Lately you’ve saturated my Consciousness
Watering me down as the
Hard ground weeps
Dryly, dust to mud
In a southern summer drought
Although I’ve never thirsted for you.
Quenching yourself in Xanax
Drenched in whiskey
You took from us what we didn’t
Know we were
Missing just as the hole through
Your skull opened and
****** you out bit by bit
Till by a crimson thread
You were left lingering
Your body feigning
Alone in the night
Under the pines
Yearning for a brighter light.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
You are the most beautiful
Person that has ever existed
Real or otherwise.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
Where to begin?
From the top, I suppose
Of the proverbial mountain
Standing steadfast
Slowly penetrating
The indigo mist spiraling
The pinnacle
Peaking through the
The unified particles gathering
In bent-up lines
In pent-up times.
Electric
Against my own your skin is pressed
Entranced by optical pools
Enchanted by what lies
Beyond the colored flecks
of jade and chestnut we digress
Melting into a single texture.
Easy.
Steadfast and consistent despite
The prodding lecture
Of suspended disbelief
Unleashing ourselves
To the ambient
Four-dimensional
Placating the phenomenal
Perceived through the "right kind of eyes".
Gleaming yet gleaning but still
Guiding, this compass
That encompasses the raw
Torn-back flesh and ego
Scored and sacrificed by nameless
Aboriginal ancestors
Arching their bows with
Aim to eradicate
Foul ideas and fallacies
Judged beneath the squinted
Eye determining the deadly course
Of another forced
Self-consuming
Twisted moral paradigm.
They salute with self-satisfactory smiles
To relieve the conflict of conscience
Regarding blood-splattered soil
Salting the vague consolation: sputtering,
"This too shall pass, my brother".
Comforting one another
With the zip of
Vibrating strings
Pulsing against the
Weathered fingertips
In imperfect time.
Curving cedar lines
Poised with precision
Resemble and assemble in fragments
The urge to protect and preserve
The curve of a lover's spine
Bent-over and braiding
Long locks for war
Sitting cross-legged
On the dirt and hide floor.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
In under three days
You'll peel my skin away
My flesh seeps menthol and freezes in your pores.
Beneath this embrace we'll sojourn
Between threaded calves and ankle-bones we breathe faint snores
Clenching our eyes against the rising yellow of morn'.
Within three weeks
I'll have forgotten to eat
Your caress rattles my bones and sparks a flame in my spine
Curving against your slender torso in transit
Your clockwise caress on my scalp bowering your fingers in vines
Planting a firm kiss on my neck as if you're sowing a gambit.
Entwined with the grey dawn we became aboriginal
Beguiled in our hypnagogic state, candid and inexplicable.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
You're feeling jubilant as your eye captures the perfect illumination of a scene you've seen a hundred times, yet never perceived in this manner before. You ****** your old '85 from the snare of the paper-ridden desktop and keenly snap the staggered allure--until the low, guttural groan of the sprocket slices through your absorption. You abruptly lower the body to bury your misdemeanor within the unanimous truth of the data panel--but alas! Your aspirations are dissolved by the sudden rush of blood berating, "what a pillock!" As your cheeks fill with the crimson truth revealed in the seven-segment display partially reflecting your open jaw dappled like sympathy flowers atop the silent chastising of the slow-blinking "24".
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Urdhva Hastasana
Salida del sol.
Her paws are bare
Ablaze against the black stone heat of the morning stroll
Pausing for the last monsoon, whispering
Salut?
There would not exist consequence for a dampened nose of pusillanimity
Carelessly drawn to the astrophysical realm of celestial bodies
Illuminating the chivalry once more.
We'll sing chansons
Oh cabaret!
The circumstance and pomp eliding
Lavishly rouged lips from sterling glances
Exposed by the slow and sultry raise of copper eyes
Premeditated, so that they lift in perfect timing
Beneath dark lashes to seem accidentally mesmeric.
I still lose amethysts
They drop from the back of my ears unexpectedly
Their plunge of contact against the water
Catches my attention but no more
Of a thought should surface except to surface
The stones from the depths pooling around my ankles.
The rain won't drain and hasn't for months
She scratches her hair but the pining never stops.
