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J J 4d
Six inches of steel sealed my love
To their casket. Motionless heart drops

and, unseen forever more, the skin clasps
To bone, preparing to fade in peace

While dirt drizzles over the wood
Like mericiful amnesia. Her image will rot

But her skeleton will lay here haunted forever.

We hadn't spoken in so long but as soon as I heard the news I wanted to relieve every conversation.

You were all I liked about school, and I was 'alright, unlike the rest' I'll press my lips

To the grass one time and make believe I'm kissing your head.

In truth, I suppose I'm kissing you goodbye.

I will never see your face again but
I will keep you in mind always, in heart always
And I will not forgive myself for forgetting what

I do. Heart of hearts, I love you
And you were one of the first who made me love life.

And one day I will be your mirror image,
We two reflections hovering the darkness unaware

Of whether there is or isnt any distance to divide.

I'll visit your grave until then. I will speak without ever expecting an answer

And I will always thank you for having had existed at all.
Goodbye,I will miss you always although I never knew you in recent years.
7d · 93
Hevaenly fugue
J J 7d
Maybe we were only made for God to hear gorgeous music
The angels and fishes failed to provide
But then we just got a little carried away with ourselves,
And so he deposited his gloves and dusted his hands
Happy enough with what he got
J J Jan 8
Like a stem floundering through muck
Just to blossom in the sun,
I will do my everything
to make you feel at home.

When December ends and the sea
Reconnects to its frosty coat
And we stroll over pavements
Icey as opioded eyes

I will try to fix myself
Into your fantasy

For I know you could never
Be mine and I know

I have nothing left to lose

Apart from your physical presence.
Jan 4 · 430
The lighthouse man
J J Jan 4
I pose high my chest of ragged ribbons
And unravel a fist to stretch out fingers in search
Of a hand glimmering pale like a lantern
throughout this grey
        empty space. Once a pavement, now as good as

Cloud. Frozen lake. Dust. Boiling ashes. Skeletons.

I am walking on the slashed frames of waves
As jesus once must have. Propelled to a miracle unwitnessned
To anyone but myself. I am impelled to corrode
Into a statue; to remain a rigamortic rotting jade jewel in the sun
Until I no longer can.
Until they found me...

Perhaps they'd dust me off, thaw the ice from my shoulders,
Rehydrate me and gorge me,
Restart the blinking light in my brain
And refrain me evermore from having to seek.

But seek I must, for the lonliness weighs me down
Further by the day. I take half as many steps now as when I began my voyage.
My memories are like ghosts of flames that play
Snakes and ladders and hide and seek.
I am the lighthouse man and I sail drunken--
A rubicund mishape of bone and scuffed thoughts,
I can feel every soul which once embodied and huddled this place.

It's like they are trying so hard to posses me but even
Their souls have been smouldered to whispers
So thin they ring as mutely as the surrounding mist,
So soft they vibrate akin to an infant’s pulse
Throughout these walls, these scrapyards, these crumbling arcades, this sandbox grey that begs for a scream.
The spirit of a tarantula trembles along my back and grazes it teeth against my shoulderblade,
Preying that I turn to confirm it's being –but it's a game I’ve long grown sick of–


I am the lighthouse man and I ceased having a face long ago.
What I recall of my reflection was a child so young and so sure
Of a different life that

I cannot be sure it's even me.

I am the lighthouse man; a puckered bulb balancing on too-big shoulders, that walked
  through barren flat closes and exited empty handed, the lonely poltergeist,
a bitter flab of skin.

I am the lighthouse man and I am the final Aspen leaf in the pond of the universe,
I see myself reflected in a sole star twirling underfoot and overhead
rowing my ears so thick with disfigured silence so that I wish I was born deaf.
I am the lighthouse man and my mind is a spinning fragment
    my eyes can merely follow and my floating steps merely trail.

It never changes tone here, I can only vaguely trace the time
By the occasional moon. Tonight it shines half chewed,
  Befitting the levelled star a sideways crown.
It is beautiful but I mustn't stop to admire, lest a survivor
Scavenger loses patience withholding the last of their scran.

I am the lighthouse man and I haven't eaten in years.

I am the lighthouse man and I bled for the first time yestardy.
I am the lighthouse man and my bulb ricocheted off the base of my skull
In a telling fairy tale dream. I felt static in my head
And my light's ink spilled across my hands and for a minute I thought
My light had gone out. I tasted blood,
Trickled down from my stinging nose and I had never been so scared.

I am the lighthouse man and I never knew I could die.

I am the lighthouse man. Once the world danced with magic and I was
A walking satellite that grew to want to dissapear.
I am the lighthouse man and my decrepitude is casted in my hands:
Black as the night from the dirt collected over the years.
The few slashes of skin clear enough to see look rust-like and obtrusive, outdone only by
My veins like wonky bruises that vine across the silhouetted bone;
Bridging gear to gear, clinking shivering knuckles
         That want nothing more than to surrender.

But I am only frostbit, not frozen.
Life was and thus must still be.
I am a raindrop, not the whole ocean.

I am a walking lighthouse inspecting and guiding empty seas,
A form without virtue
That ceased feeling it's metallic steps too long ago to recall.
A cubist teardrop falling down a grey giant's cheek,
Waiting to be captured and swallowed.

Or perhaps I am climbing uphill, slowly along the circumference of his forehead.
So slowly I cannot notice the rise. Perhaps I was destined to amble in hypnosis,
En route on this colourless limboid curve until I forget the concept of
             a destination, a soul, a matryr jester to rouse me awake...
             and perhaps it is then that I will be blessed with the heavenly bulb

Of the weeping giant on whom's flesh I disturb.
I am the lighthouse man and I dream of purpose.

I am the the lighthouse man with a penchance to levitate
I am the lighthouse man and I am a God without tool or reason.
I am the lighthouse man and I'll walk this limbo until my feet dissapear.

I am the lighthouse man and I am cursed.
I am the lighthouse man transitioning between lives and never knowing
Causality nor the answer. There are no questions to have;

I am the lighthouse man and I must have been a murderer in my past life.
I am the lighthouse man and I can feel my inner fuses twist,
Falling fainter and fainter by the second.
I am the lighthouse man and I will not make it another night.
I am the lighthouse man and I am a memory-bank full of nothing remarkable.
If I felt this months ago then perhaps I would make due with the my sojourn of an empty house, atop a parked car, and perhaps I would be content with rotting.

But now the moon shines so luminously bright and full and close! So very close!
I am the lighthouse man and I chase the moon.
I am the lighthouse man and I vaguely recall my mother saying 'do not eat the moon,
It will give you nightmares!’ and it all suddenly makes sense now.

The stars are all out tonight and they await my company. I am the lighthouse man and now I run.
I run run run run for the sky in ode to the rest of the bodies that abandoned this place.
J J Dec 2019
Her pale flesh trickling rainy vibrations ,
like watching fingers ran along a piano
   In the lense of an X-ray.

Goosebumps pricked and curling,
Her eyes were like self-contained half-moons upon half-moons builded on the budded rose of her lips
That split in a pink smile. The smile you have at that age, fauxly

assured and posing confidence.

Her face is ascribed to God over her mother, her father
  or me.
Her faith is beatless and with a kiss soft as a wrist-binded ribbon,

She said she stores all her faith into me.

A gusto glee that's marinated in the foggy dreams of
Too many days to count, or to care about anymore.

I loved her, and for the first time I believed someone when they said they loved me back.

I could hardly wait to sleep that night with her in my arms
for the very first time.
Dec 2019 · 36
Several short throaways
J J Dec 2019
Reality
was made to be
               deformed.        


I had a dream where Freddy Kruger called me hot
And I never knew whether to be flattered or offended.
I slapped him, but I don't recall my intention in doing so.

To live life in creaky,
jaunty movement;
We are all just flashes
awkwardly colliding.

Walking up the river clyde
Early morning,I believed I
Had just discovered how ghosts
Smell: like ants, funnily enough.


Life's a funny miracle,
I thought I had it budded
To my palms -- but it unravels
Uglier, more amess by the year.
J J Dec 2019
Starry when the night began, we ran ran ran
along running water young enough to have no trace of age.
Alice strung out floating like the prettiest diamond
imaginable.

Kindly petting cheek then struck like a thunderous match,
her face glowed a sinking white-- a face made of candles
lit beneath plaque eye sockets, wildly staring blackness,
lips built on an unfamiliar shade of red,
Flaxen hair that sliced along gemstone irises;

I love love love you. Please, stay a while longer, long
enough to feel like forever-- although I know such is impossible--
Look at those seagulls feeding rain to the distant waves,
Wings soon to be scrambling overhead, let me read you a book
about a girl whom you were probably named after.

I will sing a lullaby and hold hold hold you in it for
as long as I can.
Written 2 and a half years ago
Dec 2019 · 42
One too many ellipses
J J Dec 2019
Lungs balancing life and death
A scream stretched out,spreading
The dog's throat like a malady
As it howled into cold empty air....
J J Nov 2019
she had a long fringe with its tips bluntly burnt.
i could tell then that she was a clumsy smoker,
with her lips curlt ****** red, my hands in her head
she said I had the eyes of a heart crisscrossed with the joker.
Nov 2019 · 580
A moment in nightshade
J J Nov 2019
Look at the stars
Spinning, coursing lightweight
   Through the blackness,
Like ice-coated spiders
Floating gentle, softly interweaving
Cloud and hovering nearly near enough
To be captured by your tiny hands.

It seems all so easy
To stay here mentally forever.

Look at the stars
Drifting magnetically, childlike
In their path. Lost and dreamy,
An image separated from a cause;
Heavenly blessings as they drop close enough
To kiss the roses,
Breezily hoping to rest frozen

'Neath the nest of your tired skin;
Lazily watching the night transition

As others must've all those nights before--
When you were too busy to pay them any mind.
These stars map a codex that laughs at you
While you're fixed to the ground and forced to look
           beautiful.

