Wildes Writing

Tim Wildes Outside of town – about 43 miles, a man was found. Evidently, he had walked here, presumably unable to find his destination. Leaning against a tree, the man’s figure was unnatural, uncomfortable to one’s regard. His skin blends of grey and red, his forehead peeling away. The sun hadn’t been kind to the Continue reading

Tim Wildes is me, without wings nor wax, I’ve taken off the ground not nearly enough to see the overpass of the wine-colored skies; here is my resting place: self-built. I was promised a sun, though haven’t yet peeked into the realm of institution that would enlighten me so, this peak has been unrealized: I Continue reading

Tim Wildes There in the living room I sat, with my companions -surrounding me. We’ve cried together, laughed complementarily. They are my family without my blood, a covenantal tribe, and my -beloved. They grabbed a tube and eyed me with vicious nothingness.I watched them before me; they pushed me back. I let them, but why, Continue reading

Tim Wildes What a place to be, having such a vast capacity for love. Art by Vaxo Lang Continue reading

Tim Wildes Becomed the terrain, I am above them. The animals cold and wet, the ground hardened like a cool glass. I watch them move. I watch them fuck. They suffer. The world is coldened to near frigidity, the creatures below can hardly breathe the de-oxygenated- air. I want to come down and help them; Continue reading

Tim Wildes I saw her at the bus stop, I walked towards her. She regarded me with empty eyes- her stance staggered like an unfinished roof.             I meet her gaze yet- she doesn’t meet mine. Her shoulders afaced to me, she is a wall. With her mouth agape-  lips callously drawn apart as if Continue reading

Tim Wildes Though in a world not yet my own, they are present, thought alone into reality. They are my spirit and love- realized by fat and meat not quite my own, carrying a skin I do not. In broad strokes however, we are alike, bleeding the same red; first mine and now theirs. I Continue reading

Tim Wildes Your eyes look like little pieces of glass; in each one I see the colors of worlds not my own. They are framed by your guise and cognizant of your dreams. Your tongue tastes like my last cigarette and your skin is warm like fresh coffee. Your being is an autumnal breeze- its Continue reading

Tim Wildes In this action I make a respiratory tick, thoughtless to myself, but myself alone. Each breath I take is time wasted in their machine – the machine that builds armies and tears families down into waste. This machine exploits my work to then dictate I cannot afford bread this week, maybe the next. Continue reading

Tim Wildes Yine yeni bir şey öğreniyorum. Yine havuzdaki bir ördeğim. Henüz kazları göremiyorum. Ama onlardan korkuyorum. Again I’m learning something new. Again, I’m a duck in a pod. I don’t see any geese yet. But I fear them. Continue reading