"attics" poems
“Have you written about me yet?” you asked.
“I write about things that make me sad, you’re not one of them.” was my response.
But even as you made me sad,
Even as my heart started to crumble.
I never could write about you.
I am a poet I string stars into constellations
And weave words into stanzas.
I need someone whose eyes can be twisted into metaphors
And the mere sound of their voice makes my hands tremble so gracefully
That I can make my magic with a pencil.
I was in love with all the poems I wished I could write about you.
How badly I wanted to sculpt you with sentences into something
Too beautiful to call mine.
But you are not a poem.
Yes, your eyes are quite a gorgeous blue,
And your arms are strong.
I’m sure you would make a beautiful painting,
An inspiration for someone else’s art.
But not mine.
You wanted to believe all of my broken pieces
could fit in a cardboard box.
That's what attics are for, to hide ugly things.
You're beauty was skin deep.
And thats how you wanted me.
I didn't want to be empty.
“Have you written about me yet?” you asked.
“I write about things that have meaning, you’re not one of them.” should have been my response.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 11:14 PM UTC
Dusk!
With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!
Bats!
Glowing red eyes and glistening fangs,
These unspeakable giant bugs drop into view.*
Fibrous wings furred like a moth,
Big ears are just a membranous extension of antennae.
Flying in search of a flower’s pollen laden froth,
Silent except for the hum and squeak of echolocation.
Trap bats in attics, butterflies in nets.
No rabies feared, no bedbug bites to itch.
Clawed feet ****** and grab like praying mantis pincers;
Bloated stomach slopes like a pudgy beetle.
Jaws manipulate like an ant, excise like scissors;
Soft hair rustles like a wooly caterpillar.
They live in darkness, centipedes do too,
Come out at night like cockroaches tend to.
Skittering through the night like daddy long-legs,
Noses snubbed like bumble bee faces.
Wind turbines endanger bats,
Like fans endanger lightning bugs.
Only one percent of bats are vampiric,
Like only a small percentage of spiders are poisonous.
Dawn!
With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!
Bats!
Bats are bugs, aren’t they?
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 5:04 PM UTC
You can see it already: chalks and ochers;
Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines;
Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery;
Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass;
Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape;
A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though:
A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse);
On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain
All angular--you'd think a shovel did it.
So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds
Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it
A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes;
Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes,
They carp at every gust that stirs them up.
At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow
Is rusting; and before me lies the vast
Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue;
***** and hens spread their gildings, and converse
Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics,
Now and then, toss me songs in dialect.
In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker;
The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes
Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff.
I like these waters where the wild gale scuds;
All day the country tempts me to go strolling;
The little village urchins, book in hand,
Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging),
As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off.
The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant
Soft noise of children spelling things aloud.
The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you!
Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live:
Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed
My days, and think of you, my lady fair!
I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times,
Sailing across the high seas in its pride,
Over the gables of the tranquil village,
Some winged ship which is traveling far away,
Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds.
Lately it slept in port beside the quay.
Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge:
No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives,
Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters,
Nor importunity of sinister birds.
4.4k
A bee with innards spilling
A lost tabby,
A blimp caught up in trees,
Tintern Abbey.
The gravestone of a lover,
A drowning ship,
An NHS delivery of
Fortisip.
A girl with alopecia and
Fungail nails,
A one legged pigeon,
Exploding whales.
Ivy choked churches,
Merlot tongues,
Parrots plucking feathers,
Marlboro lungs.
Girls locked up in attics,
*** toys.
Boys punching girls
And punching boys.
Babies crowning
Fussed about like kings.
Darlings,
You shall see such pretty things.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
We are the genuine men
We are the fulfilled men
Standing together
Headpiece filled with ideas. Huzzah!
Our powerful voices, when
We cheer together
Are loud and meaningful
As wind in wet grass
Or dancing feet over wooden floors
In our damp attics
Shape with form, shade with colour,
Dynamic force, motion without gesture;
Those who have crossed
With indirect eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Forget us—if at all—not as found
Peaceful souls, but only
As the genuine men
The fulfilled men.
