Migration as a Swallow


We are one at soliped
of love and bend,
  of low and sliver
In roar of distance,
knuckle lock existence
tears of a small proud child
a woman into womb
torn to open wound
remembering his eyes
his laugh, his soft song
longing of never land
goodbyes,
to swollen hot earth
  to the dry of my eyes
birds flying young
to make a Swallow
branch here
in the old songs
of the south.

My eyes

are the shade of awkward
the shy smile of summer silence

that billow and snap with the wind
and flap like the white of open sails

across a hopeless depth of winter sea,
the color of nautical moss

Waves pretend they love me with bold
demonstration to drive a worn wedge

between a rock and a hard place
where my eyes shone in the sway

of compass depths in coral greens,
colorless, without the caress of sun.

My Masterpiece
If I had the hands
of a Master Sculptor
I would mold the lines
of your face to my mind,
where for all time
I could visit and admire
what I behold
when I looked at you.

Should these painters fingers
find the deft
Of ability to paint in naked hues
a destiny
in twilight afterglows long denied,
I’d paint two,
one for me and you.

If I were a maestro of music
I would play
One Solitary note
that awoke a worthy world
to a breakable breathless heart,
shattered
but still collectible.

If I were an adequate poet
I would share  in pictograph
of parnassian light
your certain savoir-faire
so all could read
you as I do,
so untamed and exquisitely rare,
claimed by many
but never
will you ever...
be truly owned.

Never Play With Your Food

Warning
This Poem is rated Mature and may contain material unsuitable for readers under 18.



Fire hoops are for circus dogs
and astral planes are fueled by
groovy Astro-knots

come here

I have an unreachable itch
and I need you to scratch it


tenderly,


until it stops bleeding.


Nine and 1/2 weeks
looks like Hans Christian Anderson


in drag


where a heart still calls 911
off a bathroom wall


for a good time,


where death

wears tassels
and paisley,


and I scream your name
in quinolyl fairy tales.

Nun Perfect

Tell me how you do that,
teach me how you go to sleep
in one city and wake up half way
across the continent with less money
in the safe than the local corner parishioner
in a 1963 black and white miracle movie.

When my mother was murdered,
I was among the “Lilies of the Field”.

I swore I would never fall in love
with a drifter who would leave and
break your heart, disappoint you,
with his Solomon meander in the only
way Sidney Poitier could ever do after
erecting a church with the strong arms
of a Acer nigrum, silently in the night.

But to the Nun(s) he was perfect
without a waving goodbye,
or long drawn out farewells...

he wasn't much for tears either.

If you are worried about the dog,
she's gone where all old good dogs go
to meet their predecessors in the
sweet soup of the creator's mind.

I was so sorry to hear, while I slept
in the back seat of an old Ion mind,
with my little piggy tail still curled
and snoring at my feet, you know,
she slept in a furnace all day,
all that heat can pack a girl up.

Home and crossing boundaries.

So every Cowboy hat ever born
under a starry sky with a cigar
dangling from his lip would hear
me whoop under the Lone star,
he's close, but none's perfect.

She's pretty **** close to broken
yarns of roads and *** holes of beautiful,
to pride's sore, red eyes.


© 2014 Corset

Ode to a Hen
A Prose by Corset

Just yesterday I contemplated
never to pick up a pen again,
then I realized,
In a different reality
I could be a hen,
and I began imagining life
as a chicken.

A huge **** would wake me
long before the frost burned off,
climb on my back
pull out my neck feathers
make me birth a football
every **** day,
only to have cold human hands
steal it away while it's warming,
frying up my unborn child
and having it for breakfast.

Inevitably, a fox will show up
during the dead of night and
steal my clucking sisters,
but never
the **** bird that wakes me
before the sun rise; and I
having no sleep at all;
will birth another football.

now, I feel better,

don't you?

Of Bedlam and Prayers


The heart Is love in Bedlam
soft soled like a man singing
a word of  yahaak-ku
standing so close  that his
shoulders almost touch me
in prayer,
claims to be my love's clone.


But my love lies inside a hill
in the song of the Whip-poor-will
where my blood *** is running
in streams of ***** desire, and
never tires of singing.


River banks and fevered coffers
liquid gold and frozen sun
pumping in soft blue veins,
my blood is red as love it came
shining on spills of disarray.


A kiss away, only a kiss away
all those dark corners
of yours and mine gone.


In the long drawn space of his tomb,
in time, he asked for my death
pink in fragrant flox to cover
a good wide earth.


On my flowered knees I wept
cheek to the straining blade
pressed an ear to hear,
holding my breath,
glistening...listening
for his faint breath to cycle
into a heartbeat of spring.

O' Jerusalem tree,
were we as perfect
we would have no voice,
nor raise a phantom limb
to strike at the desolate heart
of  such
wild beauty.

No, we must
cairn usage words,
like yellow gold combs
to hold your wanton hair.

So we might mark our place
among this desolate face,
to weep with grace
in this land of stone,
should there be no thirst
for veracious words
nor the sound
of human
timber.

Once green
Once green
A Poem by Corset

Maybe I should write from here
from the last,
Once green of life,
autumn colors fading...

Maybe,
from the drift of dandelion;
the first successful
pucker of a whistle;
how those two images
where embedded together
from beginnings...

in black Patent leather
how my feet looked white frilled
endings blade trimmed green,
how Rainbows look in March dew.

How the baby beds in Sunshine Lodge
in 1968 resemble cages
locked down in the dark.

How beautiful my mothers
mahogany locks look against
silky coffin beige.

Maybe I should write from here
from the last,
Once green of life.

She's a mystery
our little vase.
just sitting out there
in the cosmos
all alone
with her hour glass
figure. It's time
to wake up and don
the 'morrow...
oh, such a powerful


p
r
  e
   t
    t
     y
       new dress!

Einstein visits my bathroom
walls spouting bright ideas
about (ILL)uminati nation,
and it's coffee drinking
friends.

I'm sorry sir, but I don't subscribe,
I sleep very well, thank you.

I've lost half a front tooth to winter
already,  tripped over laundry
baskets and almost broke my neck doing
the limbo...and the makers of Beano can't
keep enough stocked on the shelf,
oh no,
not I.

It's crazy how clumsy
i'm becoming of late.
tumbling into shell,
little green pistachios
tender meat
fledgling tuition's
not this sweet thing,
I'm not buying what you
ladies and gents want to sell,
I'll keep my wings,
my hearts and flowers,
no disrespect,
Thank you just the same.
I was never into Halloween
or the things that bump
into the night, or cackle
like mad hens in my half wake.

I prefer love, not the half light,
not the lime stand where Mr. Todd and I
have had quite the conversation yesterday,
who does he think he's fooling?

Ill advised, I might say, to play with
such things, such as the sweetness of
the naive flock, let's just say I've
been properly introduced
and my eyes are open,
and leave it there
on the ***** step
with the musical instruments
and the rainbows, I prefer
to be colorless like the page.

No trade darlings, nice try,
but I love you...
and anytime you'd like
to take a ride into the outfield
and watch the ballgame,
from the sidelines of a
couple of overheated stars,
remember, beautiful rays am I,
in which you may trust,
an accidental supernova,
see how the star's tracks
are blinking, winking, and
tapping out love letters
in Morris code...all for you
baby, all for you,
I intend to blow this pop stand
walk off  into the fog, whole,
in love, with or without you.

Phantom Itch
A Poem by Corset




Right there...
...and... not...


I've got that itch again,
the one
that Amputees
know so well...

He always loved the color of my eyes
after tears,

you would laugh at me and still
court the silence

process the cold
without me.

Sing off key
without fear...

brave the holidays
but still remember
you were once a part of me

Phantom Limb
that was loved.

A soul ache of compassion
the severed branch
untouchable,
the occupied
empty.

Pitt
A Poem by Corset

How could anyone mistake her for a Pitt Bull?
Those soft jowls and square headed wrinkles
Sweet Mana-T,
we are the Walrus Koo Koo ka choo...

Pops with his skin on fire,
a real hair -hell-raiser

we didn't buy that white castle

no moats, no boats

no tight sunned mailman at the door
pony tailed to his ***.

what...

I'm old,
... not dead.

makes the Buddha smile
it does...

She went and got herself all
God polished, cartooned
very High and very mighty,
it's the only way to hang
incognito,
Sometimes overcome with joy,

he is writing somewhere,
like a lovers bite to the breast

black and blue

like bruising...like hickies

tickle


it makes him happy.
in return,
it makes me happy


...and weird **** just keeps
...happening...

we should talk.

No, Now I live on top of a garden,
a virtual Gnomes paradise,
the owner of this garden
is a wrinkly Lady Gaga-Gnome
centuries old
thumping up to my door at three A.M.
duct taping the bad news to the dark
of my vacuum-less door.

"You, ma'am- are breaking the rules"

She; who thinks the homeowners
association should KNOW
about my extremely "timid
hide under the bed at the
slightest movement"

This sable mini Shar pei-looking

Pitt Bull-

steel jawed Staffordshire Bull Terrier
trembling at the reflection of
her ferocious self.

Newsflash: This just in...daughter... terror stricken...out shopping for handgun.

Gift of eternal feather
sun seared into light
inside my veins
born to soar,
climbs so high
My butter milk sky,
jump, fold, dive
the amazing try,
fold of origami,
sunday best pressed,
white washed walls
The sea cliff of god.
the ripe fruition
oh sweet fig,  
salt of promised land,
peace wept branch,
an armistice stands,
the sightless sings,
for the broken wings,
moon filled mellow songs.
dizzying peak,
scrambled scaled
for fear of heights,
fantastic belief.

oh surely,
when one
is  falling,
the only way
to splash
gracefully,
is to plummet.

I've never proclaimed be an Angel
wearing the weighted wings
of the innocent sacrifice.

I've never claimed to be Diablo,
though pitch forks and red
are certainly my best colors.

I don't remember exclaiming truths
or swallowing serums, or vows of full
disclosure, especially the ones
I don't want to hear.

I proclaim love with a beggars sign
in the middle of the April desert
but someone chopped it down.

now, I proclaim noise,
turbulent, breathless
surrender to the voice
of the quiet night.

I remember promises of April.

He wants his honey in lace
and combat boots.


A hip so smooth it burns like
whiskey going down,


and dreams that spell
like perfume
when he lights her cigarette
and dives into never-land.


she wants a fair fight
a fighting chance.


This is an equal opportunity
my space,
Coxbones and ashes.

Red gold stroking strings
of Terra-cotta tocsin,
bounced a check today
and we wonder
will she rot in her cups?
How might we drink
all these donuts...
as a finger stirs the air,
her drum roll eyes...
time became tree limbs
of propaganda.

Why.

Cloud kissed
by hills
hemmed in
by patchwork stone,
a providence in Perugia
her cobalt dreams
strum gypsy wings
where
yellow fringed faces
follow the sun,
an itinerant balloon
tints the grass fucshia
then drifts away
to kiss the sky.

You can not be a window
sealed,
Eden dreamt Bara bara
eleven years of December

Spirit wedded bliss
soul promised
pushing
a name
love light divine
non-negotiable,
the elephants never cry

(not like they used to)

not into king sized kisses
not into water buildings
and I am past
my grid

show her the pain
of a dead whistle

pure veined pride

Where does your soul
go when you are sleeping
why be afraid to
close your eyes?

I wanted to be your hero
raised arms outstretched
dashing across fields of daisies

I wanted you to bed
the person I imagined
you to be,
a heartsease river
of soliloquy.

The evening sipped
Its golden bright,
as the sun spilled
it's yellow stomach
spoke in streams
of babbled havoc.
Slinging a silvery palm
along the slender hip
of wanton youth in
wishful grip.

O' to be young,
to be young
without the cares
of the infirm full,
of knar's and knot
like the desires of an
old oak tree.

To touch,
the velvet rose light
of the beauty
in her skin,
lovingly caressed
of wistful eye
and
age of bristle.

The road to
has been long.
Worn each day
charmed upon wrist,
shiny trinkets of
silver,
jingling
forget-me-not.

The sound of smiles
were sometimes
counted upon like days
taken for granted
we should always be
lips turned up
in the darker corners.

The way sunlight strobes
through glinting trees
at 70 miles an hour
on our way home
to somewhere,
we have to be
for fresh coffee.

Never dreamed
we would ever be,
roadside
our tongues tied
words strung like
feathered frowns
of long dead Indians
battered by the way side.
Morrison-esk tears on blue
voice of a stranger's hat-
Imagine that
a cursed heart
that slays the dawn
waves angered on
stands still waiting
roadside Samaritans
will live without eyes,
laughter of friends,
stumbling worlds
will be less everything
colorful,
when you are gone.

There were trim grains in the wood
that framed the streaming light
from a window early bright
which bent with a firm bristle
forms from a sweet morn.


Strokes of a strong hand,
"he's painting"
I said to the pillow.

to none, was I explaining
but he was there,
with his Modigliani oils
laying his soul bare.


