Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Marco Jul 17
the cold lake water sits in my bones
the plywood violin plays open highway blues
the fear of 23 coming up
and water, water, water

Summer sun in books, pages of salt
a dream of Buddha, Dharma, cult
and strangers’ love letters on
typewriters, ink dancing on black pages now
the killing of Butterfly Joe on
Denver roads and New York benzedrine
a very literal poem including
punks, Derry, football,
poetry read by angelic voices and naked wonders
dreams about Neal and I being cops
they all wore red in Oregon
a wedding missed soon
cold brew coffee and Janis Joplin
white ink,
uncomfortable touch, eyes glued on life.
Jul 10 · 38
A Last Thought
Marco Jul 10
A song of shell and thunder whistles past my ear
the crack of distant laughter, empty and hollow,
your voice amid the terror stands out to me so clear
while heavy shrapnel nestles between my ribs.

"Mother of God!" one cries out in horror -
and clammy hands reaching for the collar of my shirt,
tugging, ripping, sending buttons flying steep as bullets,
for  frightened boys to burrow into my chest and pull out the lead.

Your eyes are focused in the blur, a raging sea of darkest green
bewildered at the sight of a deep red river
pouring towards the valley of my hip, the small dip between
bone and muscle, obscenely pooling like a strange lake;

Inviting you for a swim, had the barrel of a German gun then
missed its mark and pointed left; alas, I sit
and bleed to death underneath your fear-stained gaze; I apologize
and in the haze I lift my arm to gently graze the dried mud on your cheek.

The trench has lost another light, or what was left of its sorry embers;
I pray you will sleep sound tonight, ears shut tight from
screaming, laughing, crying, dying - just think,
if it bears not too much pain, of my love, and speak my name when

My mother asks about her son - with steady voice you tell her
that with a smile on my lips and a warmth in my breast
I thought of her, and passed on.
This is inspired by poetry emerging from WWI / the battle of Dunkirk.
Marco Jul 4
I exist between here and the deep blue sea;
here, and the olive tree;
between water and mango.
I sign letters in another's name
to profess my love to you;
like lilac in wind and rain
I endure.

Like rosehips in a summer breeze
swaying in their gentle dance -
bending to the higher force
in devoted trance.

And my love is wild and wicked
as a thicket of thorned roses;
my heart, that hungry, livid thing
twists itself in painful poses
at the mere sight of your face.

What is a soul when split in two,
if not a home to return to?

What is your gentle, tender touch
if not the ultimate reward,
a dream come true, an ache for more -
the yearning for "la petite mort".

I want to touch you like the ocean
crashing against a rocky shore.
I want to taste you like Eve
taking the first bite of sweetness.
I want to see you, hear you sing,
watch you throw yourself into the fire
of the night, the heat surrounding
your naked body, and mine.

I want to hold your legs apart
and flick my tongue against ripe fruit,
a peach-furry, strange delight,
red and eager, biting back,
licking scratching opening, not
in defense, but pleasure.

I exist between here and the deep blue sea;
between here, and the olive tree;
between thigh and hip.
I sign letters in another's name
to profess my love to you;
like a hummingbird at sunrise
I want to drink the morning dew.
Jul 3 · 49
Wine, Wine
Marco Jul 3
The liquid
the suffering
the deep red so deep and red
that only the sea could be more blue
The glass, the green
The intoxicating colors
of a lonely evening
or a dinner date
The stains of anger or
happiness or
fear
Wine, wine
the liquid,
the joy.
The slowed reflexes and
the numbed pain and
the misfiring nerve endings -
the cerebral palsy of alcohol.
The divorced mother of alcohols,
the best friends reuniting,
the new house celebrating,
the variety of steak cutlery,
the funeral of alcohols.
Wine, wine,
the deepest end of a sea
everyone dares to drown in,
and words that can’t be taken back
and deeds that cannot be undone
and promises that are foolishly made,
and birthdays to be celebrated,
and weddings to be held,
and dances to be danced,
all under the soft, dark cloak of
wine, wine.
Marco Jun 24
my church is a lake
the great big rippling dark green its hall
and the tree on the other side
(the big one with the slit in its trunk,
for the sun (God) to shine through)
is its altar
and I can hear Him speak as
the wind that rustles the leaves