I rub her ears so she'll display such an ardor
Revealed in company and solitude simultaneously
To be weighed and doubted and accepted and declined
Beneath the stony gaze of the eyes of a god
Swindling a wrinkle in the shower curtain.
Alas what a shame it is
Besitos aren't quite fancied here.
Ne prennent pas garde aux berceaux, Que la main des femmes balance.
Puesta del sol.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
A broken lock equals an open mind. An open mind equals a temporary peace of heart. I constantly write in riddles and lines that will never rhyme, that most will probably never read. In my subconscious I relentlessly attempt a Resurrection of civil engagements with an uncivil mind. My internal demeanor never abandons a detail, a key worth remembering and a lock that will always sway to and fro in a shanty boat that is inconsistently worthless and valuable. It will never dock, it will never be entirely worth the stress or the time it would take to tie and secure a ship of that size and quality, or lack thereof. There exists ulterior motives that Miss blonde esteem is seemingly not even aware of, or like her prior, accepts ignorance as a temporary escape until the uncivil mind returns civil. The fact is this. The uncivil mind was never civil, and may as well never be. Locks can be repaired, even when the thief begs for no replacement. What makes the thief the uncivil enemy? Has it ever occurred to any soul, that a thief is only stealing away precious moments that are rightfully his, that circumstances and uncivilized minds have locked away in a pitch black that they cannot call their own night? There surely has been an uncanny instance when the locksmith swiftly turned about to find his prior gazing at him in the golden grooves of the trap. The thieving of one’s own mind, to break a lock enchanted by the uncivil mind, should be easily empathized and understood. But alas, curly blonde esteem will forever submit under the spell of the uncivil mind, who will only cast a shadow upon itself and its priors. It will be remembered in the scent of cigarettes, where it will also be displaced. It will be avoided in the unrighteousness of a friend’s bed in another family’s house, where a respirator and the oxygen tubes intertwining the threshold no longer exist; neither do the white sheets. There will never again be an absence of music behind the actions committed between the uncivil mind and the civil heart.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
Simplicity will make its rounds
As it always does when I'm missing you.
I can tell you're missing me in the way you glance
Quickly out of the corner of your eye
As I'm fiddling with my ink and paper.
We make rounds with one another
Alternating shifts between affection
And you watch me almost instinctively
Perched upon your over-sized sofa cover
Disguising all of my dresses you imagined as "the one"
Floral, striped, simple brown like parchment paper.
But you are stowing away patterns that remind you of summer past.
Only now it's spring and summer's not yet arrived
A fact that until today remained unknown to me.
But of course you'll be leaving soon
And I'll be wanting you
Even if so it was not enough, even more
In the nostalgia of unwritten details in the past.
They pattern themselves as soldiers awaiting deploy
Into some unknown battle with a sparkling eye
For they know not what love is;
They have only tasted it in envelope adhesive
And flittering longings of long-lashed exchanges
Of forward observations brought to attention
By none other than the golden-haired stable boy;
So they battle with a passion of longing instead.
They have traveled this road many times
And knowing what to expect, they
Delve forward despite disregards of the illumination
Of the embellishing light of Lady Moon
Upon the night to beckon their lustful eyes and bodies
To become one with their defenseless souls
Beneath the silvery threshold of her flowing *****
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
You all remember the romantic fickleness of being fifteen, right?
Of course you do.
Everything was
Brand New. (But we faced the world with Bright Eyes)
Once again I’m sealing up my dried-on spilt blue dye
With a kiss between the lines of liquor boxes
Wondering in which book my nose was buried
During the moment that time casually hopped aboard
a timeless train with a clocked-out rate
Its silent departure breeding a fantastical escape.
Only the ironic forlon echo comes much later.
They don’t tell girls who waste their youth away between the lines of pseudonyms
Between the shelves of musty libraries
Every other warm summer day until dusk
Just how old you’ll feel in the reminiscence of inde-alternative and cardboard boxes.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
Have you ever
Wondered
how you would react
--could react--
If you SUDDENLY
felt your neck snap by the hinges
of the outboard spoiler
of a plane
Crashing
through shingles and plaster
Right through your favorite
Bob Dylan poster
Hanging on your bedroom wall.
Or
if you awoke in a lake
of fire
And realized you were wrong.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC