The passage is dark and deep
The passage is dark and deep
Forever going in the darkest dreams
The rooms all different
All bathed in the half light
As I'm dragged along
Twisting and contorting
To see it all before I'm gone
A room with knives
And on solitary chair
Where I would sit and loving stare
It leads to a room of headless snakes
A twirling kaleidoscope
Of red and green
Tinged in death
The room in which
I was locked
The door is stuck
I am weak
There is no
way to escape
of haunting halls
Leading down the hall again
Leads us to a room in which
Indian movies music played
The screen danced and flicked
while your body flicked along,
foam crawling out your mouth
eyes rolling back
In this boys dream
a mother screams
And I can do nothing,
Of youth and age and memories
Another door yet to open
of sickness repression
Of warmth and senses
Smell taste touch
The heat burns of this childish lust
The wolf froths and growls
Its teeth glisten
And I scream
A dream within a dream
We climb up the stairs
as they curve and crack
splinters of this dream
ever more it will seem
never real to me
of a room within a room
the tiniest doors for tiny hands and tiny dreams
I but ever small
The room has shrunken
and I will ever crawl
the red letters say,
but i don't
because i didn't know
that i had to enslave
the planet i carry
in my soul.
(the planet is you)
Poem a day, day 10
Why can't I write poetry
About things that matter to me?
Or am I really that shallow that all I care about
Is my own feelings of love, passion and loss
Or how tired/busy I am.
I haven't written a single poem about
Feminism, ecology or politics
Or even Star Trek or Doctor Who.
No Red Dwarf, cats or Cat from Red Dwarf.
Heaven knows I've thought about it.
I've thought "there's more to my life than that"
"There's more to me"
"I should write abut such-and-such"
And then sit there
My cat looks at me, sniffing the air
"How could you possibly not write about me?"
And walks off.
His brother lying on the armrest
The world revolves around him in a different way.
Well be more inspiring boys!
Help me out here!
Okay can't blame you
If even Star Trek and Doctor Who aren't doing it.
Plenty of ideas, so few poems
huddled up in a ball in a street,
hugging our legs embossed with the intrusive
that never seem to leave
explicitly exposed in the red light.
They--an unspoken peoples--
are the rash of the centuries
the red mark that has consumed your skin
leaving you nothing but the fearful vicarious conditioning
of your mothers heart
and the hot breath you breathe at last during the winter spell
before you are whisked into the warm corridors of
will suffice, no,
but the chapters of the autobiography
tell otherwise, as Marina Del Rey's siren
calls for you to bathe in her semen filled waters.
Till thus you'll be clean once more, you and your lover
forever gone forevermore.
Roses aren't red
And violets aren't blue
Because theres no more color
In a world without you
Soothe livid thought
give cool, quiet birth.
See with one time,
across solitary dawn.
You voice sound,
yet give rain color.
This storm rhythm,
meager, though soft,
over stone could not hold.
Brilliant music beside,
celebrate every drink of wicked wind.
Taste. Dance. Sing.
Through winter night,
and summer morning.
Slip by like water,
not under myself,
or beneath love,
but remember after who & what you are.
dance through change,
& leave life happy.
When music is poetry,
hear with love.
A heart must speak
between language & thought.
A poet will use
lightning & dirt.
Sound is vision,
light is word...
the sun bleeds on the autumn trees,
clothing arthritis stricken limbs in red.
Pollyanna leaps in a river of candy apple leaves
resting, finally, in a pebbled bed.
the sky’s jaws crack open,
and tiny birds slow their steady
descent south through traveling rain.
rebel leaves blaze as they hang ‘til swollen veins in necks snap and break and
mercy must cut them down.
like a Conductor’s wand moving to a walz,
they dance and sway and wash
onto the gallow ground.
life is a letting go.
and the Maker made the home
of birds most beautiful
in the act of dying.
but sweet as spring Pollyanna doesn’t blink,
rather bats her light lashes in the rain
and simply enjoys the sound
of 1...2-3 1...2-3 beats,
keeping all the time in the world
with the quickly softening
crackling leaves beneath her feet.
The date of the day was the first of of November,
The sky was covered with grey clouds in layers
When the rain drops slashed upon the stairs
Where trees stood with their branches bare
At the time the sunshine would be on the square
A man with with a black umbrella was standing there,
Waiting for a girl with red shoes to appear.
But then she appeared in the colours of summer,
Wearing a shirt in blue and a plain white skirt
With nothing warm but a dark red scarf;
She was covered in raindrops and water in her hair,
Shaking and shivering in the cold November air.
I am an artist.
I can make myself into something new
Imagine the possibilities you could
Just let me know what you want.
Here, flip through this magazine for some
And tell me what you like best!
It’s all about pleasing your audience
It doesn't matter what I want,
Nobody cares about that.
They just want to see something pretty.
I sculpt and paint imagery out of tools
To end up with a fake canvas.
Day to day I suppress myself with the lies.
I chip and chisel,
Dissect and carve,
Bits and pieces,
Until I’m left trembling,
Just to be tossed away in the end.
Splashes of red,
And strokes of black ignite your appeal,
And this is what you label as real?
Hunger strikes itself through the bones
Revealing its power through the limbs
Of the body, eye sockets, sinking down,
Death could possibly be the resemblance.
What a terrible piece, a shame it is.
Maybe just a few more tweaks,
And it will at least look halfway decent.
Trim down the sides,
Thin out any extras,
Fill in what is needed.
Even just a tad more color,
Then we have something.
Time strolls by,
A year soon passes,
And one day I just happen to actually
And look at my masterpiece,
But only for a moment.
In the mirror,
A reflection stares back at a wretched,
Beads of liquid build up into my pallid
Unable to contain the weight of their
reasons any longer,
Tears begin to burst,
They trickle down my rose stained
Fueled by the absence of perfection,
And I feel nothing.
Needs more work.
Before the night fell
We witnessed the brilliance of man's folly,
Every note falling in deciduous perfection;
Even a prayer can be lost.
Then, when the stars came out,
The sun nowhere to be found,
The moon belched like a drunken pirate,
Bending the trees and sending their leaves
Skyward, off and away.
There was a whisper
Between the blades of grass
We sat upon.
There was a worry
In your eye
That told me there
Was to be more.
Candy cane fragrance
With a dash of cinnamon and salt.
Grinning through the darkness,
We touched hands like children,
Caught in that never ending dance.
Morning came like mist over a hill.
Our eyes wished not to open for the day.
She rose first and I rose second.
Never wanting for that feeling to go away.
Secondary rituals over coffee and pastries.
The sun came through that café window like a shot of a gun.
And when she paid and left,
She dropped a note that read "Until next time."
When you never see another again,
You always wonder what they came to be.
A periwinkle whore of 5 cents a pound,
Or a river lady loon that sang without a sound?
Under your bed -
Color shining in
Ox blood purple and red.
They told me your name
They scribbled your address
They want what you have
They're wondering why your'e so stressed
When she came by the place again,
I wasn't home, so she dropped me another note.
This one had only one word:
I can't lie.
I was quite
Two days past.
A knock on my door.
Moon light's middle finger
Stretching into my living room
My couch held her like an egg in a carton.
Toad colored hat latched around her head.
Hair covering her eyes, her mouth, her broken nose.
She wore orange flip flops, wiggling her toes.
She asked why I hadn't called.
I told her that I didn't have her number.
She talked about her soon to be dead father.
I sat down to listen, thinking of my forgotten brother.
When she began to cry, she came to me,
Like a bee to a flower or a fly to fresh shit.
I felt her hand on my chest and her breath in my left ear;
There's no guilt like the wicked
And there's no faith like the religious kind.
Hand in a hold.
Love is just another mold.
The priest protects the walls
Of his splintered sanctuary.
Is just another man's memory.
Oh my sins, my sins,
Where should I begin?
When you're born to lose,
There's no thought to win.
6 months past
And still, she was coming over.
Our love for one another
Was a knot I couldn't untie.
A year past
And the stars and the moon
Were a cure that
Blanketed us, our child, our family.
Living our days out,
Mixing poison and penalty,
Running from a life
That showed any shred of reality.
Buried side by side
Underneath a bent apple tree,
I died one day
And she died the other.
We use the leaves of Fall
And the blossoming buds of Spring
To reach for.