"afterimage" poems
Is it better to remain alone
And never know at all,
Than to reach such soaring heights
And fall.
The afterimage of a bright sun burns my eyelids,
A fire within is now a fire without,
I scrub to get the smell of smoke off my skin.
My words infused with a foreign smell,
Forever changed by a place forever lost.
Is it better to remain alone
And never feel the flame,
And never have to leave one day
To only be a name.
Aug 2, 2022
Aug 2, 2022 at 5:59 PM UTC
sunset faces
seem filled with thoughtful reflection
eyes drawn to their own page of living
and their own written in stone paths
the golden light of the westbound sun
gives its kindness to her weathered face
hides the lines of worry
that have shadowed her days
and in the dark hour
it will be the afterimage of her golden moment
that will sketch this day in ink for me
that will define this place for me
the profile of her face in golden sunset
her proud strong frailty
that her standing spoke so loudly
as to confound the darkness
and in thouse dying embers of daylight
behind and by her side all these silent spectators
to this strange day shall mark it within their own hearts
what they beheld on this side road of humanity's circus
one old woman stood and defeated the darkness
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
Pieces of my soul
Pieced together in memory.
Starlight in a Black Hole
Of what never again shall be.
A floating fading glow
Darkened room image clear.
Now seeing IS believing.
Desperate attempt at keeping
The fleeting spectre in view.
A faded dream of a
Once upon a dream come true.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
Purple flower—
lonesome afterimage;
a fighter with a purple eye.
Jun 23, 2022
Jun 23, 2022 at 12:49 PM UTC
read this aloud, mind the punctuation,
and, finally,
enjoy.
amethyst eyes alight with nighttime lightning, clapping lashes spark ruminations rumbling across the savannah of memory imprinting in me the afterimage of Now. Now, Now makes me hers -- though i’m more willing a captive than she imagines: imprisoned in the present, tasting the electricity resounding in this soundless cell () deafeningly solid --
she grooves before me.
slowly rolls me
me rolls slowly
molasses boiling tongues twisting towards me
ba-da doom ba-doom doom doom.
i don’t know if it’s the fireflies caught in midnight-amber jars suspended by strands of suicidal curls tumbling down the pitch of your back,
or
your touch, come tentatively, but nonetheless titillating, for it softly pleas me to get grounded, stay a while in the timbre of warm fireside conversation and cocoa,
or
your teacup of a navel compelling i to lift laughter, fish up reminiscences, and transcend time,
or
when you lean close and lick me with your eyelash, as if a butterfly’s kiss,
or
your soft voice smoothly singing songs of four-lettered blues . . .
. . . my god you’re gorgeous.
dance with me, Now for two more turns of the moon let’s defy posterity and traverse the curves of each other’s words and purge our selves of self let’s anesthetize Now, marinate in the moment, savor the silence and become sap-trapped fossils left for the future let’s live a lifetime together in two more turns of the moon, Now, so that I may memorize every quark of every electron of every neutron of every proton of every atom of every ion of every molecule of every cell of every sinew of every tissue of every ***** and every system of all your beauty, Now, you are perfect because you are am is and will never be anywhere else but here and nothing else but Now.
feel me?
feel her?
feel here?
Now.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 12:06 PM UTC
1.
I never saw you on the day you were born
I wasn't there.
I never met you in your youth
I wasn't there.
I probably won't see you on your last day
I know not how the current will carry tidings.
2.
Yet, I never saw such life in anyone's eyes
As I see in you.
I never felt such intense flow in a pure heart
As I do in you.
There is no way to fully express
How happy I am with the milk of your kindness.
All I want, is to ride that carriage with you
And drink of love's potion, keep you sated.
3.
Come, take my hand and let me hold you
Don't you crowd us out so; allow to breathe
Our universe expands as enchanting melodies, we share
Shut-tight eyes leave a crazy stab of an afterimage.
Upon the tracks, lies the truth in broken pieces
Time to gather my singularly talentless wits
Recuperate from rhythmic clacking of euphoria
A drab shoelace in flat, brown mud, is how you see me.
There's a part of my journey that includes you
An integral part of my existence seeks that spark
I have seen you, without yet seeing you!
How can I know that failure dogs not this adventure...
Can you really not see how extraordinary this is?
It may count as fiasco if absent pursuit of mysterious core...
4.
Without you, I'd be on an express train to nowhere.
At least, you're still there
(alive :)
S T, 3 May 2013
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC
she was a quick pencil sketch
nothing more than a moments
hurried hand
her perfume and brushed hair
an echo in the worlds soundtrack
she was a quick pencil sketch
in a world of masterpieces in motion
but thouse few dark lines
were spent here in the walls of this silent room
sketched in the afterimage of her presence
sketched in the lingering words of her farewell
each line cast down to page with a quickness
but drawn out in the mind
to slow abandon
to slow capitulation to a lesser dream
one of crying
one of loss
her perfumed brushed hair
catching the light
as the door closed
a masterpiece of motion to the world
a sketch of dire love to me
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
fresh tracks into the distance
well past midnight
the streetlight afterimage reflected in pools of
unblemished rainwater
stirs with slow echoes of the night
stirs with the slow echoes of the summer
keepsakes she quickly squirrels away
in the tiny pocket sewn into
her deep blue dress
the tiny pocket where she has a
lock of his hair
a picture of the ship he sailed off to sea on
a note he left her telling her
that he would dream of her
now the keepsakes she puts away
are twigs from a tree
a peice of plastic from a beach
bits of things that her wandering mind
grasped upon with a smiling fancy
on a stormy night September 1932
his ship was lost with all hands
all these years she waits
all these years she keeps vigil by the shore
gathering strands of the world
driftwood of lives cast off like her own
set adrift without particular place to be
and she has been lost
in mind and body
waiting for him to return
fresh tracks into the night
well past midnight
the streetlights image reflected
changes slowly
to show a figure walking carefully up the lane
his steps trying to remember
where they had been once before
was he returning
was he just a shadow or dream
she held her breath in delight and in trepidation
in the first light of day
her empty home lay quiet
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 8:30 PM UTC
~
"Suspense is like a woman. The more left to the imagination, the more the excitement."
~
A mixture
of sinister and sweet,
smoking gun at your feet.
Reclining dead
in a meadow,
or wishing you were
as you gaze out your window.
Bottling undecided dark,
catching keyed-up light,
in random, misleading angles.
The uniform hour
holds Grace, Grant,
and the mystery
it entangles.
Don't look directly
at the camera,
icy blonde afterimage.
Everything you need
is written on the page.
Number 13,
Mrs. Peabody?
Don't you know
all contemporary
escapist entertainment
begins by turning your back?
Lingering on what
suspicious minds track.
The migrating voyeurism
sits as the crow,
wired and unfriendly.
The method is an organism,
an implication, a crossbow,
thought, but unseen.
He will push the girl,
until you succumb
to dream sequences.
It's snowing humiliation
at Winter's Grace,
for out of the male gaze,
invading your space,
you become gifted
at doing nothing well,
in sheer
under-things,
(for inner circles & triangles of fur
are all the rage in Europe).
Yes, he hates pregnant women,
because then they have children.
So leave him
to his work,
to analyze your handwriting,
and build that ramp
directly into your trailer.
His larger than life silhouette
will fill the silver screen
with tension,
trip wire,
and a ****** ambivalence,
that ends with
the violent sound
of someone
packing a suitcase.
He enters by virtue of this door,
and you leave through another,
and another,
and another,
until the final scene
alters your state of mind.
Your pretty little feet
dangling precariously
over the edge...
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 4:36 PM UTC
Beneath the arch,
among the branches,
the maunder of her eyes
finds noir in an afterimage,
every reflection is unique,
explicit and indivisible,
every reflection is her,
there she looks close
for gracefulness,
in the essays of her skin
and their brazen transparencies,
she enters into her body fable,
the shape of her resembles
the tenor viol: where it widens,
where it narrows,
where it digresses
and monochromes,
she reflects a fragile geography,
a soft cargo, but
an inkling of hurricane,
rendering the fault lines
beautiful and strong,
in supplication tomorrow's explorer
will disturb the patterns
until she's become her own lullaby
Mar 2, 2025
Mar 2, 2025 at 1:16 PM UTC
i. there’s a girl. narrow-boned, wild hair like a lion’s mane, sprawled underneath the shade of a looming fig tree. her teeth are all that’s sharp about her. soft curves, soft lips, a soft paradox in the Garden. in this lost land, there she is, subtle and tinged with the same stardust you once believed could save us all.
angelic, you’d call her, if she looked more grotesque. more like the cherubim of ol’, dressed in flames, impaled on swords, screeching the name “hosanna, hosanna” without mouths. but there are no wings, no heavenly trumpets, just the afterimage of divinity– something laced with hope, but already rotting. she spits out seven seeds and you don’t know if this is a land of God or gods anymore.
ii. she smiles and it feels like death.
