Poetaster, Revo1 (short for Revolution One Love!), with over an hour of spoken word prose for your listening disaster, dares you to attempt to struggle through
Untame untime unvine unman
unmine undine unmind
unlike anyone ever before
before and after us.
Unblind but still unable
to see clearly for the rain
implores you the exploration
of more than just tomorrow.
When I'm writing
I cannot see the end
of every sentence start.
Stop. I cannot see the part
in every wood rose.
Bloomberg unblooming
unblemished New York borrow
ever stole the console of time,
for this is the damage
of a poet's rhyme---mine.
I don't pay enough attention
to time. I'm too lost in the moment,
the moment I donate to time.
I don't pay enough attention
to eyes, not even mine.
And they say they're the soul
of the inner mind.
Oh, wait, that's the heart's chamber
of love. No, it's divine
of the captured essence lingering
in the back of the mind.
They say you can see it
if you look clear enough.
But what's hard enough
when everything in life
isn't near as soft enough
to see with the naked eye?
Can you see through the blanketed eye?
Can you see through evolving time?
---it's mine.
They say you can feel it.
But can you grasp the air untouched?
It touches us deep in our sentiment
unmentioned mentions
of the inventive time.
They say it's a clock.
They say it is clocked.
But what is time?
And who are they anyway?
They, the us
from pollin to dust,
just...