These stars sing of the dead. Muses without a voice
Or lives to any longer be lead. The stars dream
Silently of you, patiently nibbling at your breath,
Looking forward to the day they can absorb your
            smiling teeth.

The stars hold your spirit and you theirs,
Both constant and unremarkabley dull--
The stars did not ask to be beautiful,
We made them that way. The stars

And you are one, in as much a way as polar opposites
Can be one.
You and the stars, making your fates as you go along...

You and the stars: unintentional twin sisters left astray.

You and the stars: two blind men unravelling an exquiste corpse.
You and the stars: two pawns beating helpless in awe of their sojourn.
You and the stars: complimenting the other like sand does glass.
You and the stars: in awe of each other and the rainwater that
preludes

The moment.
You are the stars, you are the dreamer, you are the observer,
You are the life that has been given life in order to give it back

Sing softly now and lullaby the stars asleep,
Like the son does after growing old for his dying mother,
Like the summer leaves do when their boughs start to snap.
Sing softly for the stars that remind you of whence

Once you were nothing

But a hypnotised lantern

Wandering the endless black.

You and the stars, connect them
even when they appear as aimless

  anxious dots.

Form a shape out of the stars; encarve
And embody the flesh of your own constellation.
Newly added ending (Monday 18th)
Nov 2019 · 143
Rain
J J Nov 2019
Nodding off,
Falling to the concrete
Alone in slow motion;
  (My skin pours with the raindrops)
And for a minute we all fall
Together. Light as the cells
That stitch our flesh.
J J Nov 2019
Tiny mirror of the sky,
    Made trembling by the rain;
                 Scattering like fallen pins.

  Tiny mirror of the sky,
       Jilted by the silver moon;
                    Dawn cocooning a cobweb,

Embracing the scene like a loving womb;

Capturing it mid-flight without it knowing.

And neither of the elements (the skinned sheds
Of ancient element skin) knowing if they shall be

   Constantly floating, coasting freely trapped forever after.
J J Nov 2019
I'll rewind the clock and swear on a life long lost.
Some days all I feel like is a vessel,
A decrepit theaterhouse, running memories.

Staring out with blank eyes at the ceiling.

Finding myself only to lose myself the next day;
Force-fed a shadow from a wall
From in my dreams. I am not this cryptic skin,

I am not who I was, and that is a blessing

I should have accepted and embraced long ago,
I am not a part of the puzzle because the puzzle

                                                         ­        was a myth in the first place.
A personal reminder to stop wasting time.
J J Nov 2019
Life is madness,
But try not to get caught
to the trap of getting too easily
                             astonished.
Nov 2019 · 302
Anna Zemánková
J J Nov 2019
Luminescent skin, spiralling layers pressed
From inside the curling dagger pollen;
Violin strings draw forth the butterflies
Towards their fate, cerberus lips clasp
Wings of dafodil— spotty mossy green
Outcrosses the budded red drooping dead;
Akashic run, like that of a waterfall
Whence rippling pendulums row,caught infinitely.

Glowing stem— seperating to laughing claws
and mandalas paused along fully harmonious crease;
All falls back to fungal soil underground
For which all life is magnetically supported:
Prestine exoskeleton, flaming bones
that weavith skyward with ancestral ghost
softly chasing, having foundated their creator.

Blonde hair binding split petals via waves
  Of furious vibrations, snapped calm and quiet.

Mature flesh and bone, whom let the pencil
Move over pale canvas—
'I picture a clock that's arms spin fire
Outward. '
Poor woman, legless two years
Prior to her deathday— wonderous harbinger
Who once, overwhelmed by the menial day to day,
let pencil fall,skim and form
   and reform

Beautifying the world -- lonely, bold and brave
Her mind image caught, fished through the haze

And etched for the rest of time to forget.
Tribute to an amazing Czech artist
Oct 2019 · 234
Depression poem no. #8766
J J Oct 2019
Some days are so low it hurts,
      Heartbeat racing limbo and spreading
Centre of chest in an empty ache.

Perspective slips, sliding underfoot
       Like a carpart pulled and unravelling,
Enveloping me and passing me by.

Some days floating still, eyes closed
         and wanting to dissapear.
J J Oct 2019
When we die I hope we are reborn as ourselves.
I'd love to meet and fall in love with you
     All over again.

I wish I could unzip your skull and
Caress your brain until you drifted off to
     Sleep. Feeling your dreams

Weave, the circuits entangle and worry
    Unstress at my fingertips.
I wish I could kiss every bad memory

Until there is only us.
I wish we were both happy all the time
And I know that's impossible, but some days

You make it feel so possible, so near, my dearest.

I wish we could float in space with no other company,
Drift until the earth gets lost with the stars, held tightly

At one another's wrists. Beating. Beating. Beating

     Condensed sea's and eidetic sky's.
        I wish I could display my love properly;

Beyond words, beyond flesh,

We are two thirds of a lifetime

And it's one I'll never grow sick of
For as long as you are in my company.