Medium streaming thumb
in the mouth of palette
in cool colored thoughts
of blue-eyed mysticism,
Avocado hues and the many,
warmed robes of Saratoga.

She stands in the doorway
of his mind
blocking access
casually,
he can not wait;

not for psychology
to lock itself out,
psychologically;

He wants to find things
like the tooth paste
in her mouth,
goals maybe
sensum, hope
maybe some humility,
or match books
or destiny involved,
opening gates
of engagement
seeing frames that
come up
from peoples minds
streaming from the
paranormal den
doin' it, getting
in their face.

But he didn't,
cut her off
did he?
Not the way you wanted
not the way
a garbage disposal
grinds to wake you up
in the mornings
with responsibility
every minute
A destination,
A demand...

One blink
into the next,
a continuance,
every ache
a breakable cord,
tired but tethered
to her accordion heart.

The trees began to bend
sussurus with sound
September was so close
I could smell her breath.
A gold medalist
twirling Oak leaves
in her hands,
gathered
in bunches and
scattered them
skyward
with a gust
of wind.

Remember me
he spins
remember me
in
September,
'neath school books
and apricot Essays,
with necklaces
strung of
purple clover.

She follows, she follows...
A Poem by Corset


It's Christmas again
 we try to try
and we confess to
a kind of madness

we gather
the smell of your skin
dangling like lost stars
while millions mass
entitled to our sick days

Tree top swing
eyelids sweating in white pulse
'cause you do not understand
intimacy until you have
shaved your wife in the
wilderness of cowboys
and the dust settled dawn

hoof and mane remain the same
conversation

I try to remember the sound
of your laughter,
I can only recall mine,
it is meant to be
only a few moments ago
Christmas Eve like a thirsty
rabbit went into his hole
drank him deep asleep
into the floor

our working class demons
can't look at each other
without a pick axe and
all I can think is

"I hope you got tailgate"
and she follows, and she follows
the one,
that my brothers and sisters
call "the missing" dream.

Layers of steamy pick ups,
rejoined a staggering crowd
behind the bar,
(who put that thought there?)
I partitioned that wall
for me to bump into,
as if it weren't there
just moments ago.

A shifting maze,
my mind,
it's labyrinth
ever changing,
rearranging,
scratching the interior
of my scull,
fingernails on chalk board
grind stone
against stone,
making my teeth
ache
until I,
I pull them one by one,
like red angry children
lined up for you.

I offer them to you,
without their fleshly clothes,
roots showing as a forest
of ivory trees,
wearing true colors
on bare bleached sleeve.

How could the mountains
forget
the ground beneath them

or the clouds deny
the sky

we bear this mark
this Galactic conception
and yet
we become fictional

a small etch
of understanding

nonexistent sketch
in the dredge pituitary

a one
dimensional edge
we watch like
a picture
show

existentialist
and it's fiery
seed

shooting it's
burning flames into
the black womb
soon to die
or birth a moon,

the candle is the soul
it is intent
that keeps it lit,

it is our lack of
immaculate
perception
that pulls it apart

Roche's limit
yearning
to string pearls
around heavenly
bodies
as
charisma reaches
to embrace
a burning,
and I see fire.

It was harrowing,
the way the darkness
crept into her cage
the sudden change
in demeanor
no longer
a will to share,
the teeth marks
she left behind
in the calves
of leg
the loss of mind,
employment,
fragment and bones,
the very fabric
of home lay
torn and bleeding,
her red ribbon muzzle
tear stained in
separation

It was harrowing,
the madness
pulling apart
at the seam of
consciousness,
and then
she disappeared,
as if she never began,
and all that
is left of her,
are her
blackbird eyes.

Soap Box "B"
A Poem by Corset



Be
an
American.
Be brave or stupid
Be hetrosexual, or not
Be Married.
Be a woman, Be a Man
Be what you want.
Be any beautiful shade you are
Be of sound temperament
Be loved by the same faces
that loved you yesterday
Be together.
Be brave, Be young and
Be passionate about politics
Be your country
Be democracy
Be on T.V.
Be a selfie
Be destructive
Be rebellious
Be arrested.
Be on the pill or iud
Be responsible or
Be pregnant
Be proud of your choices.

