S.R Devaste

S.R Devaste May 2011

No Moon

The window lets in the moonless hot summer
as the breeze rifles through the sheets
looking for our bodies.

Your fingers dance  over my palm,
absently tracing the lines of my life,
the stories hidden in my skin.

Oh, if I could touch you!

On the precipice of your lips,
shyly tremble the promises you cannot beleive
and will not give.

Your hand leaves.

Still and silent I hold myself.
It as if each star from the sky is dying
and as the stitches of constellations unravel,
and the black blanket of sky falls.

And dark summer rules our room.
Your face invisible, but I can hear your breath still.
Like the far away waves of a retreating tides.
But there is no moon, and you will not return.

S.R Devaste May 2011

Tourist

We had a language you and I.
Not of lips or hips or trembles.
but of words, and thoughts
and the tangles between ideas and emotions.

And now that you are gone the words I once spoke you
try to push through my lips, my body convulses
to speak again that tongue we taught each other.
that language we shared.

Sometimes when I speak with others I hear echoes of it
and I try to form complex sentences that belonged
to our language.

But they are not of our kind,
no one is of as much my kind sometimes I feel,
as you were of mine.

And so now I sit a tourist in the world,
and sometimes at night I remember
that once I had a home-country with you
and a tongue.

S.R Devaste Mar 2011

Child of Love

I find echoes of you within me,
your savage, tender truths,
as if our blood had mixed,
as if our genes kissed.

I thought for a long time that I could forget you
but, I cannot.
To forget you would be to forget myself;
if I ever did I'd be someone else.

For as the infant's face mimics it's mother
you and I are like the other.
And though I have been orphaned,
a lost child of our connection,
my soul's chromosome remembers.

S.R Devaste Feb 2011

die and become

the closest we get to feeling alive
is by sleeping with death
tangling with evil and emerging
knowledgeable and sticky-fingered
((fruit juice, apple or pomegranate))

we do not know life but as a sidekick for
our suicidal tendency, our desire to lose our consciousness
within the ***** of mob or infatuation
to ***** out our selves, swallow our senses

this is the deepest secret nobody knows
but everyone feels,
we all want to be lost in them
to die while we live
to dream awake

we want to collar up our animal selves
and harness ourselves to the plows of art
and create
and die

S.R Devaste Dec 2010

chernoble

i am a little chernoble
cradled in the ***** of radioactive lakes
and cursed platoons of miasma snowflakes

my atoms were ripped apart
you were ripped from me -- and I did it
I tore out my own elementary particles until
i gave myself some kind of quantum complex

and now, he, them, the men in suits
they're coming to clean out the mess you left
the mess admittedly I made
and maybe they won't dive as deep into my soul
maybe they won't power rockets to far away moons
maybe they won't create realities.

but they are men and they are here
and they will recolonize me until
i grow weeds and eventually
a solitary flower.

For a place can never die,
even if it wants to try.

S.R Devaste Oct 2010

Post Storm

The sky has a ***** face:
cloud-stains sun cannot erase
the storm has bruised it red
where lightning’s heat has fled

S.R Devaste Jul 2010

Please Stop Now.

i wish you did not strip my brain into a live wire
make my electricity coagulate like blood
peel back my layers of dead skin
and paint new coats on in primal mud

i wish you didn't build our love from hate
or at least the artful dodger's ambiguity
like an electron giving me only time or place
but never reality