Tim Barrus: His Small Dreams Was a Rage in Cups

The carnival was almost done. The only people walking through Trash Planet Central were fat girls licking licorice sticks. Their hollow emptiness was carved from class and stone. She wanted you to finger fuck her by scattering the delrium where she laughed in the observation car but you had left…

Tim Barrus: I See I Only See

I see I only see the eyelids. I see I only see but your eyes are dark to me. I see I only see the years slide past all bearing wild and bitter like the sea. I see I only see the angry and alone in their sleeping bags and…

Tim Barrus: Before the Deep Worlds Wounded Anything but Rain and Snow and Dust Come Crawling

Darkness settles on the other side of the river we would have to cross in morning. At least the bike knows what it’s doing. We slept soundly in a ditch.

Tim Barrus: Publishing Gatekeepers

Just the idea of the gatekeeper feels poisonous. We do not work for gatekeepers. Or do we. But what’s it about. It’s about who you know. People who think it’s about the writing are amusing at cocktail parties, that’s about it. They are not very amusing in most other other…

Tim Barrus: Boom Boom Now

I told you they were blind. Waiting for what. It’s not what they tell you in college you will work while you drive le-multitasking. People pull their hair out. All I have is a dirt bike. On my last visit, ghosts. Ambulance wails. The sound absorbed by rivers, all of…

Tim Barrus: Film Crew Next Door

They do not require an ID. They do not take credit cards. Sometimes you can get the Hotel Mistress to go for trade. She just sends the tricks upstairs to my room first door on the right. I have to be at this shoot by noon.  

Tim Barrus: It Was Oblivious Middle of the Night It Was The Sprawling Science In the Trenches on the Benches of Dirt Bike Town

Don’t Wake Me Up I Am A Communist I am a communist. What I do not understand – I’m stupid – is how so many writers can zoom in on this kind of socialized abuse and never bring into the dialogue that while the journalism mixed with politics has so…

Tim Barrus: The Night Wears On

Tim Barrus: Dark Places In The Hidden

Washing Your Hands Of It

Tim Barrus: But Blinds Cover The Windows

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…

Tim Barrus: The First Time We Stole a Car Was At Night When This Trick Is Shit, Johnny

Everyone from Dirt Bike Town gets it. No one expected to land in Dirt Bike Town. We just all fell here from the sky. It wasn’t Key West. I remember the spaceships. I thought they were fucking spaceships because they were fucking spaceships. People wanted out, but there was a…

TIM BARRUS: BOTH IN SILENCE, BOTH IN NIGHT, BOTH THE WHISPERING, AND THE LEAVES

The carnival was almost over.

Tim Barrus: He Was Conscious of Sunlight

Tim Barrus: First layer of four. Mainly just color to work around.

Tim Barrus: All Vanishing Things And Dust

Tim Barrus: A Thin Line of Wire

There are no lights up here on my mountain. The dark is like a heavy door.  

Murmurs of the Absolute

Being lead to slaughter is always the same.

No Luggage And The Headlights Give Shadows To The Snowdrifts

At first, a rippling in the air, then wings.

Tim Barrus: Beware the rubble, burnt, and narrowing.

The thickets are darkening. It’s out there waiting in the birch trees.

B4

Tim Barrus: The Iron Grip of Winter

But Call Forth Thundering Or At Least Recapture It.

Your Truck Smells Like Dead Animals Watcha Gonna Do When He Comes 4U

No one ever leaves, and returns, to find the places you had left. It has disappeared. The people all around won’t even look at you. Because they remember. What they knew even as the past took you to the cancer in your eyes, and sometimes you wished you could be…

don’t look at me don’t look at me

Even beauty forgets the scraping of the wolf wind into whose frosted windows were only half of what the Old Man, married as it were to rust. Was What Old Man. My Old Man. The Old Man with his women and his Canadian Club. Something for at night to suck…

tim barrus: tout bien ou roen

The Ice-Flow Drifts – and one of the raw sounds – as the oppulence of drifting is not a blueprint for the future. The beaten but what are the winds to sand, seas in seas, nightship eyes, whose strength was like a lover I had, the status quo of Him…