Be Haiti reconstructed
Be the billions with
nothing to show for it.
Be the tin house you live in.
Be the private bank
Be the education it builds
Be the proof of education.
Be corrupt, Be rich
Be a woman bent for president
Be his wife
Be hacked
Be downloaded
Be incredulous
Be hopeful
Be ridiculous
Be Crass
Be honest
Be charismatic
Be belligerent sober
Be incumbent.
Be remembered
Be relieved
Be backed up with Pence
Be pleasantly suprised
Be concilitory
Be loyal
Be humbled by enormity
Be a drama queen
Be insulted
Be a star
Be a model
Be a first lady
Be the love that tr(i)ump(hs)
over hate
Be a good loser
Be all the American
you can be...
be politically correct
Be legalized
Be ******
Be familiar with the first admendment
Be a reporter
Be citizen Kane

Be an American
Be diverse
Be accepting
Be welcome
Be of any ethniticity,
race, creed, religion or
of ****** orient

But first you have to be
a citizen,
so,
Be
One.
Indivisable.



© 2016 Corset

Sundown in Onyx


Warning This Poem is rated Mature and may contain material unsuitable for readers under 18.

Ask if we are far along enough
now
for a close up,
when my eyes are closed
it's my heart that answers
in body movements.

So does it really matter
from whence the wind comes
who tags along with strings
and violins as long as it brings
him to me
gently.


and  gently he would come,
opens me as
soft as petals,
prying inside, branded,
as hot as a red iron
with his blushing in me.

brushing of cheeks,
in plaits of winter twine
and in my mind ,
I could not stop this soul
song from happening.


takes me into it's web of desire, and
cradles me there wet and unfolding
as a flower that
blooms in the dark dew
of June nights and gold leaves.

grasp my lower jaw and force
apart my lips, open my mouth ,
and check for teeth ,
examining the inner walls
filled with the width of the world
in subconscious whispers
slowly exploring the fit within reach.


love this body that calls for a raven
shameless and craven,
thoughts of him
black as onyx at my neck
oval as half of eternity,
there is no space
between my heart
and where this sun goes
down.

Impossible.
love is.
Like trying to move
a water sprinkler
without getting wet.

Thirsty blades,
like legs dancing
clouds overhead
off in the distance
a wallflower
is drifting away
with the pink
of a sailor's sunset.

Coolest of shades
waiting for cloud and clap
to rain in some courage.

It's always about the sky
skies and trains:
me and Rimbaud,
like underwear
and *****
is Bukowski;
they just seem to
go together,
seem to
understand
each other in such a way
that they really don't,
but they keep bucking
like a wild bronco
resisting the ride
that would
take them further
than the end of the
circular track.

Taming of the Shrew


I would do anything for you,
trembling avowed,
summer swept
sweet lipped,
sugar dipped
surrender
I become:
a Victorian sonnet  sailing;
the river banks of Seine
when you are near,
thirsty love ,
bistro champagne
oils,
parasols and bubbling dreams,
tickle all my senses
shimmering of moonlight
kisses breathe into me
the lights of shooting fire
flowers, and my
errant tongue
is stilled.

It follows my movements
behind a seashell,
every few steps
it drops the cup
over it's shoulder
prolifically it shifts
positions, so do I,
as slight of hand.

If the secret of love
is buried in his armpit,
and it is, maniacally.
Tho' not the kind
you buy at the movies,
of optimist derringers,
smoking guns.
Still,
flight begins when
the sun goes down
it shifts euphemistic trees
like shadow puppets
into walls of passion,
makes bulimia dreams
of doughnut holes,
something sweet
craving bakery counters
and bagels take up
the lonesome place
still ringing in our ears,
my ears,
placards hanging lobes
of the emotionally distressed,
handicapped dangle
I can't move my tongue
...again.
But, they still hear love
whisper their name
just before
the dawn becomes.
Sunny rising sonic
boom that scatters the birds
all  into synchronized
sign language.
We strain,
to hear them sing anthems
over the roof tops,
it makes us happy to hear
every time,
just one more time.

Last Eve was full of dreams
visions of butterfly's
in green and white
fluttering as a leaf
and I was mesmerized
by it's ability to camouflage
as it danced before my eyes
and even as it frolicked,
a larger blue and black
Monarch settled upon it's back
and the leaf was consumed.

As the Monarch,
equal in it's beauty
took it's place to dance
and hover,
before my eyes came
a great and mighty
snake it's mouth open
pink and red was it's
throat, as it consumed
the dancing Monarch.

