In the beginning was Scream
Who begat Blood
Who begat Eye
Who begat Fear
Who begat Wing
Who begat Bone
Who begat Granite
Who begat Violet
Who begat Guitar
Who begat Sweat
Who begat Adam
Who begat Mary
Who begat God
Who begat Nothing
Who begat Never
Never Never Never

Who begat Crow

Screaming for Blood
Grubs, crusts

Anything

Trembling featherless elbows in the nest's filth

Crows of brooklyn
payphone goddess
Shakespeare:
old skinny
repeating thin silver words
beneath a sea shell
stolen by a 7 year old girl
in a red rag dress
from the burning contemporary
bookstore
tossing sweat thru
irrelevant back spine tunnel streets
featherless skulls
spitting sour chinese gin
from chimney blow hole
of their decaying dead thieving Fox
revolting death
to mother blessing decay
red blue green white
Fox yellow brown fur
swirling entwined like
melting crayons
on a stone militia crafted bench
researched developed by young Hispanic America Freedom wanderers
too hot
too cold to undress and ****
swirling together like cigar french ashes with
tongue hued wine
feverish coffee
thick as the bulging pregnant belly mother
giving
taking birth to a child
tossed carelessly into the Great Lakes
sipping on bad spoiled milk
digesting salt
hard boiled swan eggs
eating purity
chewing skunk
coughing industrial chemical gasoline
******* AIDS NYC bright non-existent lights
non-existent Allah
howling North Korea Communist war hymns
sing great religious protest
gunky toe nail'd feet
waltzing in the stomach of medieval
ballrooms chandelier not casted by
infinite diamonds
but by Jewish slaves
Islamic skins
Christian leather
Catholic molested brains children bones
deceased Langston Hughes
hung by Hughes spine and pupil
the size of texas
mass of the ****** female lips and knees
wearing color blind dress
shoes unfound
skin feet walking on rain drizzling beach
washed up skeleton sting ray
the skin unwrapped
like a christmas gift
Santa is starvation
licking the shoe polished long toes
of Death
riding the Downtown artificial lights
artificial scientist crafted classical
elevator time consuming Death songs

Jesus,
waking up,
to his body dry,
like that of Winter's rose and lips.

Sometimes, I wish I had cameras in my eyes so we could look back on these moments and hold them and you could see how you made them golden.
Someone in the future could put my life on the screen,
cut scenes when I go to sleep, special behind-the-scenes of us making these memories
and I could just delete the ones I didn't want to keep.
I would never lose a second.
If my life was a piece of cinematic genius then I might try harder to keep this up:
I'd adjust my angles,
I'd check my volume,
I'd have the perfect songs to sing along to and everyone would buy the soundtrack CD,
if they were
just like me.

But you aren't.
See, I had a better opening verse but when my mind is made up of rhythm and rhyme, everything that isn't written down gets driven away in a ******* metaphorical hearse, the kind that you aren't allowed to ride in yet.
Your job isn't finished until mine is,
car crash collisions, underwater violence, silence, broken heart strings strung on a violin and a bass drum keeping us up to speed. See?
I'm a mash up of bad one-line poems and I'm not slowing down, not for anybody.
I've seen angels with broken halos and featherless wings, trying
so hard to fly but they're as successful as that extinct little kiwi,
who all died trying to fly but, hey, at least they went down swinging because we're
all
slaves
to gravity.
So these angels find spaces in their minds to curl up and sleep.
You've got your body on autopilot and don't you find it exhausting, to just stop trying?

Let's get back to the movie.
By then, we'll be living to infinity, like, for real, not just a symbol on the skin but a time to live.
Immortality.
So watching me breathe will be nothing in the wasteland of time that they will have to waste--
not currently, no, because currently our lives seem so short especially with empty promises of infinities and galaxies and light years away on another inhabited planet a kid like me is saying the exact same things because
there's no more originality,
not in this space,
not in the void of immortality.
And in My Life As A Movie, they'll see me:
standing in the street with you, holding hands and praising bands and feeling alive again,
because now we're aware--
of the angles,
of the volume,
of the sets and costumes,
of the film and the video rules
that I learned in high school.
Now that we know it's all a big production, we'll ruin the show.
Our voices will be whispers or shouts and the microphones will be too scratchy to catch what we're saying.
Our feet will fly like the angels once could, ruining any chance of an easy shoot.
My memories of you
are golden,
and I'd sell my mortality just to keep a good hold on them but I can't.
I don't want to.
Infinities are found throughout our galaxy,
but my only real infinity is you.
You, like a scratched DVD that sometimes slips off the screen because
we have our rough times, too.