you are unable to solve the riddle sprung from the lion’s ribcage– but the roof of your mouth tastes like honey and blood and you don’t mind. there’s no linearity, no familiar whine of a donkey, nor the sound of sand against gravel or sandaled feet marred by sunburns and blisters.
there is simply you and her and an eternity of possibilities that whisper in a forked tongue, “adam, oh adam,” and your heart drops. is this the end? but it tastes so sweet and you are alright to die like this, cradled between what was once in your womb and a creature of scales.
you do not expect the guilt that drips down your chin with each rivulet of juice.
iii. they call it love.
you call it divine absolution.
she calls it the beginning of humanity.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
You're an afterimage
You shine so bright upon me
You're an inducement
Your eyes draw me forth
You're a vibration
Your voice shivers my spine
You're a compression
Your legs wrap about my will
Here I am now
My fatal sweet
Waiting to be consumed
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 10:40 PM UTC
My hands have become raw.
The constant digging has made me complacent.
The tools have been scattered.
Just as the thoughts I sift through.
Glory to those that have found the treasure.
Trinkets of blight and misfortune is all that is left.
Do I cherish what remains..
Consume those that are truly nameless.
Faceless.
The definition is lost on me.
Yet I find solitude in the despair it brings.
A constant that always keeps its promise.
The lighting strike has found its mark.
For just as fast as it has come.
Lighting up my eyes.
I am left with only the afterimage.
A burn that is slowly fading.
And soon.
It to will be that of my imagination.
Hinting at a past with static charge.
Will this Phoenix rise.
Or has the fire finally been extinguished.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
This constant rain and thunder
never ceases, makes me wonder
why lightning looks like shutterflash
taking pictures of my life...
Afterimage and epic photonegative
redroom and redsky, black and white
antiqued and superimposed
into a dull square picture frame
display this moment of my life for eternity.
i'm blinded by flash after flash
of lightning before my eyes
as i'm carried off by gale winds
into the clouds and i'm never seen again...
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
engulfed in viridescent
i suffocate,
there’s no way my existence only live in one color!
at this rate, i will only absorb monochromatic colors-
boring, black and white colors-
my life isn’t an empty chess board!
my life is supposed to be a prism after sunlight, reflecting the colors of the rainbow rays after heavy rainstorm.
my life is supposed to be a clear cheerful lights that invite happy beams from every eyes that saw me!
where are those beams now?
there are,
but all of them are
impish
smiles.
it can’t be.
it can’t be.
now it’s only one solid color,
a color that allows me to be invisible.
perhaps
it’s better this way.
i would die rather than letting my morose colors transparent.
until when?
will i hide my colors forever?
but then, i will never witness the rays of the sun.
how will i refract rainbows, if i only let myself hide in the color of the night?
the sun.
the sun won’t come out.
but the clouds are here.
gray, heavy clouds leaking of water.
ah.
maybe i should wash my colors.
wash, wash, until i’m cleanse.
wash, wash,
the loud sounds of thunderstorm.
wash, wash, rain,
volatile sky projecting a vicious achromatic light.
let my colors melt in rain.
until my vicinity is filled with fluorescent bulbs,
‘til the sky is pastel,
'til holographic air diminish,
'til then,
i can see others beams,
and my own cheerful color
is the best one i could display so far.
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
In the heart of the fire a temple burns higher
Call me a liar
Do you believe the same as they deceive?
Instinct over spirit recieved
bested by the animalistic quality to falter from taking charge of the fallacy or to clear a path for the bard that beckons to be more than an aspect of frivolity
diminished by ecclesiastical polity
Thine ego spreads like a **** among the flowers growing faster with an unquenchable thirst for power devoted to consumption and the benefit of itself til sour and nothing else
Thus creating an afterimage that resembles all that we desire with all that we pretend to be
Half the ecstasy wired, that we could actually free higher from what comes naturally, divine to masters who wield compassion and invulnerable humility
as a weapon of civility
Surpass the masses' ability
Grasp the clasp of immortal nobility
Endire and outlast the harassment willingly to channel all the blessings of grace it will carry thee
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 10:05 PM UTC
you know what happens to them. or maybe you don’t. maybe you’re still caught in the flood. that’s okay. it’s better to drown than to burn. don’t you think? don’t you think? don’t you think?
it comes to me in two distinct shapes. (distinct. are they distinct? to me, yes, but i suppose to you they are just as shapeless as i am to you.)
