the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.
the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.
but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.
they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.
but the price is
terrible.
sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
A lavender-misted brume forms corridors
paving her a bedraggled roped bridge; of
platitude she utters not, but strings of pale
pearls, lapping intrinsically into a braided
fantasy
Glowing sun, hazed pink by the horizon's
edge, before it an arch gilded in bleached
effervescent roses; we purify what might
even if it's flesh is scrubbed raw by nature's
own will
Jardin, jardin! Ou est tu? My heels ache
with footsteps not taken, the pursuit of
whither the moon shines on its own, and
winds, sighing, converge from all directions
tranquilly.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
Fleeting flashes, crashes, of a desperate end
entwined into the fibers of my mind, the essence
of my blood, of my mere
being.
Tiles blinding, the grin of a mindless maniac
upon the greedy grasp of the grim death,
yanked into the oblivion
of eternity.
Melted crystals, flowing, bubbling, calling my
name, so attractive, a sultry dessert, in a way
a sweet ending to a melancholy
before.
Take a chance, dip a foot, gamble with fate
a sea of possibilities it is not, in the end
of the day, it is a pocket within it
a knife.
Fabric as satin to a human's touch, the feel of basking in
the brightness and hotness of the scorcher, but I ask
how, then, could the silky smooth, upon the call,
unveil a thing so sharp, morbidly used?
The graveness and grim of a place quite dimly lit
the pallor of the pretty porcelain stark against
the ripples of transparent silk afloat;
inviting.
The satiny tub awaits so patient and kind
as the river's waves morbidly sharp sway
me into a merry wager, hand the despair
for a shiny-wrapped contraire, attractive.
Perhaps shall I dare for a taste, the thrill
but before, slimy tendrils curl around me
limbs encircled in a ruse of freedom.
How could I be a fool, enough to believe then
allow myself to fall into a bush of these
luscious roses, rusted, singed petals and
daggers for thorns underneath the surface
of a sublime promise and statuesque?
And thus I drown, and drown, and drown,
into a stormy ocean full of prickly briers
and as time crosses into the realm of
nothingness, vacuum, the truth sinks in;
the emptiness spans endlessly, and I will
forever float, eternally exist, nowhere else, only in the screaming white,
alone.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
Writing stories; blowing soul into descriptions
burying a luminous seed into her "ebony hair"
and "towering physique"...
like Michelangelo setting a Dying Slave free
by carving marble, such a benevolent artist
Writing stories; piping a miscellany of twisted
tragedies, Elysian epiphanies, and hearty hearths
out of our minds...
not as if we are celestial Gods; no, but as if wisdom
tapped on our skulls, and whispered a symphony
Writing stories; braiding windswept trails into
hacking hearts, mellow minds, and aching heels
bolted onto a crossroad...
to bequeath them, you (and ourselves) a fifth
path, a dire escape into a less knotted universe
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 7:29 AM UTC
Mangled, bony fingers, groveling
for lapping water, a dendritic rivulet
ceases its division for no one
I powder the amethysts for sand, for
only the sensation of opulence, anywise
the silver tarnishes in abundance
And what's the worst I'd ever seen
if not our maize sun ashen, drained of its
rise and incentive to foster grass
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
Charred debris drowned my sun
in a rubble blackened by a wildfire
they said, have some cash, 'be here
by tomorrow, thought dimes and hundreds
could placate my torn Achilles tendon
Listen when I shout! Salvage my sun!
Sunken in the aftermath of a downplayed
spark. All these twisted ivies and things
in me, I do not want your materialistic bling
it means dust to me, resurrect him, God
Tomorrow I blanket the shadowed
fields, tawny grasses hissing in agony
left barren by their deceased rain of serenity.
Oh, I choke on the abrasive reeds! Drawing blood
from my soiled knees, Sun, Sun, Sun
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC