Turning Everything We Know Inside Out and Backwards

i have no reason to assume we all see things the same way because we clearly do not/ and all my neurodivergent sperm sailed bravely backwards to ireland, genetic bugabuga every civilized group of homo sapiens, just waiting for the sky to fall/ the wretches in the street and screaming…

Then Stands

hiding and laughing/ under the bed/ what are you, nine/ i would be nine, but i do not know how/ today, we are both under the bed/ telling stories of ourselves/ that time we danced with divine/ in speedos/ don’t give me that american flag one/ we keep falling over…

It Is All A Blur

The wild waters of this roar are made in the fortitude of salt. Just salt. Miles and miles of salt. Mountains of salt. And the bones that fell there. – Tim Barrus

Road Trip Swing

I can sit on this swing and I swing (usually with the dog), not too hard. I can sit on this swing and make any number of road trips. The steller moments come after you pee. The leaves are an orchestra of disclosing the miracles, we live like wretches in…

And the Butcher’s Wife Walked About the Town At Night Starkers

Calling all churchen Other Times the Politiks is dawn gen-ghis Sea West seed in the graveyard of his humiliation. Threadbare, if he washes the glasses at the pub he received a free pint before he walked back to his stone cottage in the greenwrought let shrill their tippertoes want him…

Tim Barrus: Overcoat

Overcoats is a Poetry/Art project where I am writing prose and taking photographs and some of that would be exclusively for you. That part of the project buys all rights to original material but one. Film rights. Whole package book, rights, art, original poetry: 10K timotheebarrus@gmail.com I have to slap…

Tim Barrus: The Woods of Cleopatra

On Ponies Whatever nature is in its just causes, the winter will arrive. There is no such thing as an alignment that men do not stand still. Next to looking inward at what is interpreted as tragedy, I do not buy it. The last of the cringe and the plot…

He Jests at Scars But Never Had One

It took him a long time of agony and fear to say “Good morning,” And yet his eyes flashed just at the same time I was telling him it was nice to see him, and in this social setting he flinched a lot. Then, his eyes kept their slow cosmic…

Tim Barrus: The Blocking of Retro-Imagination

The sky itself was inoculated against the cold. Some hotel chef will cut a swan from the blood ice of the bird itself. Either way, ice was your tongue in me and melts swollen like the light drinks the attic swallows in the abandoned barn where learning how to breathe…

Tim Barrus: Come Nightfall

Come nightfall. The memory of words burning down forgetfulness at the very end. This is where the mausoleum itself smells of ravages. I have found a tree I can build a treehouse in.

Tim Barrus: It All Depends Upon How Badly You Want It

Held in bitterness by the razor teeth of the cold wind, you could smell the rain and the crows were shimmering  blue.

Tim Barrus: Torn Jeans

And the quiet and thin air torn not unlike rags are torn from sober certainty under the ribs of death, torn, from curses and demons, torn from the memory of ancient tongues and storied weariness just below what will become (you have seen this) dissolved in forfeit of who should…

Tim Barrus: On The Way Home

Playing along with other languages, what marks these words and separates time from the sealed boxes of etertnity and even that is audited by monsters where we petty men in the depravity of the dust bowl, depravity. Inquisition. Fate. Razzle. Dazzle.  

Tim Barrus: As Individuals, We Are Not Unique

Tim Barrus, That Day

We had walked all over Los Angeles for about two days. I’m not sure why. Writing from that something asks to be evident whicj is why I switched to photography, and the answer is that I don’t think in words, I think in images. I would write them down and…

Tim Barrus: You Were Lost Again

Je ne peux pas continuer à te chercher quand tu es perdu alors arrête ça, petit garçon, arrête ça.

Tim Barrus: His Bloodied Face

Hearing whispers was a treasure trove of echo after echo where identity came from the mouths of those who helped to mold the embracing of life’s dalliances with the power of compelled adjustment. It’s your eyes that flash furiously from the ancient times to now. From which I will wash…

Tim Barrus: The WhirlWind Is Gaunt

Seeing as how the circumstances had us sliding out any number of windows and one we broke. Damn, we must be like those video stars on Survive This.

Tim Barrus, New York Times

The hurt has been forgotten in the toxic whirlwind of edges and some so sharp as flint cuts well beyond our grasp. Wandering in the cold. The hurt will clutch at any straw.

Tim Barrus: New York Times

“I spoke with” means you were on the phone. But journalists want you to think they were there. I would rebuild it. Journalism. By the end of the day, journalism with its antiquated rules and regulations, its sacred rituals, the temple priests, get real, journalism walks and talks like a…

Tim Barrus: Take the Last Train to Clarksville

We were on fire to booze in that place you wanna know what was so weird it was the only place where the hallocinogenics were free cus it was a chop shop and they were broke that week so we took the drugs and there was some mushrooms in there…

Tim Barrus: It Had 2 B Done

Divergent moment. Stand still, Raven.

Tim Barrus: We Burn Daylight

True, I speak of dreaming in the afternoon and reading out on my cabin’s tin-roof, I can stand and see the otters back again. The otters are haunted. The demented truth which cunning time assumes Say This is a cold decree rotten to the snake who lives and dies inside…

Tim Barrus: If Sexuality Were As If

If by what degree history itself represents, mainly motal armies as they sleep. Even their bones come from wounds. I have made mince meat from a strange and bitter world.  

Tim Barrus: High As Any Other Reno Whore

We have fallen asleep between between our tonges continued to the beaten grounds of stir.