Existence is fallow
Upon the sheaths of grey
Transparent in the slides
Omnipresent crawling
In with no other
Inflated into, frozen in
Panes of glass
Brazen ice tell me your name
Internal tread on jags
He in his own bloating
Of crashing white sun on
The surface plain.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
She who steps forward,
silken drape cloak
I said to her 'once more'
through a choke
'Come to me, I want to know'
from where your love glows
It is within your heart
or does it shine
from somewhere behind?
To push you forward
to those who need
What force is your love?
And how does it feed
our hungry mouths?
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC
A flame
soft, unmanned
free to flicker
in a capsule
Intrigued
how it melts
but I'm
**** caught
in my middle
Breach the boundary
light blue colour is
patent source of
our futality
Pulped to desire
a deposit of
labour tides
that flow on the outsides
Stimulated by
awful timing
I am gentle,
courted fuelled
toxicity
Burnt wrist
blatantly lying
hostile for hearts
in respiratory
Returned to
the bone of light
illuminate my
skeletal plight
among the dark
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
The drawing board was home to the dining table
which curved and shined a warm brown.
Many hours I would spend there,
the scent of mahogany
permeating my day-dreams
through the calmness of space.
Others – if hundreds – had dined
with the golden set of cutlery released only at
special occasions,
but seldom did I take my food there as
it is known I am a dreamer without sustenance.
The room was close through the silence of the day,
clanks of past plates did not cease to echo,
they electrified my present mood, generating me to
walk round and round and fantasize endlessly
about the whisperings that had been,
what looks were exchanged,
any laughs that turned to cries,
which children sat upon whose knee,
the best served dish,
who had filled their first heart of contentment since June.
Internal laps, the room
contained the motion through
the synchrony of ticking clocks and folded napkins
slid upon the surface.
Each time I do not expect to spin, but I do and I fall, over and over,
until I decide to draw an old chair and sit,
head in my hands.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC
my anger is a submersion
and like a deep current
that pushes its darker waves
angularly
I go under
my anger is a fear
that growls its last hurt
as the hunter chases
and strangles
veins that
turn blue
my anger is a question
of strange events
too painful
that now bare no connection
to me
my anger is a plea
that I am not
the hunter or the hunted
but I am free
to walk upon the fields
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
I do not think much my place upon this earth,
I am second, and you are first,
and when your voice is louder than mine
it is a familiar for me to sink and recline
into my chair, wilful to listen
to your unappealing, witted opinion
and programmed flair -
from which your talent glistens,
and has always been there.
Oh to be part of your vision.
I walk comfortable in high heeled shoes
that inscribe me a waggling soft tongue,
and when your pace is faster than mine
in brogues, and trousers that are looser,
I am simply undone,
at your ease to summon as the prime task-caster
of more tasks to come.
Your achievements are set with a slapped wet plaster.
Oh that you share a crumb.
And when you laugh, it is a big bellied echo
that chimes in my throat to strike and produce,
a small bit of fruit, just for you.
As I mimic your billow in an octave but lower,
that feels like part of the very same tune,
but my chuckle is actually a choke,
and what I could say would only provoke.
Oh you laugh much harder than me.
My almond eyes are softer than yours
and in the day you lock them only for an answer,
to some chore which requires a limited goal -
don’t get me wrong – I am no prancer,
my shoes are far too tight, and I’ve been taking the toll
of your papers, your personal sciv, your faxer.
A sniffing, weezling mole.
Oh I could dig deeper…
You **** much harder than me.
And when you *** you look in the mirror
at yourself in white unbuttoned shirt, heavy brow, so chipper
that when your sun sets it does in a vulvonic decree,
but you do not know that when I go home, I secretly scissor
in a way that would make your morning clippers shake violently.
Oh I love much harder than you,
I am better than you,
but somehow you are better than me.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
when I was young
I would stick my finger
in a hole in the wall
and believe that the tip had been,
transported to space.
I miss those days
when my mind could thrive
in the most average of place.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
fog, saliva
suffocation,
a shrill scream
legs in mud,
no good,
stained air
a stop sign
burn it down
don't care
running
clouds rise,
this mess
is red
is paved -
with love stress
I care
I care
just too much
if you
were here
as my crutch
I'd run
right back
to stop sign
to paint
above, that
‘you’re mine’
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 9:08 PM UTC
Eat.
A punishment to the waist.
Reflections manipulate,
to edit what is mine.
Stripped out another me,
I'm sure I ate,
the biggest grain I could find.
Pray.
That I will not expand.
If the grain touches water,
material triplicates,
Where will I land?
I'm sure I prayed,
myself I would not slaughter.
Sleep.
In tiny winks through night.
Sometimes I wake to rib-cage,
sharply inhale,
as deeply as I might.
I'm sure I slept,
On my self directed stage.
Speak.
Through thin bitten lips.
A voice growing weak,
mouth internally,
small organs it rips.
I'm sure I spoke,
my box though mild and meek.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC