Along a trickling stream,
there's a hushed whereabouts
she likes to routinely gather
her thoughts from, before
assigning her task
to bathing amongst
Today's reflections vastly
as a playful breeze
whispered unto her
of an unbeknownst admirer's
And so avidly fixed it was
upon the arched swell of
her lower back,
she quite shivered.
But be it a pleasurable fear,
she allowed him such liberties,
and stepped into the light.
The lights stretch back for miles, hollow stares
all trained toward the twisted, shattered steel,
waved on in pairs and threes like visitation lines
at ******'s speed, slow enough for a glimpse,
high enough for everyone to get a turn.
The night turns every shade of paint black,
each window to a tinted mourner's veil,
glass shards strewn by an uncaring hand
to scintillate like starlight in the glare,
sirens wailing away like the bereaved.
All we want to hear about is love and
Madness, wounds left in the mind
Where what's taken for granted
Was ripped out and scattered, just ash.
Maybe just madness, then. Addicts
Left shaking their cupped hands
Trembling out aching, quaking desire
Where stillness arrives with a kiss,
Where confession pours crimson,
A ****** of claret. Spilled into a glass,
Sloshed across a tongue, breathing
Bitter, barren, dry - washed down
With another glass, until the flavor stains
Teeth and tongue and lips. We are
What we drink: water and blood.
We are what we love: madness, confession.
Does a ****** see in their subjects
The viscid revel of their own scars?
He tried to remember what they looked like as he saw
Where her nails had sunken deep into the comforter
And where his sweat had flattened the sheets.
And felt ***** just for looking,
Afraid that their memories could see him in the empty room.
How ******* dare they
Indulge in each other when all it becomes
Is a mess for someone else to notice?
Selfish, entitled, lucky
And he was ashamed
Because he was happy that he noticed what they did
And because he felt like he was there.
Something so **** about imaginary inclusion.
Is that what they wanted?
Changing the bedding felt like desecration,
Like tearing down the set of a Broadway play.
The show was for him,
The show was for the other,
Who taught them how to act?
It hurts to think
About their hollow bodies
They’re fake-*** moans that the other customers
probably complained about to their
It hurts to think
That they whispered the moment away
In their insecurities and
Jesus, all for nothing.
And he started to cry,
Thinking about the heat that filled the room.
Letting his heaves mirror their motion, and
Their passion still damp.
And I laughed…
Nobody laughed back
I was laughing alone
There were eyes on me
I could feel a lot of eyes on me
Feeling me up
Lingering on parts of me
Some parts more than the others
The eyes soon got bored
Lost interest in me and my parts
They switched their attention
back to the customary dullness
However, every time a new pair of eyes set sight on me,
it lingered for a while
But they soon joined the rest
Eyes, many eyes, lots of 'em
I saw them looking
I sensed them looking
They wanted reason
They wanted a story
They wanted to see more than a happy face
It would cheer them up
Helped flush the blandness in?
They dug it out of my laughing face
while I was still alive
I didn’t have a reason now
But they didn’t care
They made it up
Each pair saw a different story
Some were similar, others distinct
Some saw varying proportions
of tragedy and insanity,
while others saw total madness
Some shared their imagination
while others kept it to themselves
Eyes, I wondered,
were funny little organs
They compelled the mighty brain
to think about what they saw,
every time they saw,
and they never stopped seeing.
Words of a portrait - A portrait of a laughing Rajput king hanging on a museum wall examines the visitors
See the glittering dress
then scroll up
meet the eyes
zoom in as much as you like
she’s clear as the winter sky
not a grain of distortion
she’s a sight for you to devour