The Punches

 

I don't like you and I don't like you.

People say I look different, well I say you look the same.
Sometimes I rock and sometimes I roll 

Most times I roll with the punches.

I certainly say that I'm not like you.
I certainly say, I certainly say

You don't have to listen to emotions.

Photo by Amanda Grupp.  Words by Lear Bunda

Future Well

When it ended we had it nothing. 
We had each other by ourselves
When it ended, 
it all ended
by each other 
by ourselves

Photo by Angela Shields.  Words by Lear Bunda.

I

What am I

Why am I

Why I am

What am I?

What am I

Why am I

Why I am

What am I?

You tell me.

Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Lear Bunda. 

"Mores Are For Whores"

We've been given our plot to till,

But we've thrown a ghost in the air

So that locusts may converge,

As we run and hide in the arms of convention.

And now, the dichotomy of the self.

The sound of that iron string is fading,

Because emulation is the shortest distance to nowhere.

And nowhere seems to be a favored destination.

I can't hear a thing over the sound of this defeat.

Somebody call a doctor, my flesh is falling off the bone.

Don't listen when the sirens are sounded.

Hold fast to the ropes that wrap your guts,

Or be hanged by them.

Words by Randy Conner. Photo response by Sadie Myers. (Edited by Lear Bunda.)

traincarboxride

0n an old winter night of who thousand eleven the farmer's daughter's bodyguard's dog's nephew was thirsty for a fight.  He rode to the end of the traincarboxride and lonely he was stunned by the perplexity of that which he sought.  The bone stared him in the eye outside of a country saloon style.  Their boots held the dirt like a monkey holds the cage they rattled.  It was angry the moment and all was sensual for nothing hurt.  Shortly after the fight would be their futurefate but neither creature was interested in that.  They fought on morals and standards that spanned centuries and every inauguration and birthday and wedding party was celebrated and represented by falling star ships.   When the morning asked for recognition the crowd stopped to wonder and souls skipped beats.  The suspense was unimportant for nothing happened to the trapeze builder who played a fiddle with his toes and the grapefruit with his belly.  And only women swam in the mushroom lake.  Everyone knows that.  Follow your heart and other phrases were chanted by the flowers and the wheat grass and the wind.  Yesterday tasted better the duelers thought.  They were no longer hungry but they had learned something in the pacing before igniting their trigger stems.  Hallellujuh praise all lords and all that claim to be.  We like to think we have names as we are only creatures of the earthy ground we walk on as we go back in goodnightdaytimelifeend.

Photo by Lear Bunda.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.