#######*


mud
primeval
oozing
inside
mouths
spit out the
hard part of the
life the first time you
open your lips to be
source
of
screams
to bring voice to
the world in mortal
agony                   agony
from a                   voice in
distress                      distress
that's                     coming
from.               a great
rib of fears fears
so deap thy are
unutterable



soulsurvivor

Acid rain leaves the scene.
Steam rises, hovering the ground,
floating knee high,
almost in effort to hide the effects
of the toxic downpour.
Hissing puddles.
Bubbling
Acid.
Draining dangerously into water supplies.
Grasses amputated,
stumps of burnt,
singed bushes remain.
Agonized souls,
each bubbling and spitting.
Oozing raw wounds smoulder
dripping this greasy substance.
Body parts akimbo.
Torso’s scattered,
strewn over the horizon.
One would not know which part
came from which body.  
Showered
with
acid
rain
as they ran.
Heaped into inhuman piles
as they fell.
Mounds of smouldering beacons,
self stacked
as they had fallen in their rush to escape.
Erosion takes its toll.
Gouged and hollowed
like the wood of an
antiquated ship-wreck.
Eyes glowing
like small Planets
in a universal darkness.
Bones emerge
through the nooks and crannies
of this protruding skeleton.
After the storm
they slowly started to creep out
from their hiding places
but mostly all staying in the shaded
covered areas.
This storm past
until the next.
However did we
allow this to happen?
Is this
the End?

_/_/\/_/_/\/___
                                (beeeep)

i'd rather feel
total angst
than

complete
INDIFFERANCE


soulsurvivor
catherine jarvis
(c) october 10, 2014

why
do i see
my face
in the

mirror

why do i
see my breath
superimposed
upon the
cold night
sky

i died
long ago

drown in
your ocean
no deeper
than a

pane

of

glass



soulsurvivor
catherine jarvis
(c) october 9, 2014

when the poems don't come,
where do they go?

silly notion,
what's the commotion...
don't they just wait,
gestate,
till the time is right,
till one fires the starter's pistol,
they come when they come,
right?

no.

poems are journeymen,
cover bands,
looking for work steady,
airborne, breeze borne, atmospheric,
looking for a ready, willing & able
host and hostess

a recognizer of their properties,
willing to offer themselves up,
by adding the final touch
to a project that has
its deadline passed,
needy for a Caesar,
cut it out,
to come and get it

are you willing to add
your name to it,
cutting its chord,
let it pass from the airs of heaven
down the stairs
to an earthly audience?

are you willing to own it?