Nestled beneath a cloak of constellations
Cerulean branches sway ominously in unison
Beyond, stands a house shrouded in mystery
Somber silence is heard upon midnight's arrival
Chain of stars encompassing the sky's lunar bell
Quadrilateral stones lead down a worn pathway
Shadows whisper through leaves in the hour of 12
windowpanes move with every step he takes
but i've got both feet hammered to the ground
a fly flies by, barely grazing the tip of my nose
and i cry a small but helpless "thank you"
they come around every five months or so
shave the kids hair right off
it looks like a cut but it's really a peck, ma
can you stop worrying over what goes up my nose?
he is, he was, and he will forever be
the eternal gem of his trailer trash town
where girls wear blue eyeshadow and low rise jeans
and boys drive pickup trucks
he left, he left the dried up town years ago
yet he still speaks to me with a bittersweet twang
hospice- he is warm and just
he plucks a plum off a cherry tree
a prickled plum, just ripe, for me
this is going to be quick and short, like meet ups in the mall bathroom
or running away from a great big Someone with a capital S
i hope you can swallow this the way i swallow my pride on sunday afternoons
when i sit on a worn porch and think of how worn this situation is
i hope you can keep it in the way i take not one but two pink petunias
inhale and exhale and you’ll feel more like a person
i’d rather be a barren body than beg and be your buffoon
and in return you place a kiss on a wing, one that flutters so restlessly
but you’ve always known that birds make me want to scream out loud
balloons are out of the question too
it uses my air when i blow them
and i’d much rather save that air for arguing with you
but when they pop i fall to the ground with the withered latex
and i’m a carpet all over again
but it’s okay because i don’t have any shoes on
so i’m not allowed to be outside
Your white words are giving me nothing
but the deepest teals and greens -
deeper than the oceans themselves.
The waters are awake, encompassing
the earth and drawing us in with the wayward
tides, which are unsynchronised and lost
from reality. All I see in those waves of promise,
chopping and churning with wild ferocity
in the dark winds of night-time,
comes from a simple word. All colour
is implanted in my mind, in my imagination,
from a simple image that you conveyed with a
single, colourless word.
A shield is carefully crafted,
Linking and weaving scars together to protect the bruised heart inside.
A shield is not a painted piece of polished protection.
A shield is the last resort, a desperate attempt to grip onto life,
Which is but a fragile skein of thread,
that quickly unravels and easily snaps in two.
The bruised heart is not hiding behind this armor.
A poor heart that has suffered at the abuse of the outside world,
Is simply trying to preserve itself from decaying.
If the battered heart is not secured behind its shield,
The deterioration of the muscle begins and the heart slowly fades away
In an revolting and repulsive death,
Unless the world is merciful and a spear is plunged through the heart
before it can succumb to a lethargic and dreadful death.
The heart avoids its fate,
Skirting around pain and skipping away from death.
Through as the shield of scars becomes lame and worn,
The poor heart begins to wonder,
Would death really be so unfavorable,
If death meant it wouldn't have to live like this anymore?
My lover’s eyes are green. And turquoise-rimmed,
Jewelled with amber and flecks of brown.
Earthy: like moss, or the skin of an exotic frog. A pond
In whose waters I see myself as someone loved.
His eyes are framed with lashes. Impossibly black
As outer space. The space surrounding nebulae:
Stellar nurseries in which stars are born – that’s it!
His irises are like the Crab, or Carina.
It depends on where you look. It does not matter –
Only this: in his eyes a star is born. Hydrogen
and helium, his words. Building blocks that make me
Burst, and radiate throughout the universe.