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 Aug 2017 Sub Rosa
Jay
I love the way that you can still always manage to write perfect circles
around me.

My words feel so small. Insignificant. When I want to write you back.
Falling short out of my lips. Hanging disappointingly in the air.

Maybe this time will be different. Maybe if I shout it
like I want to. Maybe if I make a declaration-
my words can stand next to yours.

I feel the same way.

I want your answers. I want your intimate details. I want to trace your skin over, and over. I want to feel the curve of your spine
and the curve of your lips
and your fingers as they curve around mine.

I want to savor the feeling
of words pressed against you. Hot, lost, unobtainable desire.
My greatest vice is not ink on paper.
It's the canvass of your soul and skin.

That's what I've always loved about you. Poetry in motion.
Definitely a unique love. It is not like loving a poet. It's loving: living,
breathing, words. It's knowing them by heart. The way you dance through vibrations cast in the air. The way I know that you are a poem all yourself. The closest thing to religion I've ever felt. Reading you- cover to cover. Discovering your words.

Maybe that's the most disappointing part. I'm lying.
I haven't read you cover to cover. I know I barely got past the introduction. There's something deeper within you that I crave to know.
Desperately.
Something that I'm afraid I'll never know. The best thing I've ever read. Left unfinished.

I guess I don't deserve to know something so wonderful. Maybe that's the limitations of an earthly body. Where I don't get to know you because I was lost- a victim of distance and a slave to circumstance. Taken by life. Taken by being busy. Taken away without really understanding why.

I'd give anything to sit down intimately with you
and devote all of my time
savoring all of your words,
counting all your pages,
loving each one,
until I could close the spine,
only to turn you over,
and start all over again.
Even if those words weren't mine...
 Aug 2017 Sub Rosa
Jay
Every poet needs a muse.

I have never forgotten.
Have you? Even once?

As I let you slip through the cracks? I wouldn't blame you if you did.
But I know that you haven't.

It's funny. Talking about distance.
because in spite of it all,
nobody has touched me like you.

Do you still feel it sometimes? Do you still feel like visiting me in my dreams? Or when I'm on top of the mountains, sipping in the beauty of the world? The need to inspire? Inspiration itself.

I do. Constantly.
It's everything I've ever wanted. The loveliest thing I've ever known.

The way you manage to make words come alive. Like air. The way you could make them dance into my lungs and rush into my bloodstream
always leaves me craving more. Addicted.

I'm at the mercy of your language.
Your fingers.
Your smile.

Your words are eternal. Taken as scripture. I bow to them every day. Praise them. Share them. Let them complete me. Give me purpose.
Reflected in pale moonlight and written in the stars.

As I look up, into the infinity of darkness,
and see the words you left there,
I am left speechless.

I mean it too. That I fell. Hard. Impossibly.

We ended quickly. Abruptly. A car accident. An exchange of information. Words hurt, but wounds heal.

I know you've continued on. Effortlessly. Gracefully as you do.
But every single night, I still go to bed, with the desire of making love with our words. Tasting your syllables. Drinking them in. I long for a touch I haven't felt since you. In every conceivable way.

I shouldn't have left. I should have begged you to stay. I would have loved a little more time with you.

I'd wait forever for it.

Maybe you shouldn't, but muses don't work that way.
There's nothing more heartbreaking than a poet without a muse.
A sky without stars.
A page without words.

I'm selfish in wanting your presence.
Your poetry.
It's cruel of me to desire something so deeply.

But nothing could be better
than knowing that
there was a little infinity
where I captured your heart
felt your soul
connected with you
and became a muse
myself.

A dream come true.
We could have blossomed into something breathtaking.

Would it be terrible if I said I think of you always?
This is still for you.
 Nov 2016 Sub Rosa
Jay
One.
 Nov 2016 Sub Rosa
Jay
I still write you love letters.
Love letters to your ghost.
Somebody that I might have known once
but view only as a stranger in a crowd of familiar faces.
I still write these love letters for nobody.
All about you.
The nothingness.
The emptiness.
An untitled painting.
An overused quote.
Unattributed.
Maybe I still write about the girl that I fell in love with in the sixth grade.
Or maybe I still write about the girl I cried about in high school.
Or maybe I'm writing about a girl that shares miles between me in the same bed.
Some small thing with fiery hair. No. Maybe brunette.
Tall. Definitely. Thighs and an ***.
Tired eyes. Green.
No. Brown.
I'm still writing about you.
A love letter for somebody that cares.
Somebody that realizes my words are all I have.
That doesn't brush them away.
Annoying. A crowd of gnats.
My words are for you.
For whomever will take them.
 Apr 2016 Sub Rosa
Nat Lipstadt
Ineffable (More Tornado Prayers and Such)*