I was frightened by it's
size and so I closed my eyes
became very still, I could feel
it's warm breath upon my hands;
but it found me of no threat
and so slid away;

I opened my eyes and peered
out of the open window
and there upon the dirt road
leading to the place where I stood
were many wild animals
of many kinds as if marching
to Noah's Ark.

I raised my camera to document
this incredible event
then went to warn the others
I showed them  the documentation
but they seemed unconcerned,
so I glanced at the picture
and there upon the road,
not animals but joggers,
a marathon on the move
running for a cause.

That is when I realized
we are all just wild
animals in the cycle of life
just running , mating, consuming
endlessly,
without a cause to believe in.

The last thunderstorm ends
with a kiss,
eyes close on smiles
remembering you like this...
like some small raw
epidemic of love
planting seeds in the aftertaste
of ecstasy,
forming thoughts as mountains
make mist,
condenses the rest of this world
to shadows in the fog,
like a morning wish
of no regret.

I stare into the shadows
and remember
the Panhandle dust
that made them,
fuzzy now,
around the edges.

The mural that somehow
felt sacred on fire
the tumbleweeds in your
eyes as they rolled to
look into the distance.

How the lightening
struck your hair and
left it white overnight,
and the way you clawed
to find the door to
anywhere
else...

I remember the trip home,
how the early spring wind
howled through the empty
windows, the necklace
around my neck
the cherry red
ball of vines
awaiting my return,
as if to say
yes, he was here,
but now he is gone...
and gone is what he is,
will always be,
but here,
here is a bite of me
to always remember
those tears that echoed
in silence.

The Moon

We are the waxen crescent feast of star shine
the poetic moon groom,
the romantic echo of sun
while it murmurs in swishing tide of peaceful sleep
each half of the heart drawn by the moonlit *****
strolling the Titanic proportionate
a two headed bobbing horizon lost at sea
could you dream of me in dune songs
whispering tomorrow dawning in summer sonnets
could you think of me possibly
when ever you gaze up at a waxing Moon.

Three By Sea

Shall we wax as moon flower
in distant array,
swayed by first light of day
shall we retire by nightly beam
it's blue-white ray pathed
by cobblestone glistening?

Shall we skim naked as treetops
alive in the drift of whey
the woe of worlds surrendered
to the torrid heat of day
if the night is cool carressing?

Shall we blush in wistful velleity,
billowing voice as coarse drawn sail
our tragic beauty her blacken veil
should Dawn draw her curtain to
earthen edge?

Shall we pledge constant to Cresent
the lively heart of we three stars,
to grace his cheek in shivering war
all our brothers, lovers, sons?

Shall we all be inspired horizons,
a shimmering star in selenotropism
blooming wildly grateful in the dark
to spread the heavens,
to light the sea?

Tomb Raider
A Poem by Corset


..."and if he's got a tomb
you should go in"
"But you can't knock..."
"on the door;
the door's wide open"

A singing budget cut.
B Movie,
cheap thrills

"I'm going to FXXK
with her"...
"you are going to die"...

..."why do you say things like that"
"you know I heard you just now"
..."Oh sorry"

"beautful"...

...Contentment.
(smirk)...

Mid-way house...

(she turns over and flips her hair
away from her neck.)

..."you said no..."

..."I was afraid"...

..."only half way there"...

..."there are circumstances"

"to over come"...

..."like this knife"

Only if tomorrow comes
will I be with thee,
For if tomorrow never comes
our love will never be.
Unlike the changing winds
of time the memories live
entwined,
and if
the morrow never comes
your heart will still
be mine.

He came to me in a dream
with friendly teeth and
conversation; casual,
Conversation at his side
an entity in itself,
as his echoed thought;
Neither of which
was familiar.

The Dinosuar,
wearing his smile
I was happy to see
it made me happy
to see him,
not at all afraid
to ask
T-Rex with his
red breast,

"what do you see,
how shines my aura"

it is clean, it is pretty?
see how it sparkles,
surely it dances?

"nay, he says "I would
more describe it as Avesta'
A library of sacred text."

yes, chimes his shadow,
sir conversation,
I would describe it
as Avesta too"

Disappointment mixed
with confusion, an
ancient religion.

I would have much preferred
sprinkles and Rainbows,
maybe some
glitter.

Tumescent Red
A Poem by Eve
Aka Corset


I waited for you...
longing for you to say
what you wanted
was too empty
and beneath me.

Your silk of summer
madness drowned
in my liquid smile.

