Her hands are a mystery
If you look at them, you see his light
But if you look into them, you feel a consciousness of their own.
Their spirits embrace at a single moment
and all Time and all Trees pray
for them.
But the peach trees stand still; silent
They witness the reincarnation of his dreams
Chaos, absolute seedless chaos
A peach drops and dies.
In the darkness, the peach is unseen
Only eyes question death
Flooding, flooding, flooding
Only twelve million answers
Ravenous stars light the sky
by hunger for only their answer
But enlightenment is encrypted
in Latin and all the languages
of the world.
And her conscience is full and sleeps.
Who’s to blame her?
A vision of red may only wander
And wonder she is.
In China, dragons dance to their unheard
secret.
Oh, but the owls know.
Within their ocean of a soul
bathe the greatest whales
eating oranges.
They grow oranges in their minds
to keep the sun jealous.
Zealously, the gods blow
new passion every morning
Her suprasternal notch ignites
His lips bloom twelve roses
And all clocks stop, and fly
Yet their fusion reeks
Confusion lasting a few weeks
and a painting
A painting of stones born
by their bedside every time they
hug; free
Free love ceases to be a myth
It blinds an entire universe
into entropy for eternity
Her magic, as free, is trapped
in books and lost music
His breath, as lost, cradles
every word
The elephants walk through mirrors
into her
Her blue shirt falls apart
A heart beat crying, squanders
Every button, hiding the moon
A pomegranate seed as red as her vision
Her hands are a mystery
If you touch them, you
feel him, in all sadness and grace
You journey into space.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 6:54 AM UTC
My hair is red. I am alive as the sun.
My heart pumps red. I am alive as fast as I run.
You make me run.
I shave my head in the morning and by midnight I find my fire burning.
The ashes bloom into a red rose.
He finds her in a garden hidden from life like a red, red rose.
Her hair smells like fire.
Like fire, we dance.
Like music, we dance.
The sun rises as red as itself.
May we love.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 6:54 AM UTC
You woke up tomorrow with bleeding ears and thought you were dead.
You gazed in the mirror and it cracked in your head.
You cried in agony but the tears run through the blood and dread.
You looked back and unveiled memories you once over fed.
He shot you right when you were about to taste the baked bread.
You woke up tomorrow with a trembling heart certain its dead.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
I’ve never been that close to a bird
I’ve never been that close to a bird
I’ve never been that close to a bird
I’ve never been that close that close to a bird
The feathers, the colors, oh the beak
It makes me feel all so human and weak
For it can fly so high and I’m doomed to gravity
That freedom, that beauty, is all I seek
I’ve never been that close to a bird
I’ve never been that close to a bird
I’ve never been that close to a bird
I’ve never been that close that close to a bird
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
Hot water in hands
And face cries in the broken mirror
Where last time there was kiss
In a bathroom somewhere
Eyes young and sad
From yesterday when they dream
Rivers of blood where butterfly
Lay eggs
Mornings not happy but
Mourning
Nights not brave
Not knight
Are we here?
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
I tried writing a poem about us birds
But our wings whisper greater songs
Of flight and warmth.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
This is a story about a man who ate love.
An odyssey of his tumultuous travels up above.
Coveting confection, he licked the sweet kiss.
Starving for affection, he swallowed the poor miss.
She lived inside his stomach for years.
Undigested and pretty, she slept in his fears.
Speaking in groans and abdominal aches.
At night, his disemboweled soul, in torment, shakes.
Insufferable disgust and miserably alone.
He prayed in hunger, in agony, to atone.
For once falling in love with a lady of wit.
He threw her up; a meal of true grit.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
I walk in the cold and the snow kisses my face while the breeze makes love to eyes tired of staring into the sun.
I walk in the cold and the silence of unpeopled streets whispers tunes of frozen myths about love and mystery and my ears blush.
I walk in the cold and it bites my red nose as it inhales perfume of chill and smiles.
I walk in the cold and the cool wind waltzes with my red hair on symphonies of crisp snow flakes falling on the ground.
I walk in the cold and my breaths escape as white waves crashing into the emptiness of piercing ice.
I walk in the cold and the cold walks in me.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
Falling in love is mutilating and murdering yourself.
Sharing your love is carrying the dead body, showing it off, all around.
For God’s sake, burn the book or leave it on its shelf.
Or at least hide that horrendous corpse; bury it underground.
But it’s a ****** cemetery, this witty world is.
Every one bragging of decomposed dirt.
Yours surely is more rotten than his.
So smell the rot, you asinine little flirt.
Life should come with a warning label.
WARNING: DEAD BODIES EVERY WHERE.
Ironic, to be born on a doctor’s table.
Then die, massacred in deathly affair.
But we can’t live without love, it’s hilariously tragic.
For death lurks, immortal, in our hearts.
Yet our minds, gullible, believe it’s magic!
Beware, beware of Cupid’s darts.
**** it up, Romeo, move on with life.
Cleanse your soul; stop being sadistic.
Sure it’s beautiful, but not when she’s your wife.
It’s a dead body, you’re stupid and unrealistic.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
Poetry fails me. And I it.
Love has torn me. The final bit.
No longer human, no longer sane.
You dug the grave; a hellish pit.
You named it love. You drank the dirt.
Called me a lady; groped for my skirt.
But a fantasy’s a fantasy and we die.
I am ugly but so is your shirt.
Dry a dream. Fry a heart.
A mind atrophic; a lonely start.
Live in a corner and die a hero.
Save yourself; you’re so smart.
Poetry fails me.
And I it.
Open your eyes.
It’s not rain, it’s spit.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC