Cordant! (Heart Shaped)
What shape is a caring heart,
Is it elliptical, as thin as a fragile egg.
Is it thin and breakable.
Is it round as ball of rubber.
Being bounced from pillar to post.
Or does a heart contain a ghost.
A spirit of love once gone.
Maybe it's square around the edges.
Or it just a box of tricks.
Is it a cuboid, devoid of emotion.
Or a triangle may be it.
With all sides equilateral.
Does Pythagoras control the angles.
Where the angels of true love lay.
Sleeping silently through silent nights.
Until the shape of love is right.
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
And in his eyes
I saw myself
Barely a ghost
I've been hiding
In the darkness
And it's starting
To take its toll
But the one thing
That's saving me
And my sanity
And the way
Sunlight on his lips
My skin at his fingertips
To my nothing
He deserves more
Than I'm taking
But he loves me
before the world ends
that you may not love
is the haunting.
where your ghost is rain
your mind clouds.
and nothing is foreseen
like the past.
in the long watch of this blindness
we are surely rogue begonias
needling the impenetrable nethers
of our low coronas
we jest in the rage of our humors
gilding the uvula
of our golden throats
trilling in the infinite sublime
and gain no quarter
unabridged, we straddle the span
of our chasm.
we seek to stand apart
from whatever wounds
Well I don't know what to say,
I'm almost glad you didn't stay.
This way I'll have never disappointed you.
At least you're far away,
While I keep my demons at bay.
In my head I've already anointed you.
Canonized in the depths of my mind,
Somewhere I thought no one would find.
I guess I'm not as clever as I thought,
I didn't learn the lessons you taught.
I still have myself fooled into thinking that someday you'll come back, homesick for what used to be.
Fuck, I don't even if you could find the time to think about me.
I'd be shocked and speechless should my ears ever find the sound of your voice somewhere behind,
Coaxing my life back to juvenile delinquencies when I didn't have half this fucked up mind.
I guess what I'm trying to tell you,
What I no doubt know you already knew,
That I still think about the past.
My fingers raw from counting the days,
long now passed in a vicious haze.
well the fire we started just turned to ash.
so this hole that's been burning in the pit of my chest has done nothing but eat away at my ribs and lungs.
It's been burning away since the days we got lost when we were young.
Just like the house we saw on Graham,
With the burned out windows and it's blackened walls,
I hear the aching in my heart, so lonely in this empty flesh,
It sounds like a ghost as it calls.
I keep calling your name, but you'll never answer.
The sooner I accept that, the better.
Just know I'll pick up where we left off.
I'll try to move on, but I don't think I'm that strong.
the same kind of rainclouds
roll in from the springtime horizon, to spread life,
here, where you are reading this poem
and there, most every other place on this globe
imagine that: we all live under the same kind of sky
the wise man was asked:
“do we, as men, follow your words and reach nirvana?”
“but for the raw material, this would be so”, was his reply
there is a ghost hovering above me at all times
youth kept him at bay; old age increases his presence
he hangs like a jellyfish alight in the air
wide eyes dark spaces mystery
a span of some sort
Ripped ribbons scattered aimlessly,
with fractured cups, dirt and dust
pink pearly acetone just won't be enough
to erase the evidence of you.
With forced confessions,
spilled out all past indiscretions,
and cursed vindications and blood
splattered like a musty revenge.
Hand print caresses that show
Polaroid prints all faded and jaded
like the illusion of us.
It was desperate fingers
that clung to the railings
but the force of gravity meant I had to let go.
Hope had revived me
Like water to my parched throat
my oasis is the desert
All my horrid words were revoked.
Yet nothing will ever be enough
to surgically remove
our open bleeding wounds.
I must tend to the injured,
Leave alone the wielder
Knife still in hand
How did it come to this?
I missed your voice
so much it made me cry
yet after I heard
it made everything worse
Mourning a loss that was not mine
I still love you
but it burns
until I have to take my hand off
the all consuming flame.
My teardrops cannot pay the price,
or eradicate the past in peoples minds
Will I forever be beholden to this guilt that now defines me?
Too many skin graphs to hide the scarred tissue underneath.
All paths lead me back to here.
I'm helpless to watch your ghost
Linger,you still linger.
Guarded I am now for there is an empty presence surrounding me
It whispers in my ear. Grabs the memories and scatters them all around.
Hours it wasn't before this presence manifested before me.
It walks towards me with a smile, with open arms, with a nudge
Only to dissipate, leaving a sadness to cover me as it's residue
Leaving me to head to the restroom
To get in a stall
To close my eyes and cry
Sometimes when the ones we love leave, a part of them stays to remind us
To torture us
To love us
To make their memory survive but do they know how much it hurts to know that
the Presence will always remain but never the real person?
“I would rather play roles that carry conviction.
Maybe it’s because they’re the easiest and yet
the hardest things for me to do.”
—Peg Entwistle, Oakland Tribune, 1929
A hammer of teak and brass rail;
imagine it’s September 1932
and you haven’t worked since Broadway.
Wouldn’t you sit and just get drunk?
Tell your folks you’re meeting friends
in a drugstore on Beechwood Dr.
Then beeline up the trail to Mt. Lee?
Imagine the black fry of manure
and gardenias. All them crickets.
L.A.’s bristling dark and yellow
like a dying bumblebee’s hide.
Downhill through hosiery and scrub
To HOLLYWOODLAND and up the first
few rungs of a workman’s ladder,
you see your face in a small ravine.
Do you fall backwards or forwards
off the ‘H’; prefer it for its sigh—
in some quarters, not pronounced at all—
Or simply jump? One day vies
against the next and for every kernel
of untruth, you’re just like a rosary bead.
Your own ghost will call it through
and two policemen make the find. Face down.
Well-dressed. Shoes and jacket in a parcel.
And they cast the man as the one
who gets brought down by dogs.
When he met the director,
the man said, "I'm the son of a veterinarian."
"I guess we should give you a speaking part."
So in the snow, behind the pines, with three
cameras on him, the man was brought down
by dogs, and instead of falling silently,
he was allowed to shout "no."
Despite the open air, his call was shrill.
Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice pinged
as if encased in metal.
The director, unnerved, instructed
the man to do the scene again.
"Try shouting 'why.' "
The man's cap was off.
Snow flew from the strands
of his hair. A dog chewed
on his forearm.
And he said, "Why."
Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice fell flat, muffled--
not by limb, not by nature, but as if covered by a blanket of wool,
like a child playing ghost in a winter living room.
The director took the man aside.
The man had never seen a person die.
He'd never even seen a dog die, although
he'd seen plenty arranged in violence shortly
"Nothing," the man said.
"Die naturally this time."
When a client's pet was on their deathbed,
the man's father gave them privacy.
He'd let them lock the door from the inside.
They'd usually sing a hymn or two.
The soundless rituals, however,
occupied a mysterious realm
with clear, exclusive boundaries.
On the third take, one of the dogs tore
into his cheek. The puncture was quick, clean.
"I want to die," the man said, "but not like this."
"Louder," the director said.
"I want to die but not like this."
"What was that?"
"I want to die but not like this."
The dogs lapped at his blood.
One of the camera men came in close.
The man went limp, hoping it would end
Clarifying your intentions
Expect a hundred interventions
Gamma rays to rule the world
Color 6 and 64.
Never sure. The final outcome
We haste to speeds computers fathom
Defying the verses of their ghost
Perfoming miracles on them all
To those whom anti-g propulsion
Is nothing but a mere illusion
Its basis on two principles
One was from earth, and one was not
Thus was the color 664
The Square at rips with wayward countries
Disputes to settle man-made boundaries
The holiness of moons beyond
Facilitated room to spawn
The 33rd Club, far from famous
Had already resolved the question
Ending the MachtKampf with their wit
Thus pulsed the color, 666.