a thousand brilliant-green leaves
shaking in His gentle breath
the branches studded with angels
His children that dance as spots of sunlight
on the leaves, on the water, on my head
and Emilio in the freckles on my shoulders

the lake is my church
I float in the water and pray
to God with my arms wide open, I pray
for you
to drift into my embrace
so I will never let you go;
I will never let you go.
Jun 16 · 654
In Eros
Marco Jun 16
You and I, handcrafted in lust,
borne of sea and blood -
you, of Aphrodite,
and I, of Ares.
The violence of your love
destined to be matched only
by the tenderness of my violence.

And my hands, war-given, strong,
made for battle,
grow soft at your hips, and
softer yet at the cliff of your thighs,
as they crash softly in the bay in-between.
And how these hands long for you, my child of goddess,

long for you like the armor of my chest longs
for your sweet mouth,
longs for your gentle fingertips
in the calm before the storm.
The passion of your tenderness a momentary reprieve
before I go to war;

and when I go, oh, the power that overcomes me,
and the weapons I will bring,
and the blood I will draw.
In the fashion of my father, as he tied Aphrodite's hair
in his fist, and
as he broke down her barriers, claiming her city,
her temple,
her soul.

The lullaby of her moans
reminiscent in your voice,
my favorite sound and
my chosen battle cry.
Marco Jun 16
The land of milk and honey
is liquid again -
all rivers flowing, all
summer winds blowing, all
leaves green and fresh

if there is
a price for love, a price for your touch,
I'll gladly pay the Pharaoh,
I'll gladly be the crutch for
all his wise men and oracles,
all his wives and daughters and sons

I'll carry their burdens with joy,
every day, night for night,
spurned on by the promise of
your lips, your thighs,
your honeysuckle skin, your
rose colored hair, your
sun-kissed face, the spots dancing on your nose.

In the land of milk and honey
I found my worship in its rivers,
its seas of gold and pearl,
its lap that's filled with lilacs and rosehips,
and I will kiss you good morning until
the sun doesn't rise and
the stars don't shine and
the moon doesn't watch our prayers at night anymore.
Jun 11 · 133
Ares Falls For Aphrodite
Marco Jun 11
“I love you” in its kaleidoscope dress dances
like sunshine upon the waves -
does it remind you of something?
Does it remind you of me, my love,
as I sit here and write and break my heart over
entertaining a fantasy;

For you to say my name, just once - just once -
to hear your gentle breath exclaim this personal ecstasy of mine,
this declaration of victory that yes, I am myself!
Finally, instantly -
just one word from your lips - this word - and the fever of
battle inside me rages,
the body ready to swim all seas and win all wars,
to tear up all earth just
for you -
to find you, my lover, yes,
to return to a home of you.
I promise I will, and forever more I shall,
in exchange for the sound of
your rose water perfumed voice
caressing the essence of my Self.

I could
spin this song forever
let it wash endlessly
through the streets of the world, just to
declare my love for you,
just to shout your name into the night
or sing it as gracefully as I could
to infect every heart and ear with my feeling,
this emotion that overpowers me,
makes me crumble, fall to my feet,
lift my voice to highest praise, a taste unfamiliar to my mouth;
praise does not come so easily to me as the blade to a throat.
So have I not done enough to prove myself to you?
Have I not given all my heart, and all my soul, too -

Still no word. No answer.
The hunger inside my heart throws me forward,
edges me closer to the abyss,
the forlorn nothing, the never-ending absence,
a loveless mist to swallow me forever,
and you, my only savior, looking on,
your face a stone-cold mask.
You don’t want to let me in.
Don’t take my hand - for I could pull you down with me,
couldn’t I, my love?
The only power I possess is destruction.
This fragile bird of ours,
I swallow it whole between gnashing teeth,
and snap the neck of delicacy with the careless tongue
of unrequited love.

