Sunday, December 17, 2017

The Water Strider (poem)

In another life I was the water strider.
Whistle through loud fuzzy fronds, and whipping into buzzing clouds.
Below our sun, the common goal.
An identical soul. 
In a timeless day.
And within my same, distant, night sky, I'd see those spiders' tears flashing.
& I'd see the point of love, forever.
From solemn, quiet, gentle moons.
Above the thrashing fish, to relive it, with a mindful way. 
Not to tell you so.
As brief as your words never spoken, opening closing. 
For eternal fighters, with streams of fires splashing higher.
Doing all that I've ever seen of dreams, but brighter. 
A writer's bug, the survivor.
In another life I was the water strider.

Twyll The ChyllTyrant

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Not! (joke)

Hi, I'm not the Devil. 
If you look at my nose, you can see that I don't even have a very good imagination.
Instead, I have a bad imagination.  Meaning, I don't have normal dreams, I have awkward conversations, and I'm terrible at trying to lie.
You can tell that by looking at my dimples.  It's like my mouth is in parenthesis.
So I make up jokes, and it can be a little embarrassing.  I shouldn't.
Like why did the chicken cross the road?  It was bored.
The fact is, bad humor has been around much longer than any other humor.
Before comedy, I've always liked to smoke a cigarette.  It makes my voice more cool sounding.
I like to philosophize over the Bible, too.  It is totally amateurish, but still kind of amusing.
In my version of Heaven, for example, the only way that you can get in is if you get a joke.
Try this joke:  What's the first writing on the page of the Bible?  The page number.
See, many scholars and religious philosophers have proposed the elaborate hypothesis
That the origin of the fruit of the tree of the garden of Eden, in biblical terms…
Was an apple…
I, however, counterpropose an entirely alternative idea, altogether…
You see, in my version of Eden?
The fruit, in real life, was a nutmeg.
Which is a type of fruit
& also the term for a bad joke.
Here's another one:  What's the difference between one and negative one?
The hyphen.
Which came first?  The chicken or the egg?  The egg was for breakfast, so it came first.
If a tree falls in the woods, and lands on a man, he's still a liar.
See, in my opinion, the only time it's ever cool to make fun of someone else's culture,
is when you're in a laboratory with other scientists.
Aside from in my 10th grade Biology class... 
In which we were broadcast the 9/11 events like sports radio.
That’s grosser than the paid extra who buys the peanuts he was supposed to sell on the set.
Meanwhile, my worst irrational fear is getting into a wrong car.
Like, hey, what is the worst butt of a joke? 
A cigarette!
& what’s the worst joke of a butt? 
…  Midnight snacks.

Friday, August 12, 2016

Halo (story)

stepping out toward me, through the walk way naked light, you lived in the poetry, stroking the brilliant ideas whether those windows or smoky mirrors saw. the poetic shadows of illuminated foregrounds in a painting painted in the entropic cosmos by the conscientiously starved, yet never fearing, conscious, the hold of death in your sleepy smile throughout all of these subservient, ambivalent, and often anonymous, consequent conversations, to all inspiration. built out of temporal garden chores, in winding winds that castle's stair stare at in fixation like a familiar face in ecstasy. that this never exists. so, as not the sewers reap the weeping in the children's view, hollow call of teenage crisis or lost city youth. wild, to you, love is throwing flicking color in ghastly reminiscent shade at scornful amusing frowns of dying imagination into the gambling gambol of disbelief at my very own uncontrollable flowering dreams. the discomfort of the lost, after the certainty of power. this is the way angels dance in heaven, deep.

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Walking (poem)

"Walking Days"

