tim barrus: divided by our wanderings

by the time the communists arrived he was now a pretty girl

Tim Barrus: Joined at the Hip

Only fools fall for you.

Tim Barrus: A Far Afternoon

That we shall end by knowing full speed a million swallows when by eyelids dragging and pale, the ordinary vanishing of us, and our rags.

Tim Barrus: A Willow Cabin At Your Gate

Memory like the stones of Troy. Death has paid in alms. Desire sans wounds. Mere poetry is extracted from the walls.

Tim Barrus: Dirt Bike Town

I am a communist. I own nothing but a dirt bike. One bag. My camera is the size of a match box. It’s probably the one freedom – freedom from stuff – I really have. There’s a star spy spot in San Christobal in the Sangre de Christos, and if…

Tim Barrus: Witches Do Not Have a Divided Duty

Internal Dialogues. Voices. Desire. Where Is It Written That I Am Obligated To Tell You What Is Real. What has passed the tests of time, and how to break a crackerjack. Choose. One. That fits.

Tim Barrus: I Am Inappropriate Because I Provoke Publishing Insiders

Writers Are Usually Getting Fucked In the Ass by Someone. Who can write the best essay on Kids Whose Parents Are Dead.

tim barrus: upon another haemorrhage

tim barrus: that would keep the word of promise to our ear in the autistic seas in seas under old oaks & rabbit holes enough for thousands

The first car I ever stole was a Rolls Royce. The smell of the leather was something you could sink down into, and while the moment of excruciating restraint is a portal of delayed reinforcement, I will not remember writing this. Maybe here and there. I think this was the…

tim barrus: the rich have nothing to fear

He Will To His Egyptian Beds of Undone Silver Be Enough To Break Our Way Toward Hope’s Wearing Of The Harness On His Back Of Promises Now Undone Now Undone  

Tim Barrus: Such Is Our Dirt Bike Town

We stole a new motorcycle. I should probably say I stole a new motorcycle. I can steal any kind of vehicle I want. Anyone who can hack any network of computers can hack a vehicle. I can do it from the other side of town. “We could just say we…

Tim Barrus: You Had Always Lived Somewhere Between Desire and Another Winter’s Snow

The seizures threw people off. We would just push through the day and forget about it. Does it hurt to think about going home. I walked into your throat. Pills like wolves.   

Tim Barrus: What I Loved Was Unbound

Storm angry sky of eyes. Catching rain with my tongue. On the bike, it’s a whip of stings. Standing here with you, it’s the sun soaked bones of stray dogs in an empty world. Just say it. There is nothing here for me. Not even you.

Tim Barrus: Mutant Jackals

In the Mountain States. Selling our skin. Flamethrowers.

Tim Barrus: Big Spender

Tim Barrus: It Has An Inner Light And Sorrowing Graveyards There

Caution. The downpour is silent. Stay away from the windows.  

Tim Barrus: The Brutal Whirlwind With Its Hungry Breath, and There Is A Distant Alien Land

Memory has deserted you but you did know my name as if that were but your secret edge.

tim barrus: slept in fields

You will know it when you get there. In the Greek passages as if uprooted and having pushed themselves through the memories, we pass through the shattering, and spun about flocks of errant cries and wilderness.

An Orchestration Of Revenge

Jonah in Seas and Seas

Tim Barrus: The Accumulation Of Small Accidents

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…

Tim Barrus: The Secrets of Complicity

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.

Tim Barrus: It All Flows Into Shadows Of Lovers, Ships, Grief, and Fragile New Dawns Passing Music Through Your Desperate Heart

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…

Tim Barrus: We Don’t See Things As They Are We See Things As We Are You Whispered

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.

TIM BARRUS: BUT SEDUCTION RIDES THE DARK FLOOD

There is no magic pill in a culture war. It’s too late for America. It is just another failed state. One of thousands. It is ordinary. The universe and history do not care. Buy more body bags. There should be more body bags.