him. my beautiful idiot. though his hair and eyes are dark as night, i know there are sparks that lie there, dormant. waiting to be ignited. but he makes me smile, makes me laugh so hard my stomach begins to hurt. i haven’t felt a good hurt in such a long time. the lips of his ghost leave an afterimage on my neck. he likes to watch the color rise to my cheeks, likes to watch me squirm. he thinks i’m worth something.
her. my ethereal starry girl trapped in a rotting sack of flesh. she wants out. she wants out. i know she will supernova anytime. it will be just as beautiful and terrible as she is, but i don’t want her to go. she keeps me from floating away, even if i am so unbearably heavy as a result. she protects me, loves me. she always tells me so. i can still feel her hands on mine. they’re warm. she thinks i’m worth everything.
but it doesn’t matter which form it takes. it always ends the same. they kiss me (hold me protect me embrace me touch me touch me touch me touch) and they burn. they always burn. it’s because of me, i know it’s because of me. this can’t be my skin then, it can’t be. it must be gasoline or gunpowder or nitroglycerin or god i don’t know but don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 5:21 AM UTC
I
-dulcimer clatter opens the sun, first fruit-
timber fathoms/crystal veils
on all steps, crossing all human borders
untethering wood
from forest, until only the green element remains
to purify the soul
an alpine afterimage, shadow-display
(creature of Earth, moss-backed & yowling thru the chaotic sleep
of October, you see it's symbology in your tea, sharpening its
obsidian hands against the seastones,
imprinting loveliness into the rock, to be worn by tides,
replaced by death absolute)
The fabled Black Horse (shadow-self) waiting solitary at a
gas station, an imprisoned dreamer inside
its gaping jaw/saturnine, coldness
of daybreak, clouds at their Atelier, my head
feels a pressure, been awake too long,
breathing in through the nose/out through
mouth, monastery of the mind in need of clearing.
II
Soft/soft/skin/fury
embrace, catharsis, collision of
two individual energies
pent-up and cast/release
like a skeleton net::onfire
(kissed, consumed
elated, recurrance)
closeted eternities
cycling back into the
wind (hanging willow)
calling to the seeker, gold,
purification & lightness/mouthcurl washed in silence
(your own body, rising tide)
welcomed crucible of chilling air
& my black and
white vessel,
electricity spirit-
whispers
“valley swimmer, elude me”
FLASH OF LIGHT
III
…. The widewaking world
unspun-
theatric elucidation,
emergence of a great snake
a wisened flower, sprouted from exile
blissful rejuvination of
the ivory leaves, at once!
I wrap my throat in a Munich scarf
(pattern-blue)
walking upon the softness of
Grötzingen (angel's eyes speaking)
an orchard, where the last gardener's tireless
work lay like a dreaming ossuary
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
Scott took a slug of his beer, reached
deep into the breast pocket of his coat, and
pulled out an empty pack of marlboros.
He flipped the top and was distraught
when he saw the empty space where
his addiction should've been hiding.
As he shrugged his way into that coat,
which has warmed him for years, he thought:
*Jeez, these sleeves are ******* cold!*
He told Vince, the immortal barkeep, that he'd
return ever so briefly as he stepped out into
the weighted rains and ceaseless winds.
Making his way down the road towards the
inevitable gas station while counting his
dollars and cents, Scott is blinded to the world.
But a seventh sense strikes him suddenly
and he hears his neck creak as he looks up,
over, and across the busy street.
Wait, he thinks, *how did she get here?*
yet there she stands alone on the corner.
I'm drunk, the thoughts roar, she's no more..
Cars and trucks cut through his vision and
she is but an afterimage, her dripping hair
blowing in the unforgetting winds.
She's gone man, his mind screams to him,
but it's his eyes that deter potential lies.
He actually sees her over there, even meeting
her own eyes in an endless moment of futility.
Whispering incomprehensibly to himself
he steps towards her, onto the street.
That's when life becomes shrouded in
screeching tires and burning brakes,
and Scott forgets all about his smoke break.
That's when life becomes darkness,
and she fades away into the rain as
a bus paints the road with his brain.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
How did you wear it so easily,
make your head hang so naturally?
Perhaps it's one of those things
for only some people. For some,
mourning suits. I'm not one of them.
Tell me, how did you cut your grief
so clean in half, just like a smile I saw
caught in the gleam of sun
on a swimming pool, shimmering
in a mirage or a lifetime ago,
when the summer heat knew us
and was simmering around us,
lifetimes ago.
It cut the world in half,
divided then from now,
divided moonlight,
split open decay to allow for more decay.
We've been doing that since May.