For the moment, hold me close, hold me closer
And let us dream alongside one another, knowing
      Our dreams consist of the other;

Their well-being, their sacrifices, their fears, theirs gripes--
   Their flaws and perks held deep and impeccably still

As a jade flower enwombed to the rarest, blackest of jewels.

As a pulsating constance. As a spectral echo. As a lover
Found and never wanting to fall lost ever again. Yet,

When I die I hope I am rewinded back to my very
First memory. I would love to forget you. Love to hold you
For the very first time for the billionth consecutive time

Without even knowing...

I would love to feel the emptiness that was a world
   Before it was made beautiful, feeling life become something
To be cherished. From first sight to the last, never let me go

And pass alongside me,
Moving throughout me

Some days I think I feel your every heartbeat.
Some days I sense you can feel mine. Be mine and let me be yours.
Whatever may come, whatever may go.
Stay with me and we can outshine any circumstance.

You are my circumstance. You are my beating heart.
You are my life and you my reason for wanting to love myself.
A bit serial killer-ly, hence the title. Love is so hard to express. I think that's the takeaway from this poem. I hope it came out as messily as intended.
Oct 2019 · 164
Life is just
J J Oct 2019
A series of poems
        That range in quality
And seem to be done in freeverse
Until you step back and connect the dots

Your mileage may very, the metre is open for interpretation.

A series of wordsalads,repetition
And screetch-
ing derivity.
Poems do not ask to be wrote
But it is a blessing that they are.
Just as the sun can't help but shine
A poet must write--

Your mileage may vary, your poem is seperate from mine.

Poems do not kneel to time. The reasoning comes
As you go along and is almost always both right and wrong.

But
             Words
Set an
Unrealistic

Standard.

Write your poem the best you can and try your best not to intercept
Or compare
To the works of others. A poem is just a reaction to the world
Going on around and the other poems that inhabit it.

Collages are a necessity, no poet
Is original, and

A poem is only finished when the poet is dead and buried.
Write kindly, write smart, write of art for the sake of
Writing for art. Write free, write based, write loose,
Write dumb, write alot, write nothing some days,
Write because you love to write, write as if one day
Your tongue will be mute and your hands broken

Write in the manner that suits you best.

Life is just what it is
And you make the rest up
As you go along.
J J Oct 2019
Her flesh, a captive of words.
Her life, an interpretation of soul.
Nettles split the skin and lift

Calcified

As we brush aside this side of the road.

Rejuvenating old memories from when
We first met; silent walks, sharing thoughts
On death in eidetic smirks.

Two figures, lit white by the streetlights,
Wandering

Like the florets of the dandelion--
Disbanding from their headquarters
  To float and be peacefully dead for a while.
J J Oct 2019
Death's flowing scroll
Aweing as you misstep,falling
In a loop which,once surpassed,
Is encompassed with laughter.
Glaring down,screaming.
You both scream in unison,so bitter
It causes the trees in the glen
To bend and whimper—

Flickering back in time for a moment:
Snakebones traced from inside the walls
Slithering malady for countless centuries;
Shedding it's calloused flakes from time to time...
What is that which the starshine overhead emulates?
Is it whiteblood or mere rain? lo,mere dust
Thrown throughout the black sky.

Death guides you to the brim of the cliff.
He is uniformed in your old clothes,brandishing eery whispers
  By the flick of his tongue. 'Scream now
And you will scream for an eternity.'
Might delete soon but nonetheless. Inspired by two very underrated creative geniuses of the 20th century
Lyn Ward paid his due in influencing the graphic novel with his wordless novels -specifically, Gods' Man, which's ending this scene is based on-
And George Macbeth might be the best Scottish poet and one of the best experimental poets of the 20th century. He was fairly popular in his time but for whatever reason has fallen into obscurity as of late.
J J Oct 2019
A crow kissing skeleton skull
   And pecking dirt in the process.

Lace my ashes with flower seeds
   So that I may live a little longer.

I'd love to feel the rain
  Drip down my veins once again,
And make-believe the strid formed
    Will never dissapear. But

The dead don't get to decide that much
   Ahead.
Crow bleeding sunny black eyes, sing a song
As we

         Cross into morning. Crow, that maps my skin
          In sanskrit, please go a little softer. It's not
          That I never expected to die, it's just that I
           Never pictured it so sudden; and it's still

So long to go until I'm found...
Crow, would you be so kind as
To keep me company until then?
J J Oct 2019
One day the moon will stop.
    Settling it's last motion unto eternal stillnes;
   And the ground will quake, craters will rattle

And we'll lift like lanterns, light as lit matchsticks
  As we rise to the final night sky.
   Joining the ranks of stars forever stillborn.

The oceans will quiver along one last circlet
  In ode to their past life and the lives they lived through,
   And we will look down at our old skin...