And who am I, after all,
but covered in dirt and blood, kneeling
at the altar of your love,
begging for my life as if
all the wars and battles won
matter nothing now. Perhaps they don’t -
what good is honor to me if
you crush it with one bare foot?
What good are strength and death and victory if
I was never destined to succeed in the king’s battle -
the last stand my heart could take, only to
lose the fight?
I have died more viciously by the sharp cut of your cool shoulder,
my love,
than I have ever hurt at the hands of a thousand men.

I, warlike, once a God,
wounded and fallen, now,
collapsed without dignity at your feet,
pleading for mercy
and crying, with every sense of emotion,
“I love you.”
Apr 18 · 110
T H E D E S E R T
Marco Apr 18
HOT WIND ON YOUR SKIN BURNS YOUR FACE BURNS YOUR EYES BURNS YOUR HANDS LIKE THE SAND BURNS YOUR FEET BURNS YOUR THIGHS YOUR BRAIN FRIES IN THE HEAT
AND YOU CANNOT STAND IT ANY LONGER PARCHED AND THIRSTY DYING OF THIRST NO WATER ANYWHERE NOT A DROP NOT EVEN TEARS OR SWEAT TO WET YOUR TONGUE NOTHING TO TOUCH YOUR THROAT LIKE THE MEMORIES OF HER OF HIM OF EVERYONE WHO EVER LOVED YOU ALL
THE MEN AND WOMEN YOU LET INTO YOUR BEDROOM ALL THE HANDS THAT TOUCHED YOU AND ALL THE LIPS THAT KISSED AND ALL THE TONGUES THAT LICKED THE SWEAT FROM YOUR SKIN THAT BURNED WITH LUST AND LONGING AND DESIRE UNBOUND AND NOW THE DESERT HOT AND EMPTY NO WATER TO BE FOUND NO TOUCH TO BE FELT NO SOUND TO BE HEARD ONLY SUN SUN SUN AND HEAT HEAT HEAT AND SAND SAND SAND NOTHING BUT THE GREAT BIG SKY SILENT AND BLUE
AND THE HEAPS OF SAND YELLOW BURNING SAND DUNES AND DUNES OF FINE GRAIN
JESUS WENT INTO THE DESERT AND MOSES WENT INTO THE DESERT AND YOU WENT INTO THE DESERT BUT YOU DID NOT FIND GOD HE IS NOT HERE HE IS ELSEWHERE ANYWHERE BUT HERE JESUS AND MOSES LIED THEY NEVER MET HIM THEY CAME HERE TO DIE AND LET THEIR EGOS PERISH AND IN THAT THEY DISCOVERED GOD DISCOVERED THEMSELVES DISCOVERED THEIR SOULS TO KNOW YOURSELF IS TO KNOW GOD MY FRIEND AND THERE IS NO GOD IN THE DESERT UNLESS YOU WANT TO CALL YOURSELF THE GOD OF YOUR OWN LIFE AND THE GOD OF YOUR OWN CREATING THE GOD OF YOUR OWN HEART AND MIND AND SOUL
AND YOU COME BACK CLEANSED THE DESERT NEVER LEAVES YOU YOU COME BACK CLEANSED AND READY AND GOOD AND GOD YOU COME BACK A GOD.
Apr 9 · 78
Jesus Was A Witch
Marco Apr 9
With the open gates of Babylon
the holy flood poured on and on
through frond-covered stone ways
on grieving Palm Sunday
and the ****** water endlessly rushed
as if turned to wine by Jesus's touch

we were his disciples but behaved like sinners
he walked on water as we took from the rich
the godless romans were quick to condemn us
thus Jesus was crucified for being a witch

they set our stakes ablaze in the night
the darkness enflamed by unholy light
covered our heads with white cotton hoods
and barefoot we stumbled through dusk-silenced woods
we could hear the flames crack like whips in the dark
as they reached for us who were blessed with death's mark.
Apr 9 · 57
PANIC WATER
Marco Apr 9
the tide, a never-ending olive green
the advance made silently in
the pitch black night,
dark as the leather on their feet.