Now it's autumn,
meaning cold feet and a pile of laundry
losing heat, and inconsolable sky
and a train pulls into the platform,
empties itself, and on a sixth floor balcony,
evening dewdrops cling
to the railing, trembling, shy.
The thud of old telephone books,
thrashing in the wind. Our bones shook,
as we went on running on, ruining
one another for anybody else.
Everybody else.
Broken leaves, gold and russet.
Seasons leave us more than people do
so why is it we don't mourn the fallen
from trees as well as wars and cars and
wars and wars and wars.
The 11th of the 11th month at 11
they called for peace. Rest in peace.
At 11:11 I wished that someone
somewhere will soon kiss away
my idiosyncrasies
and my memories
until they sigh,
bye, bye, and you're gone
as if never here. They always say
earth is a place you didn't belong.
Cold and birdsong, chuckling
at the window. You are always there- yes you,
at the edge of that photograph
in lecture halls. in guitar chords,
in nothing-at-alls, in hospital wards.
Your face, slow-burning,
an afterimage,
across fields of morning light,
under the lapels of mourning suits.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
Books of word in shaded writes not as other
Reading was penned. where wrote but black
Pages of nothing, words claustrophobic in tight
Proximity but never viewed on sights unseen
In either dusk or light. Gathered upon nameless
Shelves, dust gathered where words left unspoken.
Many fought the paradox of never reading these
Pages that pulsated In mystical thought.This library
Of books with neither word, but pages took the
Lives of many never a mark. But now their bones
Lie in waiting anticipation, now eyes hollow of
Needed words only grasping torn parchment.
Along she came silken gloves, garbs that cut upon
Fine curves, she walked with a look of cautious pleasure
As if seeing but knowing what was beyond her sight.
Her only companion was a stick old yet shimmered
In a mirage of confusions light. For after she was beyond
Glares, her memory an afterimage upon others cares.
She had heard of this place of pages as dark as night,
Heeded upon thoughts of countless others who had
Pilgrimaged to this place, all faded from memories
Sight. "I wonder if a book can be read in darkness,
She sighed; and she came across this Old redwood
Door, in a redwood trunk as it stretched upon high.
Old door was neither of key or grip. She stood patiently
As rain shivered bones as night turned to day.
Thinking of how a door would be opened, Then a
Thought smiled upon her lips."Knock, Knock,
And that which was closed now let her in. The air
Smelt of old paper and the air was static and sweet.
She gathered her surroundings and where wood
Had greeted her, now there was but a view of the
Plentiful forest that stood outside. She reunited her
Thoughts of consumed panic and breathed.
Her stick she grasped and in words whispered, it
Shrunk to but a branch in griped tightly in her hand.
Noticing those that had stumbled or sneaked in this place.
Each a book or page in white closed palms, they were
Silent but told her stories of there fate. each page black
As if night had set upon them and sleep was like sinking
Sand drowning never to ever awake.
Once again words spoke upon a branch and light did like
Firefly playing against this enlightened place. She scrolled
On pages of onyx black and where once a void of nothing
Her light gained access to the darkest palace and words
Shone in echo's of time. Bestowed on this beauty was
The key to words unspoken now glanced upon in sight.
"I will learn your words,
"Never revealing what others might,
The library now hidden, but a tree can be found in
This wood, and on certain nights fireflies dance around
It and play in moonlit fun. All the while a woman
Looks after words that heed great power. But in
The hands of light, words dance upon air into the night.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
Giving a chance
testing my luck
defying my dream's will
feeling like sculpting.
I think i am going to put
you in trouble for that
cup of coffee
my memories like
offerings to an altar
of old scars.
Forgive me
excuse me
for such a long talk but
i think the trembling in
my heart has stopped.
The tone in your voice was sad
our minds were gone in feelings
we could not name.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 8:12 PM UTC
to dream of flight would be betrayal
of the promise I made spurred by memory
that can never forget your afterimage
burned behind my sleeping eyes
faint fears have begun to make a tremble
in this mind weakened by such pain
that if again caution is thrown to the wind
it would forever vanish into the sky
I have given you light in our darkness
a voice to follow in our violent wake
but should this fate befall us once more
in those dreams I fear I will begin to dwell
I beg us give no reason to find fault within
and keep us in reach of the sun's warmth
that if there comes a day when caution leaves
I won't regret that I did not give chase
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 1:56 AM UTC
The last streams of daylight fade away,
Like the frail afterimage
Of melancholic memories;
Drifting quietly like seaglass,
Submerged in an unfamiliar world.
Nov 10, 2021
Nov 10, 2021 at 9:16 PM UTC