Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? "  she said... and left it there like a cartoon tumbleweed, caked in glitter and sprite phlegm. she stood across an ocean on an island of outlandish abandonment, where all the mirrors crack.  her passing quakes the stain off her daily betrothal
to a toothless bigot in the land of freedom's end in the hovel of her heart's fall from appointed grace. a place of a thousand cuts and no car. waaaay out in the country of her diminished affections, her eyes could be seen wandering the burnt out villa of her lost love, where she recalls the fairy rings piercing her lips and the trembling of her youth, finding a slow hand to explore the wet *** without peril, soaring with her palm, plastered to a feathered bed in a guest room, in a time-share.
grampa sleep. and bird's nest pitch black.

" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... she slept through it... on to the next disconnect  to get intimate with. she left me there, like a chocolate mint resting on a pillow made of shards of habitual flagellation by candle light and instinct; resting on a bed of nails rusting
in the flood plain of her fondest wish.
she left me there
to conspire with her better demons, to witness - the benign desperation of her frenzied exploration
of actual actualization... to watch her ****** from the jaws of a dire wolf,
her bleeding heart and her ransom.
with her bare teeth and a naked
Truth.

you should have seen her face.

i tattooed her secrets on the iris of a blind ghost, i swore it " abide in her broken heart like an open door with a cool breeze slinking through the fetid air of her self defeat and stale bread bumble bees.
and to abide by her rules
when she finds them... then to ghostly fall
upon his ghost sword by midnight
with a smile that tells hell it cannot claim what rises.
a smile that spat at the devil and pitied his children.
a ghost smile that stole a book from a museum
and never told his other
books why.
those
autumn
color hues
russets and golds
lay in the park lands
children tumble them up
with their feet making piles
they bury themselves neath colors
the waste of warmer days a fun place
lively children playing under the leaf quilt
I can't believe you are here now,
Reading my verses.
You, Writer, who looks skeptically at anything
Which doesn't come from you.
You, Writer, who can appreciate only the words
That come from your own pen
Or from the pen of the dead.
While you adore corpses
Your brothers and sisters
Stay here
Unreaded,
Despised
For you
And for me,
Because I am not better than you.
But maybe together
We can be better
And give to ours friends
More than merely "likes"
In theirs shortest verses,
Because is what our lazyness
Allowed is to read.
Maybe together we can strength
Our verses
Our hearts
And-hour by hour-
All the world.
in the whisker mists of Avalon and the burnt toast
the golden spool of your precious and the lingering annihilation
of so dangerous an absolute.... the mad flute in a gale. an unassailable loon !
i suppose now         the autumn in our wires and the fox too foxy.
we will never gather serpents
in the sweet
bye and bye.
like two jewels on a wednesday
my usual nemesis has struck again and the harbinger of our nexus has just missed.
and the wine in the thimble has never known how quiet
you can get... just rumors .
the couch is worn where we sit. it dips where we recline
in the ludicrous.
He's paid his dues for far too long,
singing other people's songs.
For so long that he's forgotten
the voice that was his own.

Now in crowded bars
and seedy cafes
he plays the tunes
He thinks will pay.
His big break wasn't yesterday
nor will it come tomorrow.

Now he drinks alone, in silence,
of the waters of regret.
His old six stringed companion
is the one true friend still left.

He Had a gift they used to say,
and so he traveled to L.A.
Here he's still singing "Yesterday"
with a genuine dash of sorrow.
Inspired by a club singer named Karen whom I followed as a fan some 30 years ago.  For all I know she may still be making the rounds, still playing "the City of New Orleans.   this is dedicated to people w\with talent who never get the chance to shine.
 May 2013 ASA DOOME
June Rose
I hear a silent cry in the dark of the night,
The cry of loneliness and despair that echoes
Throughout the emptiness that surrounds you.

Alas! I hear the pain and sorrow
Dripping down, down my windowpane
Like the tears that clean your face
As you cry yourself to sleep.

Awaken, my child, for you are not alone.
Come out of the emptiness into the light,
Warming our souls and sweeping away the sorrow
That consumed what's left of what used to be you.
 May 2013 ASA DOOME
Rebecca Smith
Waiting for a love to fill up my senses
Strong enough to break down my defenses
A feeling of complete and utter bliss
Unwaning passion enveloped in every kiss
Feeling complete, like I'm a full person
Nothing can make our relationship worsen
The two of us and no one else
A feeling that I have never felt
A bond so strong no one can break
This meeting wasn't accident; it was fate
Gentle words and selfless actions
Nothing less than a loving reaction
The highest level of respect
Love so precious, it can't be wrecked
Anything in the world I would do to keep
The angel who protects me and makes my heart leap
to hear it sing is to hear it sting where the sun shines
how it's never so real        till it bleeds
through the sundial
like a red fog under
adorable prisons.
it Is what It isn't...  it has needs, you hear it wing through fallow stars on the edge
where there's never been Spring.
to hear it means
to be undone beside the tide pool... in the twinkling of two minds
how it's never so real       till it dreams
mute and  undefiled
like a red god under
house arrest for no reason.
it Is what It isn't... it must be lonely. you're very near it, and it's apples and sacrilege
where there's ever been Holy
such sins have beauty.

it must be lonely...

( my )                                                                 darling

and some thing after

[ It ]

surely
Next page