walking all the way down a writer's block, trotting blindly past windows.  perhaps once skipping the cleansing rinse, all still while whistling the tune to someone else's viewpoint, pizza corner talks.
he paddles that heat on summers in city's slicked pavement rushes, through acknowledged shadow traffic.  bending the words that wrote final destiny with the blend of the music of celestial churches.
talking out loud to an anonymous ghost, shaking in his hands, in his naivety also born intuit.  headed straight into it, conspicuity, immunity through the dark shaded doors, morbid menace between nights off work, again shifted to slide through these cages' cavernous tunnel systems.  lost lines, paid never again.  patches of truth behind eyes lies our connects in a network of burning field fires, unidentifed corpse crop circles.  falling objects, failing subjects, thrown in garbage.  feel tight, over the smaller, blowing out old candles lit, and let the lights of little wildflowers raise the schools in the gutters for the poor stolen poverty wars on our perpetual peripheral thievery.  conniving concise bravery amidst the inevitable brevity in our worship of the beast's offering of fierce fears.  this lord of the flies, he's not known to be mysterious.  run across dumpster fiends.  their children, the child.  they are, then.
don't act like you've never been scared, or you'll sure die to dare.  i fucking swear in the beaten air.
concrete walls, and not those cliffs on sunny fantasy castle barriers, ships building the factories of frozen future graves.  we were drowning, while laughing, but dying, while writing.  oh well.
temporal hell permanent ghetto of the mind.  the bubbled skin from burnt belief.  peace's relief.  buried in eternal sleep, the threat of age and the imminent prophecy awaits, it beckons, quell culls.
so, they say walking forward streets is alright.  taking each step easy is always good for the soul.
forever let the spirit never miss a thing.  somebody out there is usually always right, alright.
but if you ask me, birds and butterflies, the sky through waving leaves or the golden blood of moon glowing shining through the bluest gusts of autumn, winking stars.  friends let friends kill the time.
they paid the rent, too, the taxes, they go to work for that big man.  servants to a faith down the road.

by Twyll The ChyllTyrant (2015)

"The Night Walking"

tonight is every changing
screaming cry within my dried eyes
disguised more as mere metaphors
potential paradises
devoted instincts jealous men
haunted on long walking courses
motivated work slights of hands
pounding on the ground forth forces
bounce imperfect repetition
phantom interception frequents
ghosts never possessed possessions
forever fleeing to safeties
memorized yet forgotten lives
latenight thoughts make dark desires
struggle to settle traditions
newer contradicted fires
propel wanton profanities
mundane scraps boasted other arts
down glowing lower empty streets
hard choking or coughing in hearts
exist the same as me in fogs
imagine with no temptations
fortune out gold nor second tries
journey alone although always
home begins beckoning the lost
return pledging leaving tortures
broken promise painful blessings
neverending outside corners
mistaken complex attractions
says restated obvious words
planning planets never by us
give up on yourself next time first

by Twyll The ChyllTyrant (2011)

Friday, June 19, 2015

Grim Reaper (poem)

death the skeleton
of the old man guides us
inter-universal time space.
the river of negative resonate
the pool of self-denial.
inner peace at the temple shrine
you are the ass.
you are the shit.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Black & White Memory (poem)

Although true love may come from just one pair
Be not afraid in times of lonely unseen pain of focus
As useless to survive as the soulless
Only the burned in burden we bear as time slides and slips
Forever open…

_plant life
For more
_magical things
may come of it...

In days drawn lead with grass tips green with fresh
How our oft forgot are forth in coming around so frozen
Even in our own friends’ once earthly deaths
Of forgone memory comes the crying and for their despair’s
Eternal oding…

Saturday, November 01, 2014

Follow The Leader (haiku)

Follow The Leader
by Twyll The ChyllTyrant

Hope our sky
Ain’t too cloudy

To hear rain

-for dad

Friday, May 02, 2014

Hell & Reincarnation (poem)

Hell & Reincarnation (poem)
by Twyll The ChyllTyrant

Hell is a familiar neighborhood home
wherein you were locked inside
a room.
with the windows all boarded up.
locks and chains on doorknobs.

You are surrounded by five cradles
holding a sleeping baby in each one.
and candles lit and candles relighting.
At different periods of time,
the babies will cry, but stop crying
when you approach one.
hanging, hanging, hanging and dieing.
They will not all stop crying
until you are fallen sleep.

it's not a nightmare, it is surreality.

You will stay in this house
until you die or hushed in fell,
at which point you pass
to consecutive continuous stages
of afterlife after hell,
into which you are reborn
in your same body.


In the middle of this room
that you will become entrapped in,
is a dead man hanging and dangling
from his neck by a ceiling fan.
and the ceiling fan is on.
That's just what everyone
goes through to get reincarnated.


Tuesday, August 10, 2010

. (poem)



BeCause N-O Fucking NEVER