Thursday, February 5, 2015


Efforts plus.
Secret prayers skirt the dream
and direct anew a kindred unborn, because light
is measurable immensely.
Fragments of splattered grease only mean
that the penetration was sloppily attempted.
You're a broken bicycle chain
to a mechanically inclined hippie
with no tools.
Even if I were attempting to be
I'd be grit to your cogs.
Fore the forlorned twere
the utmost mostest of the desperate desperates.
A struggles fight just might bite
a hole in the clouds,
tearing a hole in the schismatic idea of Jesus.
Why is your orgasmic euphoria a euphemism
for tightly tubed toothpaste
that I expectedly and only desire
to expectorate down a drain
because a swirling drain is the specific depiction
that allows you to specifically draw my efforts from me.
With my cryingly or recidivist odious crippled humor
dill and cucumbers
do not make a pickle.

Chad Linder
02/04/2015 10pm

Thursday, January 1, 2015


It is, was, were and will always be a filthy place.
Please don't... try.
Pump me full of drugs and
things to remove my lucidity.
beat on me, use me and remove my facade
crumbled and crumpled on the ground
I cry so long that six feet tempts me.
And then I damn you to Hell for the hell you placed me in,
I curse you and you strike me and drug me and remove
my lucidity
Cast-offs, hand-me-downs, waters-under-the-bridge
bitter Spirit, the spirits burn... as one by one they go down.
Churning, they are burning.
My piece is my peace and your final resting place.
Indignant, you may know too much, but is...
there such thing.
I'm so old now, so lesser, a lesser being, beginning to reach towards my end.
No one remembers, except the dust in my filthy place
however, it has promised not to tell.

Written 11 pm -ish December 31, 2014.
Written by Chad Linder
In order for four-fourths of everything.