Eyes I dare meet in nightmares
In death’s dream kingdom
These do appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a whole column
There, is a tree standing
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More close and more bashful
Than a newly formed star.
Let me be closer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me not wear
Such obvious disguises
Silk shirt, snakeskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
Closer—
That first meeting
In the twilight kingdom
This is the living land
This is fruitful land
Here the cloudy images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a living man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a newly formed star.
It is like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking together
At the minute when we are
Shaking with excitement
Lips that would kiss
Form praise to no stone.
The eyes are here
There are eyes here
In this valley of living stars
In this flowing valley
This whole jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this first of meeting places
We ***** alone
And invite speech
Gathered on this beach of the free river
Vision, unless
The eyes disappear
As the periodic star
Monofoliate daisy
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of whole men.
*Here we go round the mulberry bush
Mulberry bush mulberry bush
Here we go round the mulberry bush
At five o’clock in the morning.*
Between the thought
And the implementation
Between the movement
And the deed
Rises the Light
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the inception
And the construction
Between the feeling
And the reaction
Rises the Light
Life is very short
Between the need
And the want
Between the potential
And the substance
Between the ingredients
And the ascent
Rises the Light
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world begins
This is the way the world begins
This is the way the world begins
Not with a whimper but a bang.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
banana skin salad in
artificial lemonade
peacocks salivating
mushy rooms belly aching
Oreos are okie dokie
ocean breezes open up me
analyzing any eyes
evaluating coffee grinds
a manifesting apple in me
apple in the Snapple leaking
sticky salamander fingers
static on a broken speaker
attics over broken theaters
salmon eating taco teachers
teaching choco taco preachers
preaching at Chicago creatures
opal rings and oval things
are focusing on yodeling
a social need for opening
in total global offerings
and in a soup or telephonic
happiness in playing sonic
gently speaking thick Ebonics
sickly tonic
Let's be honest, boys
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
You're the kid that asks how the cotton candy skies got that color
except now it's all blood red
"I guess God killed all the angels" he said
and I think:
baby my wrists are rags, ripped up rags,
and needles give you bad memories,
and my minds a black, empty, hole but it's still so ******* heavy
just a weight that no matter how much you want to say you can, you just cannot carry
and you need to stay alive
because there's no spots for angels anymore when they die
but I just can't bring myself to say it
and he knows people only remember things about me
like the fact that I like whiskey, and my suicidal tendencies
a lining of lightbulbs
infused on the wire in my brain
he says Jesus was like any other psychopath ,
just a normal schizophrenic
and if there's a God
we pray for him to fix the problem he's created
what if heavens just like hell in the form of a maze
golden maps leading you to places you aren't any happier
acid trips into abandon attics,
blonde babes with tied up hair
and yellow teeth
cracked out, veins
complaining that the life they hated ever changed
he says I ruined the calm after the storm that no one lives to see
the ending of the bible
that no one has enough attention in them to read
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
Stained glass coffins
Crystalline mosquitoes
Death that masquerades
In silken flags and floras
Languorous beauties
Graffiti of red and violet light
Sirens kiss the bullets
As they scatter them
To burn holes in sepia dreams
Watercolor ghosts
Casting out wildflower candy
Attics that hide under
Strawberry dust and lemons
That melts into mildew
As they pass down the gullet
Layers of ashes in the belly
“But you told us to swallow!”
Masses of children howl
The pretty ghouls hiss back
“Cannot you tell a lie by now,
By the sweetness of its taste?”
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
Palaces of ****** souls
have green neon text frames
standing sideways like arches;
divine arrows, they guide
the paternal flunks, the tar-soaked offspring,
the lonely and the business bunch.
Here in these palaces, all sin is a freeze, all
lust is a spin.
Fairy lights are often flagged in a net,
to catch mischievous mares flinging
themselves against the glass displays
of overpriced clothing shops.
One finds when wondering the perpetual
lines of restaurants and cafes, the vastness of them
having a motherly touch, for
these palaces, they stretch like the sky and
they spread like the shepherded
fire ants of Gaia herself
And when ones welcome is overbid
they need only to follow the
evenly laid out, sorrow yellow street lamps
and bite their cheeks and bare the frost
for soon the polluted lux will lead them to
an overnight joint, a limbo of sorts,
where they can breathe anew.