         Never feeling ready enough to properly reincarnate;
Oct 2019 · 100
Untitled
J J Oct 2019
Being special isn't worth ****
   Unless you've got the work ethic
                                                         To­ go along with it.
J J Oct 2019
Holy buddy holly clears the air
      and adds to the scene,slowly overtaking it
    as if it set it to begin with (as
                music usually does) floating freefall
And dreamy slippin'an'slidin'peepin'an'hidin'
    And you sing along sleepily although you
   Only know half the words. Teeth clamping wet,
Suckling like the wind does hollow church bells.
When we are old and our bodies beigin to break
   Yours is still the face I want to wake up to,

I lie still as the sunny rose, weightless as the torrid sea,
    free as I can be inspite of another's presence-- and certain

That I love you and you love I; and the music of the dead
    Plays for us and through us. You make it a joy to be at all.
Oct 2019 · 79
Jesus in philosophy
J J Oct 2019
I heard the water,running as water hadn’t ran before,
as I pressed my ear to his chest;we were drunk
with nowhere to go, we were where we were, and until dawn
We’d have to wait that way  – In silence save for whispers,
Until dawn – a crucifix of an almost neon blue
hung against his wall; Jesus’ image had sagged,and whether through darkness
or through age he was faceless,featureless and blent into his own cross.
Between our unclothed skin and the streetlamp caught coldly in the window
that wooden cross served as our sole light. Most of the time
I kept still,eyes closed with my breath held,my words sealed,in motionless throat;
Waiting for you to speak – hoping you wouldn’t – hoping I could continue to listen
As the water that had raced through your chest began to settle and thin to blood
Written when I was fourteen after a night spent at my best friend at the time's house after the last bus left and it was raining heavily. He was the only Christian I knew at a non-Christian school and although I was a full-blown athiest at the time,I did go to a catholic primary school and found it fascinating as a topic if nothing else, so he was the only person I could discuss religion with on-end, although we rarely did.
Oct 2019 · 121
Held through the storm.
J J Oct 2019
Her arms locking round me, her warm embrace
         Like cashmere touched for the very first time
And feeling too perfect,too comforting to exist.
J J Oct 2019
Prickly morning sun strings up
      the hair on her arms as she gazes,
watching the waves bobble and weave and listening
to their dead seashells and shellfish;
       ricketing and momentarily floating.

For a moment, her heart is the ocean.
  Always beating and providing life without
knowing why. She sighs and begins to forget she is lost--
The synthetic shores of everyday life at her backfoot,
   the burning sand ridden with childhood memories.
She slowly allows it to dissapear
and recaptures a piece of her self
                                                            ­  in return;

Belonging to this ocean as much she does the sky it reflects.

Calling, lamenting her name without a word, the ocean
     lullabies her soothing sighs, falling rythmatically now--
Raindrops disinter the clouds and tickle the rythm
     of her pulse. Soft, soft backing instrument to her final
            calling. There is no need to look around again;
  
There is no guard in sight. The prickly sunshine fades
  To ruthless cold air and she walks forward, mouth agape
        and ready

For the ocean to swallow her and recapture her, entombed,
     enwombed forever more.
Oct 2019 · 224
Silent gods at play
J J Oct 2019
We walk among silent god's;
Intercepting our every pulse, our every step.
    Tracing our every breath unto its last--
  Connecting every life, race and element--
and occasionally, knotting our shoe laces
when we arent looking as we're about
                                                    to cross the road...
Fingers crossed this was the last 403 error thingy,I've missed this site.
Oct 2019 · 325
Writing is--
J J Oct 2019
Trying to catch a slice of thought process;
Like capturing lightening in a jar
            Only to smell it's exhumes.

It's a blessed freedom, to release
  an experience; an imitation of the world,
or an imitation of how others wrote and expressed
    the world, and at constant conflict to lose it's voice.

It can be enjoyably difficult (the best hobbies
    usually are) or flow smooth as blood thru vein.
   Pulling blood from a stone and unexpectedly
    heaving rainbowy rainwater can be it's own virtue--

    An idea caught half undeveloped
Only to shed cocoon to join the white blankness
And forever tarnish it's history--

A gorgeous priveledge in it's constricted freedom
(As is existence,although we're too modest to admit it)

Writing is a piece of you and you belong to the human race,
and doubleedged a sword as that certitude is,
Writing is a piece of us left to the world.
Writing is forever
J J Oct 2019
sun fades to dawn;
sky blushed,cerise to maude
I'd love to live a day
in your mind, I'd stay
              starstruck in the mirror

but there is nothing here to reflect,
  only our eyes to record. Your teeth dissect
apple slices and shape a smile.
I love your eyes, I love how they forecast the sky

   wavering,blossoming in slow motion
and carving a sleekit masterpiece that parodies the ocean.

I could stay like this forever, imbued in
     beautiful silence, your beautiful presence;
I've no hesitance to let the time float by
   around us, by your side I feel safer than ever.
Oct 2019 · 52
Brain damaged
J J Oct 2019
Like a prism unravelling
    At the sight of it's own ugly reflection

Without a care, without a thought;
My heart beats calmly in it's place

And reminds me I'm still here.

My face has aged so many years, I feel I've lived

   A few condensed lifetimes and the year's
                 not even over yet,
Is it brain damage or being stuck in a doldrum?
I dont know and neither does it matter.

My brain is bleeding, my thoughts are scattered
Like a violent death translated
         Via zig-zags in a pulse monitor.

Dont let me die without a scream,
     Dont let me be this way forever.
J J Oct 2019
Most of my life has consisted of inner dialogue  

I know your mind more than you'd care to admit yourself;
Through your ****** twitchture's that identify a life time
In their every snapshot, I love you.
I love you, I love you, I love you,
I love you so much as to want to taste your life
And suckle away and ride aside any bad memories
Then hold you warm forever after.

I think our first kiss lasted
like the the afterdust of some supernova star
   I wish we could stay like this forever,
I feel I could only learn to love you more.
Sep 2019 · 66
Pennies for teeth
J J Sep 2019
Fluted cap dripping skull matter thin as blood
as ice, as milk,
we sat rotting in the sun
alone and pretending we werent
lest we be left out again
not again, my lover
my motherly carer my sister my brother
please see that the first to die does so
in the other's arms
corrupt and corroded beyond
ae looking glass charm.

The night floats through the day
    as
Sun skins the dirt underfoot
  and a whole winter seeps
our morphine stasis,
    planted cosmically in place
   forever and ever for a day,my love that I must one day forget
    
that one day must die as the earth dies as i must

     only to be reborn as we dreamt

In the cold ashen season where coal
   lines the cracks along our wall.
Heavenly July days that seem so far a way.

You gathered my thoughts,nirvana shepherdess
   that shed lively shards of grass over formica;
You held me warm as the flies peeled my skin,
    budding me close warm enough to make the needed death
feel not so drastic, feel calmer than words could express.
J J Sep 2019
On again,off and then departing
From homeward sail based in the sky--
I heard the woman gowned in all phantom white
Wandering the gardeny streets,
Her barefooted steps concussing the concrete.

She walked beside me and watched as I trembled
With her eyes that windowed memories in the same way
A camera captures a scene or a seashell a slice of the ocean
And I never think to ask the whole story.

Her lips permanently signal silence,
Her skin porcelain like her nails and teeth
   And when she speaks,it's in a lilt so light it sparks your bones.

'Do you think it should rain later this morning?'
As relayed,my bones spark and my heart edges closer
To my throat. 'The sky is static-grey and gloomy as is'
She replied 'yes, but some rain would give it some character'

We spent the remaining wander without a word
   Then the woman dissapeared. On my way home
I felt droplets bite through the fabric of my shoes
    And I suppose the woman got her answer.
Sunny white morning brushed through the bushy clouds.
J J Sep 2019
Council house dilapidated and brittle as the bones
     That inhabited it, invalid mother bedridden,drugdazed
With a prescription-based carnival skull and sore lungs
   sustained from years of cigarettes and TB.

In the night there was machine gun coughter, foxes
        howling frost -if you looked outside you could see them
stringing silver from their fangs on the street below-
   And I went downstairs to fix her some tea
          because for the first time in years she asked me

And the storm outside lifted the window to the edges
     of it's brims

And I felt a stinging ping as an ache
    Spread the crevice of my spine

And I thought 'is this it? is this the life I've instore?'
        and as it turns out,it was it.

                                        It is it.

I remember once lying on that cold kitchen floor
     after getting home from school
worried about something or another,
   biting my nails and dreaming a hundred million
Futures on the ceiling and wondering how they could ever

           Come true.
Not as polished as I'd like but oh well
Sep 2019 · 80
Un title d
J J Sep 2019
therupetic monologue
                                  that taunts as its teaches
singing it's song at tooth's breadth
                                     To my sordid chest.

in the mirror my ****** features distant
        And zoning,
                              Try to love myself and a las,
I love you like chaos loves the silence.

Concrete morning swings along the window pane
   and ushers in a dreary reminder: not to get lost if

You're iffy on your
                                way back home.
J J Sep 2019
We found a cosy enough scene amongst the chaos,
Two strangers connecting among a crowd
like anxious magnets in a scrapyard
And it felt
A first encounter with a lifetime lover from some other dimension;
my self in a sense, caught to the reflection of an opposite ***.

We were the 'quiet ones' in our own regard
Prone to panic attacks and sudden unruly suggestion of madness and lengthy times of introvert
And although there was a lifesworth we never knew
There was enough of an understanding to
Make conversation. I mostly listened,
Lost in your voice. I don't think I'd ever gotten on with
Someone so quick
                            but
   There are some beautiful people in the world that do that:
By the end of a conversation you're ready to hold them
A million years
                     Or more.

