you are maleficent
carving arrows beneath my fingertips
scorching timeless beauty
that words envy
like nocturnal gold
encrusting harsh silver archers
with hell fire stone rogues
because you are tumbleweed
flicking my wrist
with Dravidian tongues
gazing at vendetta
as if concrete were thick bones
comprising scarlet entities
flesh shuddering you are burning ivory
melting skin because I am bleeding out apologies
seizing shades of burnt down old road trips
that atrocities decay films incensing
delicate sanguine loving like adjectives irritating throats
accessorizing words with melon tongues
Thank you so much everyone
I can't believe I got my first daily
This means so much to me
"how fucking sweet
it would be to throw it all away"
you say, from your warm house, in your clean clothes
"to just pack it all in
and live, out there"
pausing to sip your drink
"maybe I should
pig-ignorant and blind
well fed and unkind
an ivory tower
of meaningless power
you never will leave behind
The walrus waddled along
the icebergs of despair
Holding out his severed tusks
for everyone was there
As killer whales swam out
and gasped, full of dismay
Wailing at the injustice
in complete dire disarray
Damned if done or not
no recourse for the shame
It's not like he did it himself
not garnering the blame
The tiger seals and penguins
had nothing to compare
So they grieved their very best
and cried, of C'est La Guerre
And I did it once again.
Skin picked and shaven,
Cakey frosted ivory,
Littered in the detailed fractures of a swelling stem,
Those skeletal twigs of intangible incestual wings,
splintered in stacks underneath his bed.
Apocalyptic comfort found in the veins of what remains...
Puny white me,
Post-karmic, futuristic-retrospective cosmic plan, slowly creeps towards me and offers its long inflaming hand.
Cricket twitch, echoes in the distant introspective glitch of my momentary intuition.
A bitter drip on tongue descends,
Tunneled in an unwanted exploration.
That sour pitched cacophony uncomfortably sung,
Through the ghastly cold touch of a righteous cockroached thumb.
Spreading the stain of an untouched soul,
Quicksand, morphing me into dust.
Devouring the white and into the red I rust.
It was a tapestry of white tusk ivory, tints of red smoothed
through it, like veins of death still lingering from the life
that was ruptured from its being.
the shimmer in this lake of reflection was almost as if one
was gazing at oneself not an impression, or a blank slate,
but as if out of body looking inward.
Mesmerized by the opposite I look upon, tempted to touch
upon my own symmetry I linger towards but I grasp upon
frame and even though smooth contours my palm bled
lingering on the composition of its purity I watched.
Wiping on the smear now non corporeal, it seeps downwards
fading into the ivory not so pure as before. Now more crimson
than what I had glanced on when our eyes first became static on
this river of flowing imagery that now seemed more distorted.
I would sit there just talking to myself or my other half a
representation, a residue of what I see myself as within.
But each day I would grace its elegance with my palm,
what was pure now inflamed with my essence and it drank.
Speaking to me urging just another palm to settle its hunger,
I was listening to myself telling me it was ok. So weak barely
my eyes can see the image of myself. Moving towards me, I
must be vague in what I am sensing as it holds me closer still.
Awoken I am in the dark, I speak but hear only repercussions
of how far my voice lingers around me. Seeing a glimmer I
tread carefully towards this flicker to find its the mirror
and I'm within its grasp. The ivory now purest white once again.
"Why would you do this to me, a voice answers out of the
abyss "to be released from where I once was to this reflection
of where you were then, Tears fell into oblivion, as she walked
away and then the hunger started once again.
Is there space in this system for new rules
Can we find them hiding behind old books
Some dusty office at the top of a pole
Bleak ivory with a view well known
to all of us, who have got what we want
Whose privileged breath breathes deep of high times
stuffed with all those norms and expectations
litigating obligations ignored,
ignored; yet enforced by free tyranny
of the individual, of ones rights
without the weight of responsible
judgement. NO, there is no space up here, NO
not for straighter rules or greater fools
though latter too many, former too few;
These old rules are crooked, like hind quarters
dragged up the long torrid stair to the top
held up by lofty ideals, righteous… no
We seem in these high places to have forgot
whyfore we came to be here or how rotten
we are, that rot set into the books, the rules
the shelves, the pages, the walls, the food
Into the words, the system, the wages
paid to those shoring up this modern day
Babel. No well-intentioned roads lead here
No one will choose to walk these ugly stairs
No one will come, those lonely inventions
Freedom, liberty, the individual
Let them gather and groan in old walls
Mildewed bricks and misted rattling bones
Left here forgotten by those living below
Seen from on high in this ivory tower
This pale tower where no one lives, no one.
What rumble grumbles thundering
beneath another boiling sky,
Which warns me, scorns me,
distant thorns flee: flashing light from clouds, and I…
Am harkening – darkening towers,
ivory-cast and sunlit spires lie!
Still distant, though these
trees are bending, rending, raising arms up high.
Green fingers flailing, leaves travailing,
one warm-gust, and the blues go grey;
And the wind dies:
I can feel you coming.
I can taste your spray.
There’s nothing better
than a thunderstorm;
I love them, and especially
the way your tempest touches,
And the way your thunder talks to me.