Tim Barrus Blog
Posts tagged with tim-barrus-poetry
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Tim Barrus: Burned At The Stake
Some people are ticking, and ticking, and just ticking away their time. Some people are burning through it even as their eyes glare back a ravashing emptiness dry as sorrow in the summer.
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Tim Barrus: We Could Join the Circus
The crows were let loose upon you. Gone without a word. The shiney objects were the swords in your eyes.
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Tim Barrus: The Dude Is Out
They were lots of fire, dust, and behaving as if they travel through the astonishing two-split experiment where electromagnetic radiation – photons – came to fall into your earth of second selves.
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Tim Barrus: You Were A Beast Of Burden
i drag those memories across any stage that would have me and let me explain/ my bar stool, if you’re going to have a bar stool, but no bar, you can at least have one refreshing cocktail and I explain to you that I did not know who I was…
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Tim Barrus: Checking Out
You suck off the Motel Night Clerk so there it is. One room, one night. And who is there to make sure we really leave. It had a shower which is why we were there. She had those black fingernails.
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Tim Barrus: The Edge of Rage
And then, drag our empty arms across a sky of Rivers Bang, you know/ short as one man’s skull/ i can’t breathe well in here/ and struggle not to faint, and then, I remember the images of the slaughter house, the dogs in labs with induced eye infections pulling their…
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Tim Barrus: The Snow Outside
The snow. Last night falling quietly, the white against the back sky high as that elephant’s eye. Snow. The snow has descended. Your house is cold. You have no food. In fact, you own nothing. Not even yourself. No bed. We fixed that one. But I’m freezing. I know you…
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Tim Barrus: Dirt Bike Town
Dirt Bike Town and jambalaya. So, in a voice, I became someone else. The afterlife of art as someone else’s lips. I am ambivalent that achievement is achievement. His tongue is in your mouth. No one is unique because no one can be. My answer to just about everything is…
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Tim Barrus: I am the Man In the Moon, this lantern is the yellow moon, this thornbush, my thornbush, and this dog, my dog.
I am a communist. Authenticity will grab you. And make you read. My North Carolina is the Blue Ridge. The woods found me. I like to sit on the cabin’s moonshine roof (where I am now) with my phone, and from there I can see more than just the sunset.…
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tim barrus: even the air hurt
that time in tents
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tim barrus: divided by our wanderings
by the time the communists arrived he was now a pretty girl
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Tim Barrus: No One in Appalachia is Surprised.
folks who live here see him as just an ordinary bitter old drunk/ no different from any other walking dead man/ there are so many things he has to answer for/ like what does he really believe/ in/ if anything/ you won’t listen to this, but he believes in three…
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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
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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.
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Why Are You Here
these colors not too unlike a mountain lion stretched out hot with yellow eyes upon a rock where the sun spills in
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upstairs in our bed
what sort of old stone house is this with its memories of the old people playing cards downstairs while we pretended sleep the kind of sleep lost somewhere between the morning and the mystical, the musical, and the misbehaved
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hey kid i found your doll
first, they will starve you/ that knot in your gut never goes away/ then, they will lock your brother up for shoplifting/ food/ food so you could feed your belly with it food/ then, that bitch from social services keeps coming around and you threw rocks at her car but…
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Going Rogue
A great sadness descended from the irony of midnight’s abyss not unlike red dust storms made you dream of rivers and the solitude of rivers and the river’s edge of sound and wounds and fatal roads and going away.
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pushing inside you
i would push you up against the tree/ you asked me to please push you up against the tree/ especially in the sodden rain/ you were like a watermark/ all the delicate debris of life/ the smell of your shit and sweat/ the weather never really mattered/ your insides were…
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the photography is a sketch
the sketches they make of the boats out on the lake do not reflect the lake/ the lake as they know it is something they can jump in/ naked, of course/ even in the rain/ and they will go on falling and failing and flipping everyone they know the bird/…
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the legends say
there is always a narrative/ usually one divorced from reality/ stones and bones/ many narratives were created from revenge/ if they say you are a criminal, you are a criminal/ if they say you get fucked in the ass, you get fucked in the ass/ if they make the point…
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where nothing moves to chase the sea
the only noise from him is an almost breathing/ an almost punishing sunlight swarming/ where nothing moves to chase the sea/ https://timbarrus.tumblr.com
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a quiet emptiness
the rut of emptiness up to the broken hills/ ravages without variety amid the timid spilling of the stars at night/ clicking with the crickets all the sad way to a parking lot/ https://timbarrus.tumblr.com
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in a snow globe/
you cannot compare my life or the life i have lived and cherry pick it apart, and then stand back, and pretend you have accomplished anything/ i know exactly how bizarre it sounds to people i call the normals/ i am not sure anyone is truly normal, but i do…
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after the first frost, you have to leave/
there are no glass windows, only screens/ i have seen it in the winter when you have to take a broom and push the snow drifts out/ you want to leave before the first frost arrives with it fox cub bite/ access is by canoe or kayak/ only a few…