The second conversation came later in the night,
Listening to the flowery clock locked to her chest
her mouth stirring cockerel shells and laughing honey teeth
liltly blind; oceanblue irises circumference marble black
            pupils, puffy cheeks and half moon lips
                            curled and split in a caring smirk;

it seems impossible
to imagine being you and not thinking myself beautiful
Yet you say that's the case,
And like my expression was open to telepathy
She said the very same thing back to me and we both thought
I love you
but neither could say it.

There probably wasnt enough similarities to make up
For the differences.
Sep 2019 · 189
Untitled
J J Sep 2019
plauge-ridden robbers
cut through the lonesome night and
its shallow starshine
Sep 2019 · 552
Just to let you know
J J Sep 2019
The truth is I love you,
I love you more than anyone else would
And I love you all the more
For loving me more than anyone else could.
I'm so glad we could save one another.
J J Sep 2019
Weeping sonatas haunt the patio
Underlined with your twisting fingertips
Once ablur and tracing Beethoven Debussy
Mozart and Bach and it's all gone now—
I still recall your grey eyes as clearly as the rusted
and snagged red wood that forms the old arbour
Where we use to sit and trade stories.
Still here and seeming
A relic that should have been forgotten.—
I  watch the sun turn the wood white
Then crackle crisply into night, I can still
Hear your spectral steps from the day you
Left us.

I slept in the bed that used to be yours wondering
   why.
Written about two years ago.
Sep 2019 · 166
Maroon
J J Sep 2019
Cross the sea, cross the land, ticking bomb stranded
***** totem in an aged biscuit tan.
Slit-slash, the sun is an open wound
Across the sky that preludes a myriad of boredom's

The wind caught their blank faces and froze them
Thawless, invincible as a corpse and forever
Parading the street. When I was younger
I wanted to sit on a rock and watch history go by
But now I'm not so optimistic, I'm on the run in a sense

Living life on the dime of a lucky sixpence, pensiveness
Only seems to waste time. 'You get busy living' they say,
'Or you get busy criming.'
Sep 2019 · 225
Lover withdrawal
J J Sep 2019
Like an amphetamine fiend
Clawing through a winter storm
Trembling and dawning laborious scars

I trek passed the bars and cars
In search of you and the memories
You left, trying to trace a past life long

Obscened
Aug 2019 · 963
Apologetic disappointment
J J Aug 2019
Including the hangover,
                                       that's two wasted days.
J J Aug 2019
Autumn,with the force of rapid thunder
Dawns the sky, clawing the lake asunder
  Beneath our steps
As we leapt
  To,fro,and to again;

Here we burn, trapped to our limboid sojourn
Gasping for air as the Daemon sits without a care
Tracing and chasing the ends of his thinning thread
Connecting to our voodoo dolls, laments of our death
In silent whispers only existant at all by the dents
Where our mouths should be.

This dreaded haunting, this memory looped
With crimson nails the Daemon draws hoops
Pliable as a smoke ring from laughing lips,
The Daemon strings us by his fingertips—
Reminds us we alone created hell on earth—
You can taste it in the kicked up dust,
The unlexical powder that remarks our birth
In this stale heat, our skin starts to crust.

I called you my best yet, you said I was a settlement in a lost bet,
I called you a ***** and wished I drownt you in the wishing well
Where you'd only have other mute spirits left to tell; I set

Out on a ****** scheme that night--
To slit your throat as you awoke and watch you fight
Without a chance.
I watched you in your contorted dance and felt you lift,
Shiver and go stiff
Dying in my arms. But as I sighed I felt invisible red eyes
Settle on us from the willows
Behind the blindness window.

I heard a needle scrape, a scornful moan and a bat's descry.
I knew then I truly was the pawn in a wicked game
Who's evil was signatured in our name.

The devil netted your soul dear, and already had mine.
And as I sat straddled over your limpid frame, frozen in time
And feeling his nails, like worn toolbox screws, along my spine
I oddly thought pleasantly of better times:

Of our first meeting on that autumnal day, when caught in the breeze
And kissing discreetly
Amongst the trees
and along the lake we simontaniously compared to the mythical  Lethe.

I loved you then, oh how I did,
And in return, we'll love forever—
Us, the looping dead.
Aug 2019 · 114
Metaphysical exit
J J Aug 2019
There she stands,
An angel with broken hands,
An angel with stones for wings,
She sings the sun away
And spins timorous sky ashade
Of wonder, thunder row'n’ down
Her body, she sang of me
As I died asleep

Another night, my eyes too worn to cry,
Too alone for an expression of lonliness
     To bare any meaning.

The sapphire trail
Skylark doled to drain
The riverrun grass of
       Substance built.