On those red leather sofas- fast food
or the district kind- when the night seems
to crawl on its final limbs,
they'll lay and slip into sleep.
Some say they never do wake, that they
wither with the moon and then
haunt the attics of the dance halls
where they swirled and laughed and lived
in a previous life.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
I wrap my arms about my torso and brush my thoughts 'gainst you,
crying.
*Rainwater best cures a torn-soul
when boiled in a *** atop
a burner left burning all night.*
Crying,
the sky giveth us wonders and taketh the wonders away.
O' the water's down a'boilin'.
Ye' it all boils down to you.
To you and how you go.
Ye' when you go, you go.
O' where you a'goin' too?
See that go-getter go-gettin' his girl–
Good for him. Good for him.
Send some good for the man with a will when he wills his will to be.
And good for the fingers who first feel a fortune 'fore the fortune is seen.
And good for the addicts relapsing in attics with kisses of dopamine.
And good for the thoughts of you that brush against my skin,
that for days on will hold–
*Eighteen! Eighteen! I say eighteen years is the bridge,
the forest fires will forever forget to burn!*
I say give it a year and call him on that telephone and
he will answer on that telephone and
you will beg his heart come home, beggin' a'bargainin'–
*Eighteen! Eighteen! I have missed you for some time,
bent-to-bet a century's pass'd since we last kissed.*
One match done been lit in the county matchbook.
Such is the click-click of a gas stove igniting,
I call that rip-exciting, torn-enticing, fates be a'dicing–
*Eighteen! Eighteen! It was another day–
It was another life.*
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Loneliness is the name we gain
Abandoned in attics of despaired shame
We might not know who our maker is
Nor even how we're birthed without a single kiss
Sailing shore to shore of no causing way
We fly, we glide, we slip away
Each day is our rite without rights
Pondered those colors from black to white
And out our interluding charades
Oh, how we are judge by senseless mocking jays
Enraptured by our capacities we can engage
Still we leered showing a zealous face
From dust, A man was oddly fabricated
A tapestry of wonders to show its vivacity
He's so different from our Avant name
And has a thought that could seize a luring day
But if he never saw how wide the narrow he'd take
From dust a man shall die ever the same
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
There are walls waiting,
crumbling
as pockmarks of decay
beside sidewalks
along motor cities’ streets.
There are terminal
and forsaken structures
colonized
with ungrateful squirrels
that abandon
attics for creaking kitchens
with corroded sinks.
Un-shoveled snow melts
slow on walkways
unfamiliar with worn heels
or rubber soles.
There are forlorn relics
patient and waiting
for us to join them.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
I am haunted by iguanas
Crawling though the attics of my dreams
And lately my front teeth
Are growing some kind of orange fur
I worry that ring tailed lemurs
Have stolen my remote control
I'm ridiculed by spider monkeys
Holding my underwear for ransom
My faithful cat ignores my worries
Unless her dish is empty
Now ants seem vaguely threatening
And magpies watch me in the morning
Late at night, I wonder what advice
Kafka or maybe Aristotle could offer
But they've never friended me or twittered.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 2:46 AM UTC
You matter to me,
You art the ghost in coffee
Clouds whistle around you
Too much energy scares
Hoi Poilloi but we rule these streets
Call us out by righteous name
Love is all you have in the Swamp
I imagine it in the hot night
Running from New Orlins
Tide tryin to eat you
Water mixed with kerosene
There is suddenly no god
My three year old daughter
Left in that miserable
Water, and nobody did a thing
9/11 was a kind of blackened day
But when the Levees Break
Nobody gets out alive
Without money to roll
It’s time to yell truth of my city
Marie Laveau in all her forms
She cried with me
She held my hands and said:
Do not lament forever
Sorrow has its place & tyme
Marie Laveau comes to me now:
Saying Rise Up and Save This City
Something so still, so solemn
Guards the city of the yellow moon
I feel it
Almost reaching it
Hands touch my eyes and
I know them
I dream of Big Chief
Who flew from Heaven
Bringing the saving of the 9th ward
Nothing can save the 9th
But Marie Laveau, both a dem Ave Maria’s
No god no Saints came marching
Saving my role on freeway overpasses
Left there to be displayed, to die of thirst
Where were you, oh God?
