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 Sep 2013 Ann Beaver
Kat
Greet each other,
With battered hearts
Bite my neck and say
"I’ll meet you after dark"

The night you finally
Took off your disguise
That night
I saw the demons in your eyes

King of kings
In your castles I could hum
Let me be your snow white
And I’ll make you so numb

Kiss my black lips,
And go for the ****
Take your mask off
Let yourself be revealed,
Let me see you for real

Full moon
And I’ll die for you
Take me in your darkness
And tell me what to do
a creature of night, a red eye flight.
a fight with wrong for what ‘feels’ right
a laugh at tears in disbelief
i know. i care. i love. defeat.
a weeping willow’s broken branch
a call to arms. a battle stance.
a float along a river bend
i think. i listen. i make pretend.
history. mystery. his story. her story.
bone breaking. head splitting. heart breaking. score keeping.
the music of life to the tempo of time
the times of my life to the rhythm of rhymes
I’ve loved and felt loved in the heat of the moment
i hurt and i’ve healed through a weathered atonement
the glancing blow. the arrow. the bow.
the f hole. the cleft soul. the square peg. the dog bowl.
a prayer to somebody. anybody. all bodies.
lay with me. stay with me. lonely and made weary.
sunsets and good mornings.
thunderstorm warnings.
inclement. consequent. reverent.
I never meant to…
Her
A mess of things.
That's what they were
are
have been
since the world had become
aware of her sad existence:
A bleak tale of little misfortune
and unimaginable distress.
The powerful sources of melancholy
have claimed another victimless victim!
For you see, she is not a hot mess,
she is a glorious problem.

And a hideous waste of everything beautiful.
In a grand release of exposition
did I stumble through this mess.
Thrown into the midst of my own story.
Where am I?
Who am I?
What did I have for dinner the night before?
The night before that?
Does it matter?
Yes, I suppose it does.
It's all supposed to matter right?
That's the whole purpose of the story
and if the story doesn't matter
then the elements don't matter
and if the elements don't matter
than I don't matter.
Wait.
I don't, do I?
But I'm here and I'm supposed to do something.
But what is that something?
Ah **** it.
That's what I get for coming in on the back end of the story I guess.
In the bounds of space
there is a place
where the corners form
this infinite case
of dwelling.
And in the walls
there are empty calls
from the people
places
things
direction
to somewhere else
you take it and
you meet
greet
the different consciouses
that come out to
linger here
there
where
wherever the corridors
take you
us
me
to the desert
of a deserted
movie theater
to the ocean
of crocodiles
set free across the
tennis courts
outside
but you
us
me
can't get outside.
but you are outside.
Outside of what is
was
might be
real before
and maybe
after
it won't be the same
the name
is there but
you've perhaps forgotten
what it is
was
might be
for you
us
me
neither here
there
where
it's gone.
But it will come back.
My grandma has lived in an apartment building all of my life and I spent most of my childhood there. As I grow older I keep having this re-occuring dream that her apartment building has become an infinite space that I can't seem to leave. Voila.
My lover asks me:
"What is the difference between me and the sky?"
The difference, my love,
Is that when you laugh,
I forget about the sky.
pillars buried
in sand
colored ice
and wax sunrays
bleached blue by
the oncoming tide
 Sep 2013 Ann Beaver
JL
I am a tangled web of scars
Seen and unseen
Man and child
Accustomed to the cold and dark
A black serpent writhed in my chest
The deepness of his fangs and the pull of his grasp
Leaving me swollen, bruised

There is patience in the crook of your arm
Contrasting the track marks  in mine

You dine alone at a table set for two
Your fingers dance about the cold glass of water

Inaatiable is the pull
Pure in in its  testament
Slender chased- taut silent
You observe from the  corner
I cannot read your eyes
The crushing blue beings bring muteness to my lips
Warm and gentle is the  caress of your smile
Your hand warms my cheek
Warming me as a leaf in mornimg sunlight
Daunting mountain of time
I shall climb restless and hungry to prove

But surely this love is true
Tried by fire yet not found wanting
I am entbralled by the organic machinery
Such blue veins upon a pale backdrop
A complexion so radiant
I avert my eyes :  unworthy

I am the broken down wall
Irreparable by Hunan hands
But you grow as vines of green ivy
Between the cracks starving for sun

One day the ivy will consume
And lily blossoms will appear
For all to gaze upon and know
Unselfish love so pure
Teied by fire
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