Tim Barrus Blog
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The Watchmen Dreams of Entire Horizons
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Sleep. Lullabye. We all have reasons. I imagine he will leave me in the leaves. Especially when he figures out his own ten wishes. He will make the first wish in a little while. In a little while.
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An Orchestration Of Revenge
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Jonah in Seas and Seas
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Tim Barrus: The Accumulation Of Small Accidents
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All of it is incomprehensible. Lick it with your MotherFuckingTongue. Feel the wind upon your face. Wrecked by time. Disemboweled by tearing at the air. All the old working men. Dragging a prophet’s river of stars swollen with the raw places. The thickets darkening. The hermitage of snakes suspended without…
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Tim Barrus: The Secrets of Complicity
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A dim aura of photons intombed deep within the pits and snakes and the ring I am supposed to kiss. A joyous martyrdom of jingle jangles that have been left behind.
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Tim Barrus: Dark Places In The Hidden
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Washing Your Hands Of It
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Tim Barrus: It All Flows Into Shadows Of Lovers, Ships, Grief, and Fragile New Dawns Passing Music Through Your Desperate Heart
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I am a communist. TickThisTok Reagan broke your laws. Senility is a dangerous thing to exploit the Central Bank, and after you understand that particular rhetoric, you discover there are no consequences imposed up the wealthy. For anything. Anna, the upstairs maid, and Junior is a rich boy who will…
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Tim Barrus: We Don’t See Things As They Are We See Things As We Are You Whispered
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I never take calls anymore. I use a lot of burners. The guy of some guy an idiot I am Told, Oh, Calm Down Down And Behold. Luggage. All that luggage. You have a lot of luggage. People should have luggage.
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Tim Barrus: But Blinds Cover The Windows
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They drink Jack Daniels in Baton Rouge. Like Jack’s gut of memories, tightly curled, rips a demon with its sharp claws, rushing in to fill the void, there is a void in all of us, and that is the animal who knows us is us will always be us. Our…
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Tim Barrus: Americana
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Night fires, phantoms, and the flag. If there are small children, burn their dolls.
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Tim Barrus: Our Shadows Are Blue With Cold
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Tim Barrus, New York Times
I am a communist. When you’re living this close to the edge, migration will take you to wherever it wants you to go, you will go there, whose rooms are the darker ones, the ones from the woods who had no shoes. Children should have…