We loved you even as we died of thirst
In a country that could pf delivered rations to Iraq
In less than six hours.
We have been sacrificed to low cause
No happiness shall come from this
True badlands, had Saints, and Faith
Nature took but once
Government took it all &
Left us standing
Or dying in attics
Screaming
Save Our Souls
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 2:28 AM UTC
Back in the '40's
My great-grandma used to sing
On the bus
Everyday
Never the same song
Never to anyone in particular
She just used to get on
Walk down the isle
Sit down and start to sing
After my grandfather was born
They put my great-grandma
In the hospital
The loony bin
The cackle barn
The mental institution
In there she got really sick
They said her liver was failing
She liked wine
And soon
She died
They said it was cirhossis
But to this day
That woman haunts
Me
Was she crazy?
Was she just a drunk?
Was she crazy and decided to self-medicate with the alcohol?
I've tried to find records of her
On the internet
And in attics and basements
But nothing ever seems to
Come up
Nothing wants to be found
At least not yet
In the meantime, I'm stuck here
Wondering
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
Sometimes we are made aware of beacons in the rest of the dark.
Like stars littered across the attics we trap ourselves in.
Sometimes we chase rainbows with beggars eyes and wishes like children.
Some people are like soup soaked bread crumbs and wool mittens with the fingers cut out.
The rest of us are chimney soot.
And they are ‘chim chim cheree‘.
They are song filling every corner of the antique shop.
Silver under tarnish and weights and measures
balancing on the hands of the scale
suspended from the spear of a woman in white robes
with blue eyes that match the sky when we stare at it
and it usurps the corners of our eyes
and we are made aware of how small we are
as we get lost in how complete it is when it is with out clouds
with silver linings that never seem to follow through to rain.
And some of us?
Some of us are rain.
And thunder that shakes your soul.
And images of gods in black and white that burn themselves onto our minds
for us to study with our eyes closed.
And some of us are doing the best we can.
And some of us are not us.
But are the others.
And we would be lost without them
to point beyond red sails on sundown ocean horizons,
just before the world turns blue.
And some are the pops and cracks between the notes of Coltrane on Vinyl.
And you.
You smell of confessional walls and a nursery.
You smell of camp fire blankets and bruised roses.
You move like corner of the eye shadows
and windshield wipers with no chance of beating the rain.
You write like stone tablets and feathers.
Blown bubbles and spun webs.
And you feel like chance.
And love.
And strength.
You change like ropes on ship decks and tarot meanings from gypsy to gypsy.
And you are beautiful.
And beautiful.
And beautiful.
And everything.
And everything.
And everything.
Strong like ropes on yard arms of old ships in ancient seas.
And you go and you take us there.
And we go, because we want to see too.
And we want to be full on wild flowers and raspberries.
And we want you to show us the line on our palm
that separates the dark from the light.
And we want bed time stories and lullabies.
And with my eyes.
And with your own too.
And more importantly.
You.
You are the place where there is hardly no day time and hardly night. Things half in shadow and things half in light. On the roof tops of forever. Coo. What a sight…
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
Listen Here -> https://soundcloud.com/m_c_vegh/itch
I got an itch and I never scratch it.
I wish I could attack it with hatchets
have at it like addicts, -get higher than attics
smother it like asthmatics.
***** out its flame.
Cause the itch lays the tracks for train in my brain
just a scratch and I know that I'd go insane,
so the itch just remains.
Simple and plain.
But the itch won't control me
cause scratchin it won't console me
the comfort it brings is phony
even when I feel lonely.
I used scratch without noticing
in an itchless-ness bliss,
until I scratched my self raw
a fact that I somehow missed.
that's when you know that you're trapped,
all that you can do is scratch
cause if you don't then you'll crash
a striked match turned to ash.
you've gone and burned out all your midnight oil
nothing left from feasting spoiled
the itch makes your blood boil.
who knew that the pleasure that came from this friction
would turn against you so fast and create an addiction
there's no predictions for scratching
but for the scratching itself
except scratching always leaves you lonely
cause you just scratch yourself
and I wish I could shut these problems off with a switch,
but I got ninety-nine problems and the itch is the *****
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
Certain rhythms will provoke ghosts
in old attics reeking with romance.
That eternal prayer
found in complete silence,
begs sinners to break purity.
Mortal breathes begin to dance between lips,
creating poetry in sacred space.
The momentary awareness of another,
who craves the absorption of your soul.
**** me into your lungs darling.
I'll translate centuries of painful wisdom
stirring in the temple of my bones.
These truths begin a home
in our late night dialogues
circling around dangerous pasts,
all those golden, fatal blades.
As we make our way back to the red light of sleep,
the attic leans in to touch our skulls.
We respond with agony and laughter.
I slide into sleep,
forgetting all I need to find in your mind.
Accepting the fingerprints
as you press my identity upon your tongue.
The restless goddess within my nature
swallows the mortality
in tonight's poetry.
But this never lasts.
Love is a distraction,
an intoxication meant to entertain that ego who loves deficiency,
a selfish voice who finds herself every morning in front of a decaying mirror
and blames the lack of other.
Learn to leave the fear behind.
You alone are whole.
There is poetry sewn into your veins.
Underneath that sacred silence
there is an original symphony
waiting to find the medium of your complex truth.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
finite rapture
well defined. organized
organelles squirming. spurning
unnecessary imposition. repitition
severing me further.
it's still a bright fixture on the horizon
viewed at the far end of winding tunnel of mirrors.
captured in a jar. admired ideas
appreciated from afar.
trembling extended hand retracted.
strong stiches binding. scabs still crusty.
musty attics, shuffling feet.
melting.
swelltering in the possibility
of a potential interpreted properly.
I work better as an idea
than a human.
compose the tune and I'll be the words.
transpose your soul, I'll be the vibrations.
speak between the lines. I will be blinded.
Beyond thought.
we are aware that we're unaware.
Crystalize. Mezmerize.
It could be so simple.
To notice the cheeks, but not the dimples.
Four perfect points of light linger in the shadows
two by two
Ideals. a concrete truth.
Glaciers slowly crack foundations.
Pounding. Pouding.
Resounding. Cannot be ignored
before I am the boomerang
that cracks you on the head.
Blood pooling at the base of my skull
control watered down.
Concrete giving into stress
and a flower has room to bloom/
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
I was kinetic
Tired, frenetic
Wasting alone in my room
Three years gone
You hooked my attention
I braced for affection
Flooded the halls
I was so blind to the care in your voice
All I could see was your hair and your throat
Gripping to sever my lack
I bit as deep as I could
I wanted your blood
Because it glowed with warmth
I just didn’t care anymore
Hope is an addict
Roaming the attics
Of memories long gone
Love is relentless
Lust is wreckless
I’m selfish to the core
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 4:11 AM UTC
"Things don't need to last forever to be perfect." - Daydream Nation
Can you recall when your innocence was lost?
Maybe it had to do with all the alcohol you've drunk?
Without knowing how to cope, resulting in night terrors.
Impenetrable, irreplaceable, imcombustable, irrevocable memories.
Trying to relive, revive past memories, experiences, pictures, and videos framed for all to see.
Memories etched into our brains like an etch-a-sketch board.
Do you remember the innocence you had as a child?
Whether coming home to a pre-cooked meal or riding your bike around aimlessly.
Storing memories in the attics of the mind.
A dark & dusty room filled with cobwebs,
Perhaps you'll find those packs of cigarettes you lost.
Similar to the stories in books or movies on Netflix.
Trapped between delusion & fictional fantasy.
