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who wants to share
they’ve seen
but the mask
of god

I admit, I confess

as a painter
of chameleons

the art of the bruise

is lost
 Jul 2016 Christine Ueri
mike dm
she never stood a chance,
of course - so
she stood
oblique to it.

drawn forth
by odd thoughtful urge shaped,
her lines scribbled
tall orders small:

till all there is, is.
dm micklow
Sunset orange spilling onto
the grass-splattered grotto;
where silicon body lay, wading,
and the ******* float up,
hovering bone-white ****,
emerald eyes towards the
galactic-gutter ceiling.

I.

Their knuckles drag the dust,
kissing broken boulder.
She wraps ***** arms around,
as she rests on his shoulder.

Birds swing and spin like
fleshy, fluid tops.
If you study them
with your tired eyes,
their dancing never stops.

II.

The cactus juice helps them
see each-other, and they
sing of spontaneous Gods
that torment the desert floor
they swim upon, waiting for
her, whom wades amongst stone.

Movies and shows, albums and
singles splinter their psyches;
what could you remind
that sneaks from behind,
and nibbles their Nikes.

III.

I remember the ways
she lied, his face cracked,
but I forgive her. I forgive
the other men she loved
instead of me, I forgive
her for accepting me,
I forgive myself for
believing that the
greater I hurt,
the deeper I loved.

Little girl scratched at the sand,
looking at him, her hair as dry
as the plants scampering by.
I have always loved you,
she croaked, I have always
been more than a child
in the dreams I share
with you. I feel as coarse
as this wasteland, existing
only to us, her, and a thread
hanging suspended from time.

IV.

Their bodies plopped onto
the moist, coffee soil.
They drank the ground,
their blood pushing faster,
racing the rushing tide.
And in the distance, a shine
before the eternity, a hope
beyond the shore.

A skeletal fist wrapped his wrist,
at the end, she asked him to forget.
But he dove and swam towards
the rock cave tomb, breaking
through the electric waves.

Little girl fell, knees swallowed
by the baptismal sand,
she wept and asked him
to come back, please
come back.


V.

His face brushed the stone wall,
he kissed and called until
wine-red smeared his face,
until he tasted copper
swarm his mouth.

A brief moment, he felt himself,
he felt the world photographed.
Rays spit out between the cracks,
rocks explode, vomitting over.

Shard of slate speared his stomach,
and he remembered October:
Santa Fe, where they fought,
she shoved, he begged,
battered lips brushing past,
leaving photo albums and a
note, in blue ballpoint,
stating that it would
never last.

VI.

Dying moments consisted
of anxious pulls at the shard,
cutting his hands open,
adrift towards her lifeless
pearl, pure exposed rib body,
begging, kissing, shoving,
proclamations of forgiveness.

Bleeding out, he shook her,
asking to be loved as the wall
closed, capturing their bodies,
preserving the desperation
of his broken nature.
He and she, bled,
bled, bled.
it gets around
at auction
that the crucified
they are planning
to bid
on a pair
of ballet shoes
worn
thrice
by the mistress
of radiation’s
exposed
angel

/  still, it’s nothing to shake a stick at

the addict’s
board game
Tell me what is most real to you today;
what makes your heart beat faster, moves your soul.
Put what completes your world out on display.

Your triumphs and your struggles on your Way,
or virtues in another to extol.
Tell me what is most real to you today.

Your cleverness, your wit come out to play
or cleansing tears, for life will take its toll.
Put what completes your life out on display.

Please, kindly rid your writings of cliche
for simple recitation leaves me cold.
Tell me what is most real to you today.

I'm eager to hear what you have to say,
so whisper in italics, shout in bold;
put what completes your world out on display.

And never let your muse become dismayed
by words from uninspired online trolls.
Tell me what is most real to you today;
put what completes your world out on display.
the holder
of stomachs

licking
clean
the doll
of a depressed
ventriloquist
I have been taught
by those much wiser
and more experienced
that if I am disturbed,
I have in some way
caused the disturbance.
Whether by ignorance
or inaction,
intent or mistake.
I am responsible
for the actions
I take; no one
can "make me"
do or feel anything.

Practice does not make perfect;
practice makes permanent.
Be ****** careful, then,
what you practice.
A little consideration of one's own words and actions and consideration of others goes a long way.
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