Ineffable:
Too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words;
Too sacred to be uttered.*
~~~

The whimpered cries of the dying
in the rubble of Bangladeshi avarice,
announcing we were worthy of life,
to which we think to ourselves,
agreed upon
with our,
a whispery, silent
amen.

The still alive cries of children,
tornado-tormented parents screaming unfair,
teachers body shielding their charges, whispering
save us Lord, from your inventive toys,

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

But here comes the Oklahoma tornadoes again,
now four more dead in Houston,
selecting the innocent, the brave,
logic in any of this, none,
nonsensical at its worst

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

~~~~~
The first I-am-alive cries
of new born lungs,
I have grandson, stain-less, perfect,
recovering in the stainless steel delivery room,
I hear the all babies in the neo-natal unit in unison
pronouncing a Hebrew blessing,
the Shecheyanu...

(Blessed are You, Lord our God, Master of the universe, who has kept us alive and sustained us and has brought us to these special moments)

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

These unspoken poem devotions of adoration
of the sleeping chamber, that cannot
be heard or answered for they're dreamt and
perchance in the morning thankfully recalled,
enough to be transcribed,

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

Ineffable.

A day,
just another supplying an average day
to the mass of average.
Birth + Death = an average day.

I thank a God for the
birth of a newborn perfection

On this day the newspapers report
about silence of the God others pray to,
could be the same deity,
reporting that in his holy places,
Jew spits upon Jew,
Muslims usurp Christian lives,
all for none,
all forgetting in
whose image they were created.

to which we cannot say nor think
anything.

Ineffable.

too sacred to be uttered,
so instead of the paucity of these un-uttered words,
know that each tear in
the reservoir of my eyes
is my unspoken poem prayer.,
my amen.

Instead of answering
amen out loud,
wipe my eyes
with your fingertips,
silently.

An ineffable amen
 Apr 2016 Sub Rosa
Jay
I'm drunk and all I can think about is you.
God, you're perfect.
I love your hair and your eyes and your skin.
I love the way you make me feel.
I want to hold you so close and never let you go.
You're so ****.
So wonderful.
I love your soul and your heart.
I think about you all the ******* time.
I want you naked.
I want you in my bed and I want to ******* hard.
I want you to tell me you love me.
I want you to treat me better than I'm being treated.
I want to feel something other than monotony for once.
I want you to hold my hand while we look at the stars.
Just tell me you love me. Tell me you want me. Lie to me.
For ****'s sake please lie to me.
You make me whole.
You make me happy.
I want you more than anything. You're my missing piece. My other half.
I need you and you don't know I exist.
I want to breathe you in. I want you held in my lungs. I want you to grow stale there. I want you to choke me.
I want to run away. Let's go on the road together. You and me. A little car. Sleeping with the moon. Skin against skin.
Show me yours and I'll show you mine.
Kiss me like it's wrong. Like you're 16 again and your parents could walk in at any minute. ****! I want you.  *******,  I want you.
You're my life and you don't even know I exist.
Look at me and let go.
 Mar 2016 Sub Rosa
CK Eternity
My friend has a voodoo doll and a nose job,
when we're at his house we drink with our
shoes off     and I'd call that a revolution.
..hang loose, a
shoelace makes for a good noose.

Which or whatever you'll never decide
they'll think that you died
years ago.

So you backtrack for a comeback,
but somebody got there
before you.

keep your shoelaces near
walk barefoot
talk
share, but
be wary.

I'm awake now somehow,
the light doesn't frighten,
doesn't brighten the night
either.

I'm getting shot of the lot of the collections I made and will start to collect something more
before the day comes knocking at the door behind where
I'm knotting the laces in case anyone's there.

Hanging loose..
 Mar 2016 Sub Rosa
Torin
Someone spoke the word "love" and it gave me a flashback to watching elephants in the circus so I decided to start teaching goldfish to do backflips as an interesting parlor trick similar to pulling out a deck of cards and always randomly choosing the queen of spades

I have a flashback to a flashback in which someone spoke the word "love" and it reminded me of the Blurred Crusade and a trip to the circus and an elephant graveyard, my brain is a goldfish in a fishbowl (watch me turn) it's like the old parlor trick of pulling out a deck of cards and always randomly choosing the queen of hearts

My intention was never to be reasonable
http://hellopoetry.com/interzone/

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