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T R Wingfield Jan 2017
"Stars are trying to tell me
this is something like it"

The stars are trying to tell me something, but it's something I can't hear. Or perhaps it's showing me the light but it's shining on
something I can't see. The universe is singing somewhere vast and shimmering; expanding in upon itself, growing closer, still near exploding.
Reveal my soul to me


I stare into the heavens hopeful that she'll open her inky vale, shine her countenance upon me, and bless the growing glowing trail
of star dust and darkness and love and gravity, which spins beyond the precipice.
Ever in front of me.
Celestial Symphony of Fate and wonder guide me with your melody

An Azimuth circle and chart are all that I need to guide my soul to heaven in the heart of the black nights sea
T R Wingfield Jan 2017
Ours was like fireworks
in the mid-summer sky
Radiant,
       Iridescent,
                   Incredulous,
                              Alive
but the finale came suddenly, unexpectedly soon,
& the band played on,
as if nothing had changed,
as if a fountain of sparkling embers and flame
had not just erupted mere inches away.
And now,
where explosions once seared summer's sky with crackling thunderous incandescent delight
Only whispers and wisps of smoke remain,
Scattered by the breeze,
Whithered, then, by rain.
And of the evening's reveries precious little can be found:
some soured beer in crumpled cans, discarded haphazardly
surrounding a threadbare picnic bedspread
rumpled beneath the branches of an ancient live oak tree.
Dew now wet where lovers once had lain,
staring up into the night
in wonder, ignorant of such banal things
like: masquerading lust in love's robes, declaring,
"I've never loved a love as deep as the love I have for you,"
and truly being unaware of the uncanny substitute;
Or the unbridled disenchantment unleashed by abandonment
and the inevitable transience of an insufferable pain.

We ****** on bar balcony balustrades, over looking city streets.
We ditched tampons into trees rather than wait to satisfy our needs.
We left your ******* in a planter
on a patio under an eve
On purpose, So that some poor, unassuming shop-keep
Would find them
(along with cigarette butts and an empty bag of ****)
and have no choice but think to themselves,
"Did someone **** here?"
and then immediately understand:
the answer is
"Yes. Exuberantly!"

We defiled. every. place. we went;
giggling with glee at all of our indiscretions.

Oh how many indiscretions could there possibly be?
We shall know;
All of them!

And so we did,

And we were free.



On new years eve I carried you piggyback in your peacock blue sequined gown through the streets of our ****-soaked-gutter-of-a-town.
You were barefoot, drunk, and refusing to be told what to do,
that you had to wear your shoes,
that the streets were far to ***** and dangerous for your tender little feet- you said "Just let me be, It's fine. It wont **** me..."
then, looking at the gutter, continued,
"probably.
And these shoes already are, so..." sticking out your tongue
But I couldn't put you down.
Not in that place, not at that time.
Nor did I even want to. I could have carried you all night
(which was fortunate, because for most of itI did.)
We were declared the city's cutest couple by a stranger on the sidewalk whom we passed while galloping down the street, you, giggling, alight upon my back, running at full speed. This declaration is reaffirmed by everyone we meet.

- A pixie, you know, will always trip you up
(they're natural pranksters you see).
Their magic is undeniable, but oh what trouble they can be. -

- My toothsome little faerie - You meant trouble for me;
but what a beautiful,
beguiling mess you turned out to be,

You snuck pixie dust into everywhere we went, and
Dispensed it with abandon-
Spread it like caution to the wind.
Sanctifying everything and everyone we met.
That poor city was baptized in our joy.
It's sins washed into glittering gutters,
where we lay sparkling, genuine and loved.


We broke the records that night,
all of them, known and not.

We loved harder than diamond,
than a trailer-hitch to the shin,
Deeper than the fathoms of the trenches at the bottom of the sea.

We made soulmates seem like strangers.
We spoke nonsense fluently.
We shared mind and body, food and drink,
and careless wanton play.

It was

The most
     *******
          Fun
   I've ever had
       in my life...

Probably the most that I ever will.


Every moment I was with you had
the sizzle and the tease
of a bottle-rocket, lit
and held between my teeth.

I knew that I'd get burned
If I held it to the end,
But I did it just to prove I could;
To prove to me
That I was brave enough
To be unashamed
  To be unafraid
   To be.
First draft catharsis.
Second draft refined.
Third draft- shape and tone, structure and rhyme.

I've been holding on to some very dense emotional pain relating to a relationship which, for lack of a better word, collapsed. When it did, I was buried by my depression, and sank into drug and alcohol addiction. The depression and drugs had taken there toll on the relationship, but I couldn't not understand why someone who had loved and been loved so deeply could just walk away. It took a long time to understand that it was self-preservation. And that is a hard realisation to make. Still the love we shared was enigmatic. Like nothing I've ever seen in a movie or a song or a poem. This is hardly a testament, or even a rough approximation of the experience at its finest moments, but it is a reflection. A memory. She took a piece of me when she left. One I want back desperately, but also one I know cannot be found. So I'll have to search until I find something of a similar size and shape, maybe a little larger, and cut the whole to fit.
T R Wingfield Jan 2017
Castigate Sublimate
         Sanctify Indoctrinate
     Expatriate Disseminate
Proselytize Reiterate

     Reject, Deny, and Obfuscate

        Incarcerate Dehumanize
   Desensitize Decimate
        Incinerate Rejuvenate
       Simplify and Permeate
T R Wingfield Jan 2017
Are we lost to a land of too many tribes,
  Too many choices, of too many scales,
  Too many communities of which to
avail?

  Could we be better off fractured and scattered
  Left shattered like glass by the highway
  A shimmering reminder to the wayward passerby,
  All is not lost though we
Subside

  Could that we merely be torn asunder,
  Pulverized, then obliterated by ritual fire,
  Then wrung from the colluding liquified minds
  Crystaline,
      Incandescent,
          Molten
Purifide

  T­o form as before but free from parameters previously applied,
  Forgotten in the furnace of insanity and strife
  Stiffled,
      Tempered,
          Emboldend,
Refined
There is a group of words in my mind I cannot seem to seperate.  The title represents two of the interior, juxtaposed outside the form of another poem.
It begins as a rumination on the disconnect between generations and geography made so starkly apparent by the recent election, and exacerbated by the duality of social media: it can isolate and embitter an individual in and toward their local community, while at the same time connect and embolden them with a global ego/echo chamber. It sat as one stanza for many months, until I decided to share it. It seemed hollow to pose such vague commentary, and not even attempt to address it, which catalyzed its creation and completion.
T R Wingfield Dec 2016
I remember thinking
My mother could sing like an angel
And my father could move mountains

It funny, you know,
How us kids grow up

-Guy Martin
These are not my words, but those of my best friend. Surely not the only poem he ever wrote, but the only one he ever shared with me. I memorized it immediately, and remembered it for nearly 20 years.
T R Wingfield Dec 2016
The only line
I've ever heard that worked...

"Hey girl...
            Bring your fine *** over here and let me tell you some lies"

Honesty is always the best policy I guess.
True story
T R Wingfield Dec 2016
I thought of myself
As a phoenix
Set aflame

Now
I'm just
Ashes and Dust

Look at the mess that I've made.
I have a tendency to self-analyze. And, as often is the case, I am my own harshest critic. Often I tear myself down; sometimes I strip myself bare. I retrace my failures and the consequences of my own poor decisions. This habit is similar to prodding a canker sore with your tongue. It's painful, and does nothing to heal the would, yet it is almost impossible to refrain from doing. The nagging pain of an open sore is contrasted to the acute pain of direct contact;  but there is relief from the constant irritation in the brief intensity of addressing these sores directly. (Though counter-intuitive) It is, somehow, soothing. Perhaps by proving it could be worse. Perhaps it's just licking a wound.
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