I sometimes find myself wishing I had cameras in my eyes,
but then I think I'd rather be blind
so no one else sees you like I do.

The world isn't ready for that yet.

We used to be so uplifting to each other.
I have never felt so featherless.
They say the early bird gets the worm
but is that really why you left?
was I holding you back? when I only wished you the best.
it seems the good times have faded, like your love for me.
I stay by the phone hoping one day you'll be calling.
I see you in my darkest dreams.
I can't wait to go to sleep.
You are so hauntingly beautiful

Pluck thy feathers, angel,
To bless the world again.
But alas! Take care of thee
Or all thy effort is in vain!

Pluck them all, angel,
And be angel no more;
For in thy craving to retrieve them
Thou, angel, shalt fall.

Thou shalt turn into Daemon
To ravage these green lands.
Until wood and field consumed
Shalt turn into black sand.

In fight with a feathered one
A featherless shalt always succeed
And rob the angel of his precious feathers
Turning him, too, into adversary of greed.

One day, though, an angel shalt be reborn
To seek redemption for them all.
But as the reborn awakens
The greatest angel shalt fall.

Fear not, sweet angel,
The saviour shalt come.
Be brave and be kind
And the darkness shalt be undone.

your eyes once were the shade of blue
the way the sky looks
before the sun gives way to the moon

but they are black as midnight now
the starless sky, pitch-dark
oh, what did i do?
did i cause this to you?

your wings, broad and strong
flew me to paradise and back
and to everywhere my feet can’t take me

but you’re featherless now
flightless and short of harbor
oh, fly, please, fly again
feel the wind and fly back to me once more
*
but i’m still broken, darling,
i don’t deserve your loving

I am unaffected now, I just want to go on
it doesn't matter to me if to you it seems I've forgone

All I want to say is, I am game, I am alive
just bring it on.

After falling insufferably
and getting up invincibly
I don't call myself strong
cause that would be wrong

**I am just fearless
so I dream of flying featherless.

My cheeks against the breast of the willing to embrace my cold fingers, are clammy with perspiration the hot air thirsts for. Every racing pulse amplified out of sound into vibration is a symphony of racing music into braille for our living hearts. Our pleasure met with caution, pacing each stroke, is personifying true dependence seizing our moment. My weight featherless, embracing welcoming arms intertwining, delights our insecure minds with assured acts of permission. Every motion increasing steamy exhales, scented ecstasy defuses from my love origin. My walls collapse with silent ripples, and constant oral doings, is an awesome relief. My eyes again meet disbelievingly upon the mounting passenger arisen from my open heaven. Every ****** of passion intensifies building stronger yearnings for grasping this entire ******. I am exploding inside and rippling out, every wave a breath on my lips. My shoulder is met with shoulder lying in silent breath's fouled with the presence of two lovers.

That class is sponsoring a thorough bred fair—creating war winning story that doesn't fit neatly onto a bumper sticker. Only a standard reply from featherless wing—bloviating an appeal to the conscientious authority. Go back: polish the Augean non-staples, rear up stallions to break geldings, eat beefsteak, drink whiskey at whistle, stop. That class only teaches a Greek hero clean-up. Meanwhile, they claim victory.

You sing like a bird
Out of key
And without purpose

An early twentieth century kind of thing
But sometimes my hope feels like
a battery hen, factory farmed
Nearly featherless, since molting makes
her produce more eggs
Crowded so she cannot move
De-beaked so she cannot defend herself
A slow death for about three
years until she is gassed
in a small container
A product, not an animal
a unit, not a senseate being
Hope is a thing with feathers
But when all the feathers are gone
only the hope of rescue remains

I am like a bird.
I have a wide open space,
                   range,
                      expanse,
­                                                                 ­     for the adventure that creeps into my soul.
My veins are vacant with the love of exploring,
                               searching,
                                        investigating,
                                                                ­                                                      the different ways to live.
I have always preferred to live alone, with just myself for company.
I seldom feel lonely,
                                  isolated,
             ­                                    apart,
                                                          ­ from others.
I am often surveying,
                                 searching,
                                                  year­ning for beautiful land to build my nest.
However featherless,
                                 wingless,
                                                songless,
                                                                ­I may be, I will never be
                                                                ­                                         flightless.
(s.w.)

I dare not scratch the surface Plato itched,
For fear I'd break my fingers on the stone.
My faculties in circles whirl around,
Which metaphor Aristotle would bemoan.

My femininity is undenied
And thus my musings, when they first began,
Would be utterly rejected, undeniably rebuked,
By one featherless bipedal man.

The History that gulped Atlantis down
Into its sunken depths, has made a grave
For all free thinkers, locked by secret PINs.
Philosophy, no more, these souls can save.

I carry naught but spades in both my hands,
Seeking to unearth artful thought's tomb.
Labor-sweat pours down, yet I am left to merely mourn
The heartbeat ne'er since heard from Athen's womb.

i'm holding you
cupped in fragile hands,
a frail little bird
in frail little fingers.
i can never hold too tightly,
because my grip might not
be strong enough
and even if i could
little bird bones
are tender little things.
and it doesn't make sense
because i hate birds so much
but i love you more
than words could ever say.
and then i think of that time
when i was a little girl
and that baby bird sat on my deck
and it didn't chirp
because it was dead
so i didn't know it was there,
and i stepped on it's tender
featherless wings
and it crunched under my foot.
and viscera spilled out
in reds
and blues
and yellow
and i cried
and cried
and cried.
and even though it was dead
inside already,
i was so afraid i would
be the one to hurt it again.
and it's kinda like that.
so excuse me if
i hold you too tight some days.
and excuse me if
sometimes my fingers are too loose.
i have my reasons,
they're there.
please, just please
sing loud enough to let me know
that you're still alive,
even if it's only a little bit.
and i'm so, so sorry
if i ever crush you.
i never meant to.

Each vulture has its ugly profile
As if abruptly God did not feather
Its face.
Yet its pure flight with enflamed
Eyes that see the dead as they leave
The body, it perches among the oak
Under the hilly peaks.
His featherless face like a hanging
Veil from the face of the sky.
There among the fields of death,
Wings like a sudden dark cuirass
He cruises like an ancient idol
Wrapped in air,
His talons like daggers into
The sacrificed.
He goes deep into the sky enveloped
In splendid light watching souls
Leave the enormous earth.

Worn-through pillowcases holding tales of adventure
Dreams that came and went
Tears from your old lovers’ eyes
A trail of insomnia-ridden restlessness
A trickle of medicine left a sickeningly sweet smell of sleeping sickness remedy
On that night there wasn’t enough for both you and me.
And as purple faded into brown, our fingers anticipated another turn of the page
Dawn burnt your fibers, the sunlight faded your colors grey
Withdrawn and featherless, there’s only time to dream of flight
Outlying eyelash left forgotten
Briskly bent bristle, broken by beauty
You were strong, you held on for long
But oh, you were fragile.
Now the hollows of this room are your only friends
Darkness comes in waves but you will bathe again
It always ends with the sneaking creep of the ticking clock that trickles in around half-past the past.

and we just
floor the peddle
my love-
         (
                  sun falling.
                  into lap
                  all the featherless,
                  birds.
                  repeating­
                  unable
                  to
                  ­burn.
                  so simply
                  away;
         )

hair dashing vision deploy sud featherless\
motion in active taste bud slipped on eternal\
tip of my tongue whistle lunge internally\
**** drizzle dripped seating scampi intestine\
grip swung intensity hitting uvula grump\
the bedroom slippers pajama snap running\
throat hiccups stuck doll sitting smudge crap\
pat tack in scratch mouth I due alley loop mucus\
packing trunk wood you irritate stove chappy baker\
hunk the lock spinning the sling cling on schnapps\
surviving by the beer Craving Peace of ear confession minding\
the sake of better judgement intrigue maleficent impression\
spite traditional contraceptive contradict hypocritical Kitab rewrite\
Ktab inducting paschen arrange friction pronounce tissue adjudicated\
hit or miss mission issue clevis tension ******* metabolism buoyant crevice\
sullied virginity abolishing hip ripping meat window damp moist cherry\
fur confined steed Structurally Mounting **** transcoding soil instrumenting\
matrimony ring band regent gown slapping *** crack Larry the Cable Guy wed\

Din Din Baby Fat Naming like/
be Naming Baby Shat Chat/
bei spin nozzle creek up/
drift bottleneck swifty/
dream line bleachers/
above the body top/
under tummy tuck/
wackbush stroke/
c ******* broad/

Quote by author: Angel feather colors hold no meaning,
if the messenger of God is not a paragon of virtue.

