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SG Holter Nov 2015
Take all of my belongings; pictures of
Beloved ones and grandmother's bible.
Just leave me a piece of paper and my
Will to describe the memory of my losses.

I take the pen for granted, as one does when
Leaving a bank in deeper debt.
One man's advertisement is another poet's
Tool.

I, Poet, would arise in the morning and praise
My tiny square of window, even with its
Iron bars.
I'd find poetry in prison wall profanity.

I love losing. Crying over love, over
Tragedies the size of full history book pages,
Timeless art lost in gallery fires, bad poetry
Gone viral and unpublished classics discarded.

I, Poet, laugh out loud in disbelief at sunsets
And other banalities.
Take spring rain showers and act at times
Like a hipster on ether; a hippie kissing his  

Last tab of acid with the heart of his tongue.
I care less than the unfree.
Drink water; wash my feet with wine    
And walk miles and miles of fire.

I, Poet.
Ink in my veins, fountains of blood on my
Pages. I write no diary, keep myself between
The lines.

The areas of white between the words.
The opposite of
Nothing. It is where gods,
Truths, and the poet's way of loving

A dual life lie. As
Unseen as
Unhidden, in
Broad daynight.
Lucy  Sep 2014
DayNight Entities
Lucy Sep 2014
The energy of the Day
did not reflect that of the Night.

Come day we stay broading
and burning.
Our arms
and skinny legs
come clashing
tattered homes.
When smokers
and gaggers
came down from the Sun
the morning
will find them
hours later..

Come night
we close open
and creepy.
The stars keep of daytime
that was.
We share of our stories
and we sit
without moving,

we keepers
of not
what there was.
Ophelia O  Nov 2017
her fingers
Ophelia O Nov 2017
There! In the shadows, she watches
breaking hushed tranquility that shades
my eucalyptus
on a morningbeige wall

the Tingle, it’s here. a sense
of unease as she climbs my;
nick! and imports her touch. Lick
up my arms, fingers unwelcomely
running through my head
she is in my scalp   

itching imprint stays, echoing off
tired skin. ruining tender visions
of whispering
eclipse filled daynight

Perhaps
they came together;
in shallow memories of dark
Chicago forbid my viewing

She’s here now. watch
wild fingers grabbing lapping  
trees, ******* up their marrow
Creeping; burrowed in cold breeze
on my quiet 73 degrees
afternoon willow

her hands touch without touch,
eyes catch moments of them
past dusk, aching sunlight echoes
more distantly down time’s dust

each day she; the moon comes
closer and colder I see her
fingers, lustly peek out behind
looming, that chipped orb

the encompassing force was all;
no shades protected
retinas burned, she is here!
behind my eyes

her fingers

to close my eyes is to touch her
her ***** nails
they would drag me
I feel her
angry jagged animal teeth
the underbite of earth's crust
harboring harmful chemicals &
illegal immigrants
rising
at this first ray,
a ****'s hair of celestial inferno
one could say
constantly calling
on this
splay legged abomination
meeting & greeting
every need & accomadation
of greater grazers
they set them selves ablaze
for pity wage
& trade peanuts for raisins.

holy hell.

the nature of things;
of which way's witch ways
is a
falling
flipping
flying state
of ***** nirvana.

this is common phenomena.
I could cry. hysterically.

black helicopters
polka dotted the
blinding white
pilot light
that was the sky
littered with little
particulates of sickness.

I want nothing more
but to run to this jesus light
rewind to the darkness
in the daynight
& bottle those clouds,
consume & be alive.

but why.

I run to nothing
& nowhere
cause that's only
place it's all alright.
let it slide past
mindfulness

by the time anyone finds out

another evening beseeches quiet
& we'll abide
to avoid running for our lives
fly fly fly.

— The End —