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I awake from my dream to ask myself a question…

Has my battle been won?
Perhaps not,
For the work of a writer is never done.
The silver lining of a depressing and dramatic life is that it often makes for better writing material, I guess.
 Nov 2010 Ryan Bowdish
BB Tyler
break the mirrors!
let their death songs
put to sleep
our vanity,
our ego,
our insanity.

only you
have seen the span of me.
our bodies given the jewels
of our eyes;
and a man at sea
with brine blackened spools
and dark skies,
without a plan or key,
says he's one of the fools
and he denies
thoughts of her thighs

the sea-man
broke the mirrors,
and windows,
and walls.
and left only doors standing
Copyright: Bennett Tyler
 Nov 2010 Ryan Bowdish
Emma
i can trample grass and
step on bugs and flowers
all in an innocent evening
of lying in a field thinking
blinded by starlight
in my own company

but if i were to close my eyes
and if the creatures ceased their songs
and leaves ceased their rustling
and city sounds faded into my thoughts
then i would be left with myself

who then shall take me
if i am such sad company
to only me?
i make no difference for
stars or trees
or birds or bees

easy to arrive at the thought
that loneliness is less a problem
than living
A flash of light,
Then a brilliant burst of colour,
And a deep amber of the most passionate hue,
Fell into waves,
And framed the brightest eyes of ocean blue.

A luminous face of olive-white,
Stared into my soul,
And filled my heart with delight.
Behind peach lips,
A smile reflected a smile,
As she outstretched her long arms,
In the most graceful style.

Her fragile hand turned a rotation,
Her fingers changing form,
Her other arm held above her head,
The breeze before the storm.

The girl from the other side of the camera was her.

Her final request:
One last picture.

She beckoned me near
And brushed my hair behind my ear.
Then, as if it were a sign,
She parted her lips,
And pressed them to mine.
I know
It is possible
to have someone
stuck in your head
if her name is the beat
and her eyes are the melody
and the lyrics are flowing in her veins.
She is the chorus, the bridge and the breakdown
the unfinished piece that has driven the composer insane.
And she is stuck in my head.
Dry tongues make for slow lies,
you prefer to use yours for kissing.
I can feel morsels of clam
between my nails, beneath the skin
but never touching—
that's impossible.

the time that counted your whiskers is still ticking,
and I am beginning to think you lied about being a cat
all I hear are dance beats in my shower.

it's not working any more to be red than it is to be any other color.
I'd gladly paint you
I'd gladly tell you exactly what you don't want to hear
even though it's not something I'm particularly good at
(it takes practice)
like ****** ******* with someone you don't love
or laying still.

there are people like you with ***** gym socks, who kiss their friends' older brothers,
who are always too late, who love something separate, who are small,
who forget to feed their cats,
who never say sorry,
who never say excuse me,
who never eat,
who never breathe,
who never remember.

tell those people for me:
if there is a time where no speech is readily available,
speak of something sad, or something incorrect.
ears are never ready to hear something they don't want to
they build up immunity
like blood cells,
but not really.

I must say, your skin looks nice when you lie,
we do like all the same things,
and have all the same mannerisms,
you are handsome,
I am gentile,
we are alone.
use six words.

I will gladly paint you any color,
as long as you supply the paint.
 Nov 2010 Ryan Bowdish
Emma
I don't dream, like I did, so many days ago
of your skin, lips, tongue; I don't
want to; I
have no need.
If I could close my eyes forever
and collapse and fall past my bones
and speak in our language
I would know satisfaction.

It's not my body, it's
my being
craving the long-lost touch of you

I want to forget looking down
Gaze with me
we'll connect
again
Our hearts will rock together
again
(but differently)

I know you are trying to
break through the barrier that is
a body, turned from me,
running.

I won't cry, I'll just laugh
and peel carrots and
paint windows with math and
lace up these running shoes,
and wish I could run away, too,
and wish I could chase you.
Winter is an icy goddess.
Her glacial beauty attracts
hot jealousy
from Summer.
Winter coldly ignores
the burning words
with a toss of
her blue hair
and a flash of her
pale eyes
yet she melts
when Spring
tugs on her dress and hands her
flowers.
 Nov 2010 Ryan Bowdish
Emma
Note #2
 Nov 2010 Ryan Bowdish
Emma
Oh, and to address an accusation
aimed at this modest flirtation
it may not be a source of inspiration
but neither is it purposed for your indignation
it would be my preferation
that you'd allow me this infatuation
it's small, it's really about relaxation
to laugh; it's such a sensation
I've missed the sense of relation
to another human creation
for the complete duration
of our joint exasperation
at this painful situation
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