Unrelated thoughts on existence

,
spiders, blood, and chickens
a collection of poetry by
joshua peacock
a birdman

Joshua Peacock
104 W. Magnolia Ave. Apt. D.
Savannah, Ga. 31419
912.713.8066
joshua.rpeacock@gmail.com


1
I KILLED A HUGE FUCKING SPIDER

Be the breeze that chased the wind
against the trees,
or the tide that caved in sunlight
against the sand.

We all gently trod against the moorage of our life
to the ocean of our dreams.

I am suffocating in this insufferable
anxiety, pitted against fear.

This, the passing thought of a spider that
spun, in perfection, a glorious welcoming
present for the rising sun, only to find
for its work, it created its death.

—Birdman

2
90 ATOMS

Time is inevitably linked to the space
that surrounds the sun in the place
where the beginning of all this chaos
birthed little molecules and atoms,
little matter that became big matter
that burned in the heavens
that churned in violent collisions
that became you in love with me
or me in love with the idea of you
and your boyfriend in the middle.

In that space of matter and time
the charge of electrons in
our biology now speaks to my heart in
the dark corners of blah blah blah

I am bad at chemistry.

These lying atoms that
once were formed from
stars exploding and gasses expanding
these lying atoms that made the universe
they told me I loved you.

3

This is the story of matter,
why I matter and why my matter
takes up space in the space of time.

Or, this is the story of churning gasses
in red hot planets in small spaces
that occupy time and places
that make up so much matter
that say goodbye to your atoms
and his atoms
and all the tiny molecules
that make up the love story
we linked together.

Petri dish motherfuckers.

—Birdman

4
ONLY LIQUID

There is some confounding truth
found in isolation; running straight through.

Journey with me into the wild,
the derelict ramparts of unseen nature,
coursing through the veins we
correspond with in minute touches
of shared electricity.

Pour your energy, all terrible,
all frightful, to some dedication to some purpose,
driven in desperation by ostensible pressure,
foisted heartless in small vases, passed
through generations, in remembrance
of battles won and lost.

In the ceremony of nature you may become
some echo of your past, a gentle stream
in a ragging forest, a soothing fire,
in a bulging flood, a mountain jetted
from the saccharine soot of antiquity.

5
Cut the ties from the weathered boat,
let it drift free, alone
it will find its path, straight and true,
as the current we must follow,
will guide us, ever right and sure.

Hoist your trophy, young blood.

Die a million deaths, to receive the light of this life.

—Birdman

6
THE DASH IN THE DATES — BE BRAVE

I’ll start this with a yes
and end with a no
somewhere in between
we’ll yell and scream
that all we did
and longed for,
a flicker of hope
left abandoned in
the wind of change,
yet we whispered
some kind word which spoke
to mountains, a single thought
heard in the depths
of all this undoing.

All the pretty parts
in a warm embrace
welcomed
willing or not
where inside dashes
it unfolds.

So, be fucking brave

7

It’s a magnificent,
magnanimous thing,
a dash in dates,
between graves,
in echoes of energy,
transforming storms,
that bang a little
heart in a gigantic
cage, thumping harder,
heavier still.

I am the dash that speaks
yonder, bitter,
and full of deceit.

Be fucking brave; no, die trying.

—Birdman

8
SWEET AND SOUR CHICKEN IS THE MEANING OF LIFE

I might get a little bitter,
I might seem alright.

What possible plan could be made
in the expanding parameters
of cosmic afterbirth
in dreams laden with fear
and never enough courage,
what possible plan could work
could work out so well.

I am bitter over it,
I am sweet on it,

an ostensible shell
of an outright raging hell.

Forget your paradise
and purposes you were given
in meaningful projections from
misguided parents.

It hits me sour

9
this accidental experience,
this dredging force of
doldrums and dick heads.

It hits me sweet.

—Birdman

10
DESTINATION UNKNOWN

At some point, there was bound to be this moment.

I ventured into the broad wilderness as it stood over me,
over the mountain, over the trees, a towering, spiraling
escape from a violence that shook nothing, creating everything.

I am a cosmos mariner fallen off the boat,
assuaged by the torrent flow of intrepid celestial life,
internally searching for controls that don’t exist
to a ride that is unknown.

—Birdman

11

TRAGIC FLAW #1

What am I to you?
Nothing.
But, I dare you to ask,
what you are to me.

It’s terrifying,
unsettling fear,
that wraps me up
at night, in silence,
in seconds before
escaping to sleep.

—Birdman

12
ROCKY

Bring me Chopin,
in the covering of night,
as the rain has settled its spat
with the ground, and our world
settles into comfort, but waylaid
I am unsettled, and yet secure.

This god damn raccoon keeps showing up,
once in Tennessee, and now in Georgia,
and I wonder if I saw him in Iowa,
or once in the cold winds of Canada,
staring back at me, sifting through
garbage and kindly telling me to be wise.

Rocky. I always call him Rocky.

It is only now, as Chopin pours
out of my stereo, a serene comfort, and
I write, and I see the path, and I choose,
clear and concise, unapologetic and precise,
does it finally dawn in me, an idea,
perhaps molded years ago.

13
A vision of Rocky the Raccoon,
a vision of me.

—Birdman

14
HOLD FAST YOUNG BLOOD

Hold fast young blood,
you're almost home.

Steady down range.

In a beam of afternoon sun,
the shadow whipped red,
into the room,
blended stars and strips
whipping on the walls,
old glory stained.

Hold fast young blood,
your war is almost done.

While you count your months,
we count days.

While you work,
we count days.

15

While the enemy comes and goes,
we count days.

Hold fast old blood,
he's almost home.

My heart sinks heavy in the blazing sun,
as the shadow of strips brazen the wall,
and glory whips her song,
a heavy breeze,
spent blood.

Hold fast to these truths.
Heavy is the heart
that bears the sacrifice.

There is no war worth fighting
but the war to see him again.

—Birdman

16
THE COSMIC HYPOTHETICAL

What happens when you love only one person?
What happens if it's not love?
What happens if she is an illusion you created,
an excuse to say you've been in love?

What happens if you’ve never been in love?
How could you know that you haven’t?
There is no notable, physical transference?
Perhaps, a small chemical reaction.
You seem happier. A side affect of chemicals,
the same ones produced by masterbating,
or eating chocolate, or both.

How can you quantify a feeling
you’re not sure you’ve ever felt?

What happens when you love only one person? 


What happens when she doesn’t love you back?

—Birdman

17
A SMOKE BREAK, OR SOME BLACK ENGLISH TEA?

I breathed loudly into the wind
watching the vultures, something died
over the weekend, a small death.

It was in the tea, I could
hear voices echoing back
to me some great idea, of where I
was, in the grand standing of all
natural life.

I killed a chicken. He was smoking too much.

—Birdman