We are the retrospective light - angelic humans.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 5:25 AM UTC
“Palm trees do exist”
And like that I’m speechless
Because palm trees are the definition of serenity
And she can’t find that serendipity
because in Idaho we have pine trees
And fathers who are like attics
Attics have ladders to climb so you can reach their expectations
And sometimes his are too high
If I had an attic I would cut every rung to its ladder and build my own
Because I know where I’m going
It might not be as high as you’d like
But let me assure you I’m headed toward palm trees
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
I sat there like a museum of moments,
a mosaic of emotions
as she dissected my personas
and did an autopsy of my past.
Memories climbed my spine
from the forgotten attics in my heart
with every question, she asked.
But my tongue was a drought
and my voice box was a rust box,
as the child in me
was bullied into quietude.
My edgy, messy and raw memories
molded my perception,
rewrote my interpretation
and deepened my experience.
There was underlying vengeance
as the layers of fabricated scabs were scrapped
to disclose the deeply entrenched, tender emotional scars.
As the present, struck a cord
my limbs would turn into cement
as the echo would bring me back
to the endless street of time
and I would be dragged
through open wounds within me.
The pain would seep in the nooks
and crannies of my soul.
At every jibe and remark
one more part of my flesh
would be chiseled away.
The sky would join in my sorrow
as the clouds gathered like sheep
summoned by a shepherd
and then we would begin to weep
our unresolved issues
onto tissues.
I revisited the bathrooms
that became sanctuary in high school
with its gossip soaked walls
and tear-stained countertops.
I dream of the people
that have lost their way in my memory;
a fabrication of nostalgia.
But the tranquility of waves,
can’t even erase the memories of their wrongdoings.
My past engraved itself
into my muscle memory
ingrained its teachings
and matured my sensibility.
The dim shadows that would creep
And the blues that I would pour
are becoming budding flowers in my chest.
Weaving from the same web
I was entangled in
building from the same sorrows
I was drowning in.
I began connecting,
understanding its stem
stitching my memories.
I write for my younger self
who felt silenced and erased by the world.
I shape all the tainted pieces of memories
into art and paint shades of my past
as each is soaked in a memory.
I craft subconscious relief,
breathing memories
into 6 alphabets
that were strung into paragraphs,
beginnings and end.
I reached out to corners
to bring out
sunrises and sunsets
and reignite dying embers
as I de-spell the damage that silently reverterbrates through generation.
I find home in my skin
and love myself, whole;
Shadows, crevice and all.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 8:34 AM UTC
the hand that rubs my body down
is soft: softly veined &
of a powder-white translucence; transcribed
from dover chalks to run down my
chest, backs of my thighs.
the hand that rubs my body down
curves in sweet musics 'round my soul;
the shrill but beaut'ous rasp of skin
on skin
-- of fingertips tracing strange poetry
along my spine.
the hand that rubs my body down
holds in its palm a sacred oil;
anointing me at midnight hour. muted
bewitchments; burns the candle
down to a nub.
the hand that rubs my body down
calls for christ in attics of sunday
afternoon ... crosses its fingers in
spiteful fits
of piousness.
the hand that rubs my body down
takes the shape of golden scarab;
sets aflame my eyes of beaming azure &
finds in me a willing servant.
the hand that rubs my body down
wakes me at dawn, partnered
with an extension of pinpointed
warmth: the touch of her breath upon my cheek.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 7:41 PM UTC
You gather all this worth
Hoard it underneath
A thinning stretch of pale landscape
Sinking with every birth, retreat
No one visits, no one inhabits
Perpetual grey, another day
The blur between blinding white and black
That frightens all the children away
To upstair attics, ageless rests
Amongst damp death, worn life
What a monumental memory
Keepsakes we cannot relive (relieve)
What a monumental tragedy
Keepsakes we cannot forgive (forget)
We will all shrink
Head or heart or soul
Skin and frail bone
To earth, alone
We will all shrink
Head or heart or soul
Skin and frail bone
To earth, alone
No one visits, no one inhabits
Your memories
What is your memento?
What is your vice?
What keeps you stolen from the sleep at night?
What is your remembrance?
A better, worse time?
What keeps your heart set aside from life?
I know mine, I know mine
Her dead living eyes
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC