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Tommy Randell Aug 30
every bit of Love is accompanied by various overlapping voices. every single voice teases life into a bravado of positives. what can be done about unmusical endings though when you are just left hanging, given that from so far away, with hindsight, the silence before any applause is the loudest negative?

walk - don't walk. crossing points are chosen for us. love - don't love. none of us are going the same way up-life or down. variations creep into our choices until of a sudden, looking around, we recognise no-one and nowhere and our feet aren't even touching the ground. to find we're not in kansas anymore.

do things become fact by being actually true? is it possible there are other ways our being together is not such a miracle after all? you have a permanent partner now who complements you. isn't it possible the music we made together from carefully laid bricks was the very opposite of a wall too?

i led myself here by holding hands with strangers. it's easily done if you want to please people all the time. and sharing with strangers such casual arrangements i thought we were making music as overlapping voices passed by. now and then in the continuing babble i think I still hear you, busking with others,  while i wait for a bus back to kansas, standing in line.
a drama of sorts about coming to the end of a journey and turning back.
Arke Jun 14
In the thick of sticky summer heat
A voice that still makes my heart skip a beat
Run my tongue over the sound of your name
Knowing nothing could ever be the same

Your love was motion sickness on a highway
Your love was a red card for foul play
The double yellow lines we once sped by
Made a hole in my heart for you to occupy

Now that hole has become a shallow grave
Everyday, a vast emptiness I stave
More than anything, I miss your eyes
Or how for once, I needed no disguise

In my mind we get to roleplay
You say through the night you'll stay
We both wake with sun on our skin
My fingers trace the outline of your grin

But I wake with no sunshine near
The dark emptiness only brings fear
Every day is a cycle I can't break
My life is shallow and fake

Though you've left, I'm glad you came
Every cherry tree still speaks your name
Part of me wishes you'd hold me once more
Whisper that I'm who you adore

This summer I hope you find someone new
I hold no misconceptions - we're through
I'll always keep you near my heart
Now and forever, together or apart
mightn't love be said to be
where two people's time together
becomes poetry?

shouldn't poetry be where words
can be everything language is
happening all at once?

the best joke of all about love
is what it takes for love to be funny
isn't that what kills it in the end?

my best joke about poetry was
if you're gonna **** in church
read it like it rhymes!
no explanations
Tommy Randell Mar 27
If
this
poem
had
a
thousand
lines
it
couldn't
say
more
 not
even
mentioning
your
name
as
it
doesn't
you
undeserving
WASTE
OF
SPACE!
Arke Nov 2018
your body is poetry in a language
I have always wanted to become fluent
dripping in platinum, your lips steel-*****
I hear a quartet commanding me
agave forms in your sulci and pours out
with every breath of your exhale
there's a constellation in your pupils
you are the very moon itself and I am earth
in perigee, my tides rise to greet you
every strand between us twists and weaves
unbroken helixes that connect but never touch
you shine and I can't pull my eyes away
from the contours of your cupid's bow
you move in slow motion towards me
Arke Oct 2018
I can be iron and steel, built of bricks
a stone tablet front you've etched into
now left standing like a memorial dome
an outline recognizable and familiar
this fallout doesn't scare me and never has
imprinted blackened ghosts lay at my side
nuclear shadows of what we had said
long before the plutonium sparked
I'll be left standing, though worse for wear
but even radiation can be cleaned with time
like the decades you both gave and took
and the love that both healed and destroyed
Arke Oct 2018
I have often wondered, since my birth
what is my body worth?
does the outside count more than in?
humans are all born of sin--
kavanaugh weinstein trump
treat women as objects to dump
is my body for their hungry eyes?
will they undress my sweet disguise?
aware that my body is not my own
aware of my safety when I am alone
please don't think I could ever be yours
please don't harass me and shout out slurs
is an ** worth less than an xy?
how have we all turned a blind eye?
Tommy Randell Sep 2018
My Mother in the mirror
My Medusa seen askance
Whispering and promising
Daring me to glance

My Mother in the picture
My Medusa turned to ink
Me sneering at her threats
Not bothering to blink

My Mother in the coffin
Her writhing snakes now shushed
My Mother in my bones
My Medusa turned to dust

My Mother in the Poem
A shadow of her Glimmer
An image of her Power
Medusa gone forever
Tommy Randell Sep 2018
My first dying wife reveals
The problem we have with definitions
The idea she is dying and maybe dead already
And whether she is the first
Of any repetitions

The first wife to die perhaps
Given there have been many
Or then because wives can even exist in plurality
In the absence of religion and state
Bearing down upon seriality

Wives come along in sequentiality
But yes I know of those multiplicities
Where wives cohabit and husbands grin
And I must say I do not hold
With such benign antonyms

My first wife dying long divorced
She is a matter of life's concourse
Where is gathered to this conclusion
She is the first wife
The first diminution

But I do hold I have held several wives
And of the several one shall die first
It is the travail of such a much married man
Progenitor of failure
And of other wives to come

So...? What?
I visit and the first of my dying wives says Hi!
You care to come, she says,
You care to say we wives, some lost some present
We comprise a logic of sorts
Though not all wives inherit.
I will not reveal the life and experience which has lead me to this poem. My Mothers' lives and my many Fathers. It is enough to say this logic is fast, and secure... as a castle. The Logic of Sorts it encompasses I learned - the hard way.
Arke Aug 2018
pain can be a muse, too
it's twinge always familiar for me
that it begins to feel like home
and I gladly let it consume me

It means I'm alive,

I remind myself to use it
fill a canvas with an empty heart
remember what beauty looks like
even when blindfolded

and I remember,

in the darkness I can still
find your lips on mine
feel your weight against me
hear breath and words on my neck

pain can be a love, too

because without one
there cannot exist the other
so I'd rather take them both
than never experience either
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