Unrelated Thoughts

Poems that are not in The End of the Word as We Know It, by Wes Unruh

taken by force

in seed you control
need you control it
seed it you control
you need control is

mine is
not yours
not taken by fierce
mind own this controvert

your time
strained meaningessly
by fierceness take
by strength conquer

you are fire
are heart, spread light
no mind this night taken
by flight
by lies,

higher and farther
you stake out the future

we’re blue blood, gene
and to console, perhaps this moves again
and perhaps mortal,
stare deeper, stay
longer each taken
desire, you
absolve control



Count The Other

(Listen to this Count The Other (read by the author, background sound by Ikipr))

score lifts neither nor
the poorer, this injustice
lifts the sullen dour through to floor
as if it were
obvious, somehow, this inbetween
a quick
moment two – stroke cyclical
a concubine – deathstroke
foursquares and sent to beg
what hour? what lunchbox?
can things spin rings through spaces
seen in dreams, worlds chained by halls
of karma
Gads, throwbacks, old hats
in the business, altars
treasured by the witness
& testified
we formed by cold
are stone, marble
thoughts, stricken
and run down, precise
and tumble dry – ghosts
from worlds we devour,
our hour,
our hour…
twilight. Golden night.
up throne to harness
as if at goddess this
one last innocence is
given kiss and flight
to brave anew
though stranger
twist visage to highlight
task – to stranger hues
from colour changes
through the muse this
guides my hand
as if
and when this
is twisted back
together, braid
the golden chain
from weathered
Here is now as given
tether through
weirder weather left
stenciled in again
is there never
any colorer
paying deeper
attention: Trust me I know
when there are deeper
agendas, the war
is ever omnipresent
the casualties
are ploys
devised to improvise
these thorns aside,
through brush
torn thrust
and signify
in calling
the walls, these walls,
break stronger laws
by stalling.
Make of this
what you will
send along song sung same
sadness, life is drastic, conspire
thorn, desire, precipice
was ten grand enough
wasted often, dropped
swagger step, drunken
neither nor, a sullen
of the other often
a decade gone
like flashlights
lightening up the place
drab stone cold
in the will made shell
encased – heart
what. More?
saddle back the glance
ride purgatory in the teeth
kick, kick
those eventualities
obey yes, your word was spit
in a handshake owe me your soul
if you break that kind of gypsy deal
by fire or by blood
she would – try loss,
trial blood then be she
free thee – seedling,
a thirty year oath
grown weak, wet around
the fringes
keep twilight a godsend
star twaddle, ground solder
took wire
took spake thus
and other spake
than that sparkle
It was et al
nothing at all

Count The Other
from ‘The End of the Word As We Know It’
Paperback: 48 pages
Publisher: Weaponized (2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1907810129
ISBN-13: 978-1907810121
Product Dimensions: 11 x 8.5 x 0.1 inches

Available now in paperbackor kindle.

Temperate Climate

i weary these harsh mornings
when breath comes ragged
and slow, national, draft…

if torn by age, ravaged
sublime from secret places
the blanket of flesh
wrapped slyly, drawn

and asleep, the legs
my hand, a finger pins
and cold, the circulation
air isn’t the same here

cloud front, a flood
burnt umber, a harvest
and threshing, fields
alighted, post chattel
environment, we given rights

(my motherfuckers are silent
but they got my back
in this temperate climate)

wake the fuck up I slap my skin
and grimace, the flesh is morbid
a roadmap
and I am fevers, sores, lesions
and threshing, dead leather,
a few coins lost in transit

don’t have the desire left
to be a machine, these things
take time, have meaning
truth movement
couldn’t speak sanctions forced this gag, restraint
the officials lien, official line
occlusion: officially lying moderates

Vortex Examines

was there truth
between the swirl, the new world
a breathe away death
cab call too cute
the day stays

the vortex examines:

tracking the features
the new laws, regulations, the changes
required. They are stealing

we still are the people
they are stealing
and with

words. we were given
these documents as holy
relics in place of the ash
the scattering of
and in

ink the new dawn
the wretched, the poor
come huddled,
and we
and we are

and we the plebe
the placid masses
taking turns in que
to change our world
every two years

and we the mass
the briar
the thicket through which
the manifest must come, chained
crowned, brought feet first
down long drawn corridors
of power

and at its head we
and at its feet we
and in its wake we
and here, at its heart we stand

and it was lied and it watched and it was tampered
with, before we were finished
and it was lingering, it the eye
strained wide to capture

and they, they knew not what they
and we, we know naught but what we
and I, I have only what I’ve wrought to accompany
me, this vortex dawn


this demon and the child I was
and the toys and we play
and there are figurines
there are by-laws

this demon stands right next to me
he holds my halo in his claws
with ever and ever after
printed across

this demon stays right next to me
and holds this figurine
that was given
years back

I stand holding demon’s fist
can’t hold palm up the ying is bad
and think toys, and think
cigarettes, piles of powders

this is power, a hard cock
a bullet, demon at your shoulder

march hard
glance a clenched jawline
drown high fructose corn syrup
in lime, gin, black death urge
vodka water life, whiskey age

and demon serves gin, sales pitch
front line, cross fire, theater

the television introduced you to satan
and you bought his cars, you watched
his eyes, your minds were wiped
your souls three mornings ago

was sold to this demon, he holds
coupons for laundry detergent, sends
postcards from satanas, from furfur,

and glyphs and wards forgotten
shall be the wasteland’s remnants
when I and demon at my side


there both are and are not
and it is obvious

and there are both those and they aren’t

they don’t can’t won’t
betwixt and between, bell, book and candle gleam
a shadowy presence, felt but deceived – left

and in leaving, ceases to be: a figure
obvious, in its passing – a dream
left glimpsed by in between eyes, faces surprised

to learn better. We are thoughts, concretized – brought
from the lies, to a space where the world can be solid

and while though squalid, the worlds
we’ve demolished in two hours drinking
critiqueing and calling – paint faces on beings,
seme intro to seeking, grant tutor and pupil both byways to chunnel
deeper the funnel, past square compass and circle, and media
must be moving
to capture

There in the wild, the folklore is mild,
no obvious symbols for unfettered narrative to adhere
but queer, still, outlier to deny, it is cadence in pace with one’s steps..

demand papers at border, defend these the warriors
and boot knife to eyelid we stand – faceless the machinations caste
racial divisions deeper thoughtless the reasons our flag would demand

still roll back the shelter, and fill up the cupboard, and plot
each new gravesite with combat unmanned – drone skyline with lasers
burn pilots from sensors, klaxons and sirens to man battle stations
seven rays and council of nine bring round in full time the true layered in fiction
outside of the mind

this is not a plot of inception
waylaid all things are thought once and will be again
tragic the narrative where the created meets the creator and does nothing
tragic still the dance of the created to the narrator’s demands

the curator presented with a fragment
uncovers the whole – and exposure, though thought naught but rot,
leaves fall, and there a pearl forgot

a magnet – called, called hard, and sought
most precious – things designed to last
to gracefully degrade
leave texture

in it’s wake

‘The End of the Word as We Know It’ Published by @Weaponized Coming June 2011 « Wes Unruh


London, May 17 – Weaponized is proud to announce the publication of ‘The End of the Word as We Know It’, a cycle of poetry composed by Wes Unruh.
In this work Wes Unruh writes about our relationship to text, tied as it is into the restlessness, of the unburied dead and the impressions our words leave on the as yet unborn. Contained in these pages is a poetry cycle wrapped in the neither/nor initiation of self as an event and consciousness as a cascade.

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