Every year she wore the plumage with such grace
and her beauty raptured every being around the liquid festival
Caribana black and gold tassels pasted on each tender ******
She lost herself in a night of debauchery.  One that took her further away from truth and the love that she so hungered for.
dance little lady dance
by a ***** man's glance
you don't stand a chance
That night she went too far and ended up by the side of the river. Her face streaked of mascara dripped onto a shattered heart, and turned into a million shards of glass.  A celebration of life turned deadly cold beneath the winds of deceit.  Sand blown bits of broken moon entered her soul as she lay still on the ground.  Heaven's stars muted stunned, held space as  
a concrete angel
invisible but able
touched by a glacial pulse  
noticed she was still breathing but scarcely, so wrapping the dying girl in feathers woven from God's fibrous root, she washed the red off her soaked plumage, and cleaned up her wounded back.  Two vestal hands bathed her with life's essence, and just like that, she was born again.
"Choose Life" was the last thing she heard uttered to her faint ear.   Then she heard the sound of a beautiful silence, as the Angel of God spread her glorious veiny wings and flew away.
the grass held its dew
and the wind blew
a woman child grew
Copyright © Mystic Rose Rose | Year Posted 2023

There is something about the voices in the wind, no?
How they can whisper sweet nothings through comb tooth cracks.
When you reach one hand to the future
and one hand to the past
you forget about present flight.
Featherless birds with eye lids shut,
can you hear the secrets
as they slink inside your ears
and slide behind your eyes returning the sparkle once lost?
Do you see it now?
If you dream of freefalling you will always wake up flying.
Trust the winds
because landing is the tricky part.

I grew up watching my parents reduce themselves to their bassist.
Oops, that's a typo:
They are not musicians.
Debasement, so crass.
Humiliation on full blast.
But I guess it's a fairly common thing to dread family vacations.

My mom can't take the hint.
She can't tell when we're disinterested.
My dad talks a bunch of crazy **** despite who might be listening.

There's an unspoken comraderie amongst us siblings.
We're all in this together.
We fight our inherited,
unwanted,
self-destructive tendencies.
When I lose a battle I can always count on them to make me feel better.

Two have found ther wings.
They flew away from this place.
One soars high,
but I fear the other found himself another cage.

It's okay, I think.
I mean, I think he'll be okay.
As for us remaining two,
we're slowly making our way.
Our way out, is what I mean.
It's what I meant to say.

This nest hasn't been kept very warm,
but I guess it's still a home.
With two featherless,
flightless birds to deal with;
I'm glad I didn't have to go it alone.

The eagles may pass the snowbirds,
In the air, on the land and sea;
Like the flight of the featherless Wild Geese
In a similar century.

The coops are open,
The hawk is swooping,
Talons sharp and spread;
Eyes laser fixed, and firey red.
They're locked
On preening pigeons,
Perched near the magic box.

No skin upon the face of a swan
No rip tide in the gut of your featherless guile
There is beer in the drake and sadness in the sky
There is illuminate aorta, vena, cava, river;

Body which does not close
But which, and knowingly, is blood
Blood counts its own art.
The smile of human dance.

If there's one thing left to smile about.
It'd take it two minutes to leave while i stand and shout.

I dont care what things I'm not used to live without.
I've been driving in a million thousands routes , And i cant even doubt, that infact im living a happiness drought.

And im pretty sure it will last forever.
Featherless bird cant grow wings to escape the unfamiliar weather.

Stay and fight be ready for whatever!?
Nah its best to say to the world take your best shot cause after her you can't hurt me better.

The candle was obscured from view, it bleed a
Shadow on all its abyss of onyx lit upon. The crow
Shuddered and feathers fell like droplets of blood.
They trailed to the floor, it was as night but was
Tormented by the unyielding soul laced within.

The depraved demon had left it featherless, its
Flesh brittle as it crowed one last time the repugnant
Odour wisped forth, silence had fallen darkness had
Kissed upon its life and lurking like a parasite It fed
Corrupted as each feather fell, each breath was misery.

Repulsive incarnation of jealousy it felt  life was
Repugnant in its thoughts, all that dwelled in here
And in the light were dormant, empty it needed to
Hinge its essence to life. To slaughter the whispers
Of angels that breathed thoughts inside now silenced.

As long as the candle burnt charred light so like moths
To a flame would life be held hostage in this place.
Each life digs an abyss to throw used vessels away,
The hillside a deposit of bone and agony the earth
Screams silently now barren where once lush.

ends so ― spiralling after
egg (that other half of our
chains) & setting gills

in gristled knot that buds
legs as tadpoles do & blow-
hole ears halfway down

the back & low-set eye
alien as featherless chick ―
ah we have peered into

that shared **** whose
blasto-flesh runs its gauntlet
of fowl & fish so fused at

the tail nothing can be told
apart ― is this why when i am
late i find in upstairs dark

you ― on placenta duvet &
hunched round self as wom-
bed ones are? ― as though

i had just returned from
all eternity to catch you
naked out sleepwalking

space without even
navel-twisted purpled
rope to hold you

Mario Petrucci, from *i tulips

hope the thing with feathers
and I a featherless biped