Lifted in hypoxic transcendence
Glistening with light, ****** gold,
Skin to lilt, and touch to felt
And dawn rotted unto morning
With one less life having made it.
Aug 2019 · 1.2k
Morning philosophy
J J Aug 2019
I contemplate
the inevitability of
                   Death
                          Over the course of a
Cigarette
As Otis Redding plays.
                         I should really stop smoking...
My last cigarette and my last poem for a little while.
Aug 2019 · 152
teen angst decision making
J J Aug 2019
the boy has a match
                       in his back poc ket. hovering
                                                     janky steps
                                             sheathed by fluffy ice
                       chest reverb erates
as a single rain drop
                                   trickled in pinful loop...
theforestwaits
                            Undisturbed
not wanting to be burnt but he rations
      not wanting anything at all.
in destroying one makes                                something

                    whence once

     there was                                                       nothing. he

s t r i k e s the match aflame and alive,
    l
      o
         w ering it fit to spread
and surely cause his life some havoc... havoc...
havochavochavoc
                                  HAVOC
                               H A V O C
                                                   havoc;

   he ruminates the meaning of the word a while
and settles
    on it being better than boring old nothing.
Yes,I've read e.e cummings,why do you a
sk ? ?
J J Aug 2019
Cresol dusk imbued to rustic hypnosis,
The civic stroll outside,zombified with
What must be glorious ataxia.

The masquerade hosted by dust,
An implicit surrender to the elements,
Basked in nocturnia-- lo,

The elements ceased having meaning
When I learnt I could not hold control
  over them.

See the sky ramp and shiver,shuffling stars
In a showcase to those loving,an augury to those
Self-appointed sinners--

And see me,disconnected and without a care,
I surrender my breath as limboid tangents
And the elements do not rebut.

I am homed in becoming alone,
I am possessed in converse and I am lost
  without the choice to be otherwise.

I watch the gimcrack mannerisms loop effably,
Understanding the road to omniscience is tipped
In ego alone--

One must not surrender,rather accept
And work a way round the system.
The cosmic map is eidetic,it's lanuage
  dares not pander to speech,
  it's sleep is one day needed
  and complimentary to our own--

I listen to the madrigal and no longer seek to compose it,
I choose to believe that nothing is chosen.
(LONG AFTERWARD) I began posting here under a different name years ago and decided to revisit the site only recently after a string of publishing rejections,despite an urge to abandon poetry all together. What's amazed me most is the growth of talent,particularly one S. Olsen,looking through much of my older work(few of which ive published here) I've found a lot of similarities,from similar phrasing's,vocabulary,format's,viewpoint's,etc. Despite not knowing of him until recently. Simply put,he is the poet i aspired to be when poetry was what my life revolved around,the best of his kind. I would rank him among my favourite contemporaries and if not for this site I'd never have discovered him, this poem shows more of my voice than his,I think,but that is a further example of his own unreplicable voice. Keep strong,brother, whatever helps helps and your writing has helped me greatly.
Aug 2019 · 383
Ritualistic Cubism
J J Aug 2019
Along the grass,beneath the sky
The draconic sun vitrified
The lover figurines.
Flattening them
Adjacent to the surface,
Skin blent in crackly tessellation,
Deforming to fit the sphere,adhering to it's
Wondrous silence.
Frail limbs minute,heart's heavy as whole islands.

Is it not love embodied to lay defined as an image?
To be held as shatterless glass,reflecting it's deity's melting
In progress, 'neath the star that impelled a shelter,
The star that paved their meeting,that overlooked
Their life and death in a predetermined stasis,
The divinity that shimmered underfoot at all times,
The star that held all places of the earth in one.

The figurine lovers, faceless mannikinis
Sentenced to worship forever without a choice,
For prior love, for prior sins,
It matters not--they rot and twist as the Sun's play-dice.
J J Aug 2019
I don't leave my house much
and I keep to myself, dysthymia at my peak
    These days.
Blood in the sink after brushing my teeth for the first time in weeks
  and feeling all the more disgusted for it,although
I know it a mini victory in itself,enough of a sign for hope--
better than any ******* self-help book could suggest--
The laughing jittering chitchat all-being lovely paranoia stage has passed
And now i feel the hangover.
Luckily,the eureka's glued on too
And the reflection is easier to inspect now--
you know that Hemmingway quote:
Write drunk,edit sober? Like that,but over the coarse of a lifetime.
And how boring sober life is after the highest peak,but on the same note,
I've flushed the drugs to deter temptation,to better myself--
When i was bad they made me okay,
When i was great they made me even better,the world even closer...
But they're a ruining process. I've learnt to love the blossoming passion flower of my mind,
Although i want so to hate it currently.
I know i am,i know the universe is,and if you're reading this then you too are;
And that's all that needs to matter sometimes.

Through silence,through recluse,through art,through pen,through therapy,through time,through honesty,through dream,through woe,through laughter,through scream, through power,through weakness embraced,through fire,through love,
Through a madness unhinged but always aware
Of self and all surrounding;
You do what you can to get by,but most importantly,you do what you can to better yourself.

You don't have to be perfect everyday,
you dont have to be perfect most days,
But if you're trying for anything at all,you're braver than you could be,and not yet as strong as you should be
And that is a  very   very    good inspiration
I'm not doing the best at the moment but writing is one of the things keeping me going strong. I thought I'd rant and rave about the process of finding inspiration when you least want it. First line borrowed...well,full on nicked, from Soko.
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