wading through the water
a muddy yellow tinged with blood
dripping like machine gun fire
opened fire in the jungle thicket

the river is full of them
treading panic water  to escape
treading on landmines -
little pots of death leaving crates,
cutting arms, legs, limbs gone,
lost in the panic water

soldiers in the river,
men in the panic water,
friends in the throes of death
clinging to each other,
kissing olive canvas with red lips
"Tell my girl I love her if I don't make it back!"
holding each other while holding their breath
listening, listening for the next agent to fall
like rain

and orange the rain on viet cong,
the american hatred dropping like bombs,
on ferns and palm trees losing their green
on children losing their voices from all the screaming and crying
their fathers tired of fighting and hanging loose
like landmine limbs,
in the reeds by the river,
waiting for death.
Feb 27 · 251
Surrender
Marco Feb 27
under a blood red moon
the sea is calling
screaming, roaring,
for me to drown

to run into the cruel dark waves
let them overcome me
flush through my insides
and I won't fight, I'll
lose the war willingly
surrender to the deep black sea

ice-cold and merciless
a soul-crushing mistress
devastating, relentless
it almost feels like loving
her
Feb 27 · 107
Santana in the wind
Marco Feb 27
San Francisco, 1977
I sat by my window and listened
to the crying of Carlos Santana and the wind
His guitar told stories
of home in México and how he yearned for it
and the wind kept howling along
as if it tried to bring him back
and I wished for Carlos to be home
and I wished for the wind to carry him there
and I wished for myself to be somewhere else
where the city isn't as big
and the people aren't as greedy
and the love comes naturally, not for fifty bucks a night

So I sat by my window
and listened to the sound of Santana's guitar
and the wind crying
and I understood
as I wept along.
Feb 27 · 139
The Norwegian Ferry
Marco Feb 27
Like ships in the night
we pass - side by side - not breaking our stride,
not looking left, not gazing right,
barely glimpsing each other, like light-
houses, signals blinking brightly.

For the longest time we were alone
still are, no change tonight, we won't;
I've felt your presence long ago,
it was a silent gift.

How did we not recognize each other
after screaming for so many hours?
Listening to your soft cries  (your blue eyes),
Norwegian wood between us guards your lies -
you pretend to be rich and pretty;
I know you're just the janitor of the ferry.
The first mate, the captain, all remotely
far away and you're all that's left -
you are the second best.

Thankfully I'm not picky,
I don't care if you're not pretty,
I only need to see your hands and heart -
the rough patches are a part - of you, of me, of all the world,
and you're so out of reach, of sight,
and I know that it won't feel right; despite that
we shouldn't feel alone tonight.
And you have a wife-

and I know but I don't care.
You won't hesitate to stare,
and I can feel your bitter look upon my back,
the fingers that won't touch my neck
no matter how much I beg and plead for you to take me
and love me, unconditionally,
before I fall into the sea,
the water claiming me fully,
the waves brutally forcing me
under themselves, generously,
drowning in my bed.
Feb 27 · 156
(Ode) To My Irish Flame
Marco Feb 27
Pointy nose, freckled bridge
Fair creme skin, speckled lips
Dark green eyes under dotted lids
Flaming hair weaves around your neck
and polka shoulders

Warm emotion sits in your cheeks
Stubborn chaos to your teeth
Roaring throat behind bowed lips
Willpower in raw fingertips
palms so rough from housework

