Tim Barrus Blog
Posts tagged with poetry
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Poetry: Bondage of the Foster Parent
U R different yet in many ways u 2R the same having been there U know what U know in decrepitude that this rope both binds U&him &ties U up together his echo cold eyes of death in the land of savages is always rendered moonlight& the wind he only…
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Appalachian Savages and the Stigma
Stigma has its thick-skinned tongue licking out their fastidious shit holes it is a crisis it is a nonchalant devoutness it is inflamed, of consequence, provoked, quivering. Just stick me, God. I am usually far more interested in their reactions to stigma than I am in stigma itself. Run, as…
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GoPro Sky
the driftwood bones bearing down the night will drift and the remorseless sand will engulf the emperor who has arrived in this desert to breed and die the ancient tongues, languages our thieves and errand boys with their long heavy dreams sweat and sink away into thunders like arteries and…
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But For This
but for this, when you find out life iswhat it is whatever it is no one reallyknows what the fuck it is you stumbleon the reality that but for this it’s alion’s cage, a bitter city of poets onthe gallows and fingernails you arealways biting your fingernails thechildren are hiding…
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Except For This
except for this, i am always hanging on to stones/ i should have known better than to take a dancer home/ at least i called it a home/ someone had to/ i do have rules/ rule#1/ never ever ever ever take a dancer home unless you are completely mad/ a…
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Except For This
except for this, i am always hanging on to stones/ i should have known better than to take a dancer home/ at least i called it a home/ someone had to/ i do have rules/ rule#1/ never ever ever ever take a dancer home unless you are completely mad/ a…
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I opened My Eyes
I opened my eyes. I was alone in Los Angeles. It had to be the drugs. The last thing I could recall was that we were all nodding out into the dope zone which is where we lived mainly. As I slid through that trembling of consciousness into unconsciousness, I…
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Or Why The Fuck Are You Here
exactly how does one make any sense of a universe-of-existence that both embraces change and runs away from it/ you either dive head first into the vast unknown, the uncontrollable, death with its chains for every mind/ the secrets you do not yet understand how to translate/ what do you…
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A Shifting of the Clouds
the woods behind the house extends a sustained but curious sense of authority as if their push against the sky was preordained which is not true/ but rather/ we are all creatures of evolution/ we were not always this/ but arrived walking out of oceans (heroically) long since disappeared/ more…
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POETRY: THE SECRETS OF THE GAUDY NIGHT
infinite beggarly in laying siege to the being gone you must not touch/ you must not touch/ touching is forbidden but plowing your face into some guys’ butt is an accommodation/ you, with the black eyes/ pugnacity and false teaching me to sing again/ i hated them and everything they…
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Crawling Through the Walls
you were a criminal/ everyone who loved you knew it/ your crimes of pausing in the field was a masquerade of the exquisitely privileged when all you really had was guesswork/ i loved you anyway/ crawling through my own holes of oblivion/ it was most definitely a problem/ a correspondence…
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The Sleeping of Oblivion
you are not unlike any other of the eternally salvaged materials/ a fluid moment in the snow/ the headlights beckoning/ perhaps there will be food tonight/ your belly growls with the teeth of it, and you hope he won’t want to fuck you/ the wreckage is adrift upon the hills…
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Video: Smashing the Silence
Usually, they are following me. This time, I am following them. With cameras. Three to be exact. We switch roles. They have always followed me if I am organizing. But not this time. I can only write small glimpses of what they do, what they’re about, what being marginal really…
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Midnight Playground
for quick cash there was always the midnight playground where the tricks would slowly emerge from their hiding places in the shadows and the trees the stars above you cannot be heard for the tigers and the local wolves
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Jake: I Was Working Traffic
I was working traffic that means I was working cars of men Rolling down their windows How much was it You can suck me off For twenty bucks or fuck me For a hundred no condom is extra Just getting in their cars was so exhausting I could barely move…
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Video: Chinatown, Chinatown
Poetry Performance: by Tim Barrus Poetry Script: by Harrison Camera Work: Smurf I do not want to be a spy for hope. I do not believe in hope. I know this: Life sucks. I want to be a spy for crazy. It’s crazy to be in extraordinary and chronic pain.…
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Video: U Gotta Have Your Own Thing
Performance: by Tim Barrus Poetry Script: by Darren Camera: Smurf Death is when you have nothing about yourself including you. You gotta have your own thing.
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broken trust
Many things can fade with time. The sexual abuse of kids is not always one of those things. The average male who has been abused, does not begin to articulate that abuse until the age of thirty. At Smash Street, we try to put the pieces back together again because…
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And the Prince to Hunt you Down: Post 2
This is just an experiment. That is all it is. I made it to see if I could. It is not very good. But I will keep working on my skills with video. The tech is a lot like flying. You never really know what the clouds might have to…
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the fate of wishes
https://tim-barrus.format.com/orbitlogue
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causing thunder
you spilling the tyranny of this contentious storm punished gave all flesh and shamed sparks the little fires causing thunder in the house https://tim-barrus.format.com/orbitlogue
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your tongue
you had been drinking rain and there was weed like an omen inside your mouth
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I Steal Their Jeans
i once wanted now, there’s a title/ i once wanted/ to write a book called THE ONES WHO LEFT/ and then, i realized that was all of them and it would be a very long novel walking the dark moors at night with heathcliff and i would have a candle…
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Everyone Up
this time you would demand he remain accountable to us the people who loved him who had saved his candy ass how many times and of course he was accountable to no one again and we just ate his candy ass as if it was nectar from the gods of…
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The Death Watch & The Desert Poetry
Real Cowboys i could not ride for days like he could my ass my ass my kingdom for an ass https://tim-barrus.format.com/about