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 Dec 2010 PK Wakefield
Jessie
If you look deeply enough you'll see

that all of my poems

all say the

same

*******

thing
no comment.
"For I am he that sways in multitudes,
The Ur-reader believing faithfully;
With words beneath my starry fingernails,
And arms attendant to the mescaline sky.
Forced blue and always empty to the face,
Blue hands against the million-houred nights.
Not blue by name but in a walking breath
Beneath the curse and cry of glinting day.
But praying's pointless anyway now that
The Seven Hands that turn the Sky have moved;
And walking with the moon can't turn me on,
Because I end up doing all the work."

There's not a ******* thing that you can do
When all the forest's trying to keep you still.
© Cody Edwards 2010
It takes the sky to make me feel small anymore,
Ridicule from orange light
To make the ghost town fill the bluing coast.

Single silhouette, the wailing breath,
A trailer park becoming fast and
Coming near the closure of her home.

Drinking quickly stars,
The eating face of face-consumers
Touch the late-night masters, late at night-time shoppers:

Impartial is impervious, but he is much the more impious
After years blaspheming from rejections.
The magic circles spell out years

Of demons that have failed to come--
Have failed to wake the hands
And slap the machine like deviant memory can.

Hand into the cup into the hand:
Same business.
© Cody Edwards 2010
fulmination wraps tendrils around your spine,
draws you under, into the suffocating center
of a thunderstorm painted violet and amethyst.

jewelry dripping of fear, laced around a
pretty throat and bent into the perfect
circles of soot-blackened pupils.

the air smells crackling and thick, heavy
through a thumb and index loop that
traces a life driven by weather patterns.

when the river dries, the rocks are
left slick, soaked and maybe a small
bit weightier. fog-smoke circles dilute
laughter into a painting of you.
this was inspired by the relámpago del catatumbo. look it up if you have time; it's a wonderful phenomenon and this doesn't do it justice.
Hate is every color
Sqeezing from our skin
Not just one
But all
Equal but
Drowning each other
all rights reserved
In the midst of a journey within a look of the sweetest eyes
I would imagine flowers as the mightiest giants
When I smelled smoke
I would know there was a fire
And my name would be written in sunshine
Instead of words of defiance

I would never be lost or glance behind me at dawn
Blankness would never claim my day
With gladness I would be filled
I would recognize the swords of those
Who were friend or foe
When entanglements came my way

My time would move ever slowly on the best of days
I would hold all the keys to change
And could tell the difference
Between promises made by the way
Without having fear of my life
Being rearranged

Instead in the midst of a journey within this life of my own
There exist giants who are certainly not flowers
Nor do I always smell smoke
When there is fire
My name is not written in sunshine each hour
Yet to the clouds
I will never give power
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
www.changefulstorm.blogspot.com
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Changefulstorm
"Listen and weep
at
what we lost..."*

Somewhere in the deep green jungles
of South-East Asia
we freely
sold our soul,
hacked our humanity,
corrupted our compassion...

We buried the Truth
in that emerald paradise.

We are the dead
that walk with bankrupted souls,
we napalmed innocence
and in body bags stitched souls
and catacombed them
in the graveyard of
deceit
&
putrefying
decades of decay.




©Rangzeb Hussain
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