Sturdy arms and steady legs
Robust frame to birthing hips
Heart of fire in its thick-walled cage
beats for me so strong and brave.
Feb 27 · 217
Crash at your place
Marco Feb 27
I don't know myself anymore
I am so sleep-deprived
I don't remember what a dream is
I think I live in one

I am so alone
yet you keep me company
I am so sleep-deprived
you think and decide for me

I am not in control
we have ten fights a night
I went straight for your ear
there is no light, no light anymore

I am so sleep-deprived
everything's a copy of a copy of a copy
this is my life - your life?
I am so alone
yet you keep me company

I hit you as hard as I could.
This is about "Fight Club", both the novel as well as its movie adaptation.
Feb 27 · 75
RANDY
Marco Feb 27
Living in your car
you had nothing but yourself
no one there to love you
no one but yourself

You hide behind
a curtain of glass
every night before you
get in the ring

You break your bones for fun
they want to see your nose bleed
cuts and bruises all over your back
is what keeps them entertained
They pay good money for your show
though they always bet on your rivals
it's not enough to make a living
but it's not too little to **** you either

Bleached your hair again
cover up the grey
your daughter won't recognize you
you haven't seen her in days

You wake up in your car
you wish you could die
you limp to the gym
because you have a show tonight

You hide behind
bottled-up feelings
right before you
get in the ring
to die again and again
every night
to stay alive
and keep them entertained.
This was written about "The Wrestler".
Feb 27 · 61
Blue boy
Marco Feb 27
I remember us stealing our daddy's car
we drove at night, your dress black as tar
went to the beach and you screamed freedom
like a dog howling at the midnight moon

The street burned hot in the midday's sun
and in the church down the road the sermon's begun
remember how they wouldn't let you in no more
because of the floral skirts you wore
and never got quite rid of the stench
of the *** that you smoked on our front porch bench

You never managed to hold down a job
never worked a day, cause you got lost
in words of beauty, your own poetry
even wrote a little something for good ol' daddy
Bruce Springsteen-inspired text about the movie "The Beach ***".
Marco Feb 12
snakes surrounding my trailer
kick down the door
break all windows
knock me to the floor
I know what they're here for

they want me
I know that they want me
they don't even hide it
black eyes, black hair, black stare
he doesn't even hide it

a punch to the guts
a cut on my cheek
kisses me with a fist
my eye as black as his
he knew he wouldn't miss

and they want me
I can feel they want me
he doesn't even hide it

whisper into the night
hissing like vipers
biting like vipers
poisoning my wine
running out my nose
poisoning my mind

they got me
they know that they got me
I don't even hide it
black eye, black hair, blank stare
he takes my hand
and leads me out.
Feb 12 · 183
BLOOMING
Marco Feb 12
my hands are *****
as is my mind
as is my record
my hands are covered in earth

he tripped
not once, not twice
promised the wrong
he slipped
fell
stayed down

they made sure he'd stay down
taken from his son
his life, his place
his right
to watch the forsythias bloom
when they spring with yellow and hope

your boy is coming for you
coming to get you out
take you home
tuck you in
throw away your bottles
as they scream for you from the south

They grant him one wish
facing his fate in a cell
and he wants to see the forsythias bloom
and one blossom
blinks her eyes
with freedom
Feb 12 · 433
APNOE
Marco Feb 12
I sink
deeper and slower
into emerald
and turquoise so dark
it's almost black
the water claiming me
finally, as it should
pressuring my lungs to collapse
under the lightest weight
engulfed in deep blue
love
Feb 12 · 103
Love In Violence
Marco Feb 12
Your love
is in the blood
running through their veins
dripping from their hands
the voice
roaring out of their throats
the metal
armoring and wounding bodies.

Your love
pulsates in their wrists
beats in their chests
hot and passionate
uttered in everlasting violence
and tears falling for fallen ones.

But most of all your love
is destiny,
their destiny
the calling they answer
the home they return to
you.
Ares, you.
Feb 12 · 60
APPLE PARFAIT
Marco Feb 12
Layers and layers and layers
of people, cars, buildings
the Big Apple
one giant parfait
loved by the rich
too expensive for the poor
a little for a lot
and the waiter smiles
fake and shallow
as he hands them the dessert
without them knowing he spat into it
and sprinkled it with the dust
of his bombed apartment on 64th
which lies in the past of another
bank
another office
another yoga oasis
another Apple parfait
for the rich
Feb 12 · 117
Summer radio
Marco Feb 12
The sun stood high in a spotless blue sky,
the pool water cool on my skin;
your skin shone with sweat and I seemed to forget
the nightmare that I was trapped in.

That oh so cruel sun of Greece shone on,
never once thought to pause;
it looked down at us as your hands, oh so rough,
collided with my bruised jaw.

Summer went fleeting like every new beating,
it was over soon after begun;
you pulled on my hair and threw me into despair,
and the radio, carefree, played on.
Marco Feb 12
In the forest late one summer day,
between the trees and prams,
a sweet girl whistled a small tune
that made the rabbits dance.

They danced and hopped and frinked about
and it was all quite nice
until the Wankerschmacken came
and brought a plague of Braifs.

The Braifs, they danced and frinked as well
and grew and grew in size
until they grew to twelve feet tall
much to the girl’s surprise.

The Wankerschmacken watched with glee,
with joyous hate and hunger,
the rabbits, the girl, they were confused
as they stared down the Schmacken’s flanger.
The flanger was his mouth, of course,
filled with teeth like daggers,
and the beast lunged after the poor girl
who through the forest yaggered.

She yaggered and ran and over a root
she suddenly fell and cried;
The Wankerschmacken took his chance
and this is how she died:

The monster opened its flanger large,
its throat was charcoal black;
A blue tongue stretched and grabbed the girl
and hurled her into its depths.

She fell for an eternity,
she seemed to fall for years;
And in its stomach she cried and cried
and drowned in her own tears.

A century has come and gone
since this cold-blooded ****
but if you put your ear to the woods
you can hear the Schmacken still.

It snores and roars deep in its sleep;
Can you smell its rotten breath?
but once you do it is too late –

You will die a vicious death.
A nonsense ballad heavily inspired by Carroll's "Jabberwocky", one of my all-time favorite poems.
Feb 12 · 128
At swim, two boys
Marco Feb 12
the sea as a reincarnation
reinvented by every soul that’s ever walked this earth
salt of the water tasting different to every mouth
waves roaring, breaking, whispering, blue, green, black
amidst them their lovers, their enemies
navy romantics and the art of drowning
a death at sea is like no death at all
the body just disappears, never to be found again
two lovers conquering the water,
the rebellious violent brutal cold salty water
they are but men, perfecting their craft
they are at swim, two boys.
I wrote this about Jamie O'Neill's book of the same name.
Feb 12 · 1.9k
Amore Mio
Marco Feb 12
like blood, it drips
the honey from your lips
running along
the gentle curve of your neck
the sharp edge of your collarbone
between the heart and ribs
down and further
pooling on Venus

the water swirls your hair
pearls on your silken skin
the love in your eyes
hooded, dilated
colors bursting from their seams
and hot as cold
violets blossoming in the night
rose buds perking, opening
as does the cave of your mouth
This was written as a devotional to Aphrodite.
Feb 12 · 135
water and the moon
Marco Feb 12
Over the dark-green lake
the big, rippling lake
through silvery weeping willow leaves
She basks
in her own glory, mirrored on the bottle glass
smiling at her watery self
her cold nakedness reflected
in soft motions
psychedelic but clear, a kaleidoscope of moonshine
seductive
I want to drown in it,
I wish I could drown in you, la lune
my love, my life, my night, my-

moon.
I wrote this at 7am on my way to work, after seeing the moon above the lake in my town.

— The End —