a cavalcade cascading,

dried anxiety pictured in the ink.

Taken only in the passing of strangers,

there’s no more than a particle of dust on the eye.

No consequences from the gallery.

Internalized by the closer figures,

the better parts portray frustration alone,

abandoning understanding to save their own deaths.

Kept in perfect order, then, when spoken to.

Ambulance sirens call warnings from the profile.

Invisible eyes follow for more;

present eyes leave for less.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

there are no imperfections

I am the concrete sentinel of industry,

manufactured immaculately in Puritan fires.

No complaints from the head of the yoke.

Leave no admission of potential cracks.

I embody the failed experiment of masculinity,

stripped to be only metal and sweat.

Cut the throat’s sound in nervous episodes.

The world cannot hear a male’s scream.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

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I am the Enemy, Raise Your Weapon

Ink charred to ash

to scatter about in the ocean

when trying to preserve a winter

where I had lost a sense of self,

and found direction into nowhere lands.

If dust still clings to photographs,

the remnants of words can swim just as well.

These waters can be a home.

There’s no line between where our bone and blood meet

or the difference between the currents and our contents.

Condense the cascade into a buoy

standing upright despite bent backs.

I’m thinking it’s enough to carry for another season

of backwards believing that two pairs of eyes both look back.

Stand upright amidst the roar of a draining hourglass.

The memories are losing your presence.

You become but a ghost.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

You can commission me here 🙂

Reflecting on April: A Month of Frustration

We’ve now officially crossed into the fifth month of the year. It’s pretty wild just how quickly time has passed, and it’s a phenomenon that has brought me to reviewing my progress as of late. The previous time I did so, I had experienced incredible growth during the month of March. It was a sharp increase that immediately set my hopes high for the future, which seems to have been a very naïve sensation in hindsight. April was not a poor month per se, but it paled in comparison to the heights I achieved in the prior period, leaving me with a lot of questions and uncertainties. What exactly happened between then and now? Where do I go from here? Am I not doing enough?

The numbers just weren’t the same in terms of views, likes, and followers gained. This led to a frustrating series of days where my posts, ordinarily obtaining decent enough attention, were suddenly receiving less than half of typical data. The Ko Fi account, now nearly a month old, has similarly been a complete bust, with rarely any activity recorded on the page. It may not have been an entirely terrible month, but I could clearly observe a trend where I was slowly losing the traffic I once had. This was possibly most jarring when, upon review, one of the most viewed posts from this period was one where I discussed upcoming changes, the Ko Fi account chief among them. Yet, despite that apparent viewership, no one from that post seemed to have visited the page.

Where to go from here? I’m honestly not sure. This very well could be an unexplained down month that could subside in May. However, it rekindled a lot of doubts in me, especially when each preceding month had demonstrated a steady upward trend. I seem to have regressed without realizing why, if there IS a why to begin with. I had expected things to pan out differently, but that is clearly not the case. It puts me in a situation where I need to either adapt or really reconsider this website exercise; if I stall out, it may not be worth trying to continue it. Of course, the issue here is I’m not sure what exactly to adapt to, since I don’t comprehend what happened here.

For those that are still visiting, reading, and liking my posts, I greatly appreciate it and I value your support, feedback, and presence. This has just been a very saddening experience this past month. I’m gonna keep at it though, and hopefully things change up in the future.

Thank you,

❤ Mitch

cRoWd FuNdEd!1! ur voice matters1!!1

Run the numbers.

Dissect meaning.

Reassess.

Address the result.

Assume the lower level.

Descend.

Logic supplies support.

Math purchases the poetry.

Selected, not written.

Made, not felt.

Tailored to expectation.

Examined in red eye microscopes.

Reassess.

Address the result.

Satisfactory.

Unsatisfactory.

Meaningless.

Proceed to the lower level.

Run the numbers.

Victories are hollow.

Losses are forever.

Descend.

Undo in frustration.

Self-made perspective flaws.

Attachment disrupted.

A hand’s motions, alien.

The prose is foreign.

Ownership deprived.

Power be to “they.”

This is eternal.

The self is temporary.

Be disposed of.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Commissions open here! 🙂