I knelt in your malady,
fractured thought...
Slept in your shade
with pride,
cool stability
unwinding
swallowed
by your parched finesse.

******* reformist tongue.

On conquered hips
my vanquished lips
tumescent red,
pulsing ...
your crush of mastery
bitten
till they bled
with my own desire.

© 2007 Somerista, Eve, Corset

Palm Kiss,
my spooky little ***** house
at Halloween,
you are amazing.

I am aware of that...
and, and, and
I'll be thinking of you...

at the moment,
I can't.

That's a waste of time.

Our finest words
hit her bathroom sink,
I know you can't see
the afternoon right now...

not with the Hinterland gleaming
a mustard seed *****
with stems of bushy brown
all aglow where
the sun slants into
heaven's gate.

Love has a selective memory
murmuring an opuscule
melody,
when the sky slides into
droplets,
broken- beaded chain
playing in the dripping
golden pediment
blushing red feathered veins
into the autumn leaf.

I will be thinking of you...
though at the moment...
I
can't,

That's such a precious waste of time.

As thoughts come on this day
in the quiet of my blind
comes a lonesome whistle
in the distance  of my mind.

Days became years,
when we walked like children
past single bomb shelter
knee tucked isles,
chests in the fiery furnace
thunder in the winter room.

We are still innocent,
No whistle,
no siren to mark today,
we will never forget and
in silence a mind wanders.

Among cheering crowds
are snapping pendants,
JFK littered sidewalks and
brown buildings on Elm street
that watch with haunting eyes.

White kid gloves carefully turn
pages at a book depository
while she reaches for bits and
pieces of his mind
A- line dresses mural *******
the anguish of morning pearls.

Stripes and Stars sing denial
the world is debutante numb
rain sounds on the sill
like woodpeckers on tin,
she cries out and over again,
all the king's courses,
all the king's gin can not put
an egg back together again.

They are still innocent,
No whistle,
no siren to mark the day,
and we shall never forget
the days became years...
when we walked with the
silence of innocence.

Somewhere
behind the poses
lie the real dreams
of the Roses,
they're drinking wine
but thinking gin
and how they
torched that place
with sin.
A taste of pure
before the cut
left her feeling
anything but...
Somewhere
behind the poses
lie the real dreams
of the Roses,
they're thinking wine
but drinking gin
and how they
torch that place
with sin.

A cry assails my window
a child has a broken heart,
life is harsh and she's afraid,
mother said a harsh word
she fell down, the world
too big, too cruel
she wails,
drops her bottle,
she wails
stumps her toe,
she wails
her favorite doll ruined,
she wails,
palms bruised and scratched
she wails
and no one hesitates.

Father walks too far ahead
she teeters to stand,
her wails carried on the wind
no one picks her up,
she must learn to endure
life's obstacles,
she gains footing and
stands , bursts forward
on wobbling legs,
Father turns and smiles
waits to dust her off,
takes her hand,
and the world begins
again.

I close my eyes and you are all that I see

even when open
on occasion  the outline
of U
is a holographic letter
a word imprint hallucination  of you
present and on my peripheral
at the corners of my eyes in 3 -D
and on my lips,
you linger
where you never were before
my world fell down and I found you
fetal by my side.

Wistaria
A Poem by Corset

...and if you could see
how those blooms
hang their heads
after making the move
into empty open spaces

Their bright faces pungently
stretching 'or Mesas
yearning for one
not so tight in after life.

If we could touch the soil
to keep it moist
fears would feed like rain,
crying edible
and they would never die.

Limbs would not crumble
but climb ever high
their backs of bark
carved into
hearts and letters.

Resplendent and warm
the night would know
her poetry.

In this house is a trousseau of deception
walking into Clarksdale
where we are perpendicular lines
of perception
at a crossroad of 61 & 49.


She pretends to be a guitar
played by his aching tooth
where she dressed all in scarlet
put candies in her cooch.

She is a ledge of peeks and coos
Pigeons of Pharmacia
scroll peoples lives from Venice beach
come to be souls just out of reach.

..and a voice shouts out from heaven
it's not to late to turn back
just a little faith my girl
is all that you really lack.

she wanted someone to save him
well, that's just not my job
those are words for redeemers
where I simply refuse to mob.

But I hope to see you there my friend
should you find yourself able
feast on the words of lambs
Eucharists at his table.

Come, we'll hold
his hand together
no longer singing
words of one,
run, scatter
hide
as innocent
babes
of Babylon.