"blackred" poems
ivories that are made of letters
grey skin, blackred hair, word babies
gigantic mirror, blackly glowing
psychedelic nature like 1968
apartment in the projects
hallways full of dust and spiders
uncle is smoking the daylight away
his walls covered with bulletholes
red and tired eyes, no smiling
uncle's wife killed in a car crash
dead goons are torturing him now
the memory of her dead body, stuck
past encounters like smoke in the air
red frost covers uncle's body, glaciers
a button to turn back time, fantasies
melting hours for god's sacrifices
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 9:58 AM UTC
if kisses are green and bodies verdantly exact in sameness
let my hands be two birds glorifying the waters in the slopes
of fingers,
if song is but undeath and the rise and fall the unalphabeted siren
of the morning,
such loose wind swaying over her silently as loincloths
over blackred roses, easily it breaks like a finger of a shadow
whirling gently through opened windows in candid moonlight
but if surely does your going signal the dawn but no birds
wreathing the trees and no gardens inherit garlands,
what shall then be two birds over waters but a single stride
of sorrow and whose temporal flights disdain centrifugal faces
of waiting; measured, coveted, photographed, love everywhere fading
where silence maims sound and music topples over the moon
the stars the sleepless nights and the stellified dust of the world
that must be opened again
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have
one. It will not be a ***** heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses
my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)
standing near my
(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see
nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my
(suddenly in sunlight
he will bow,
& the whole garden will bow)
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
night falls. space slackens.
falling into common placeness, the realness
of quotidian moon.
.
a love for the metastasis of minutiae.
a hand on the cold **** pale like the dead.
the tombs of fingernails. creases for
delineations of Earth. clenched, evening.
unloosened, bare as morning.
hand in hand, twilight.
.
outside the house, a figure.
things stir in the persistence of silence.
the flagrant irony of hearing cacophonies.
a part of the world that becomes a kin.
say, without light and the dimensions of
things, no shadows display in grayscale.
listening to the cancer of the avenue:
the continuing tachycardia in the edge
of things. things that pulse or flatten.
the mind, in your passing. the heart in your passing. respect this chronology.
likened to the metaphor of beginning
an immediate and forever turning of the body when trouble meant togetherness,
and consolation, simply remembering.
.
there is a deconstruction in sleep.
the alterable garment of dream. or a flower
revealing its inflorescence.
the blackred hemograph of petals, the accuracy of thorns, the tabulated geography
of its stillness - something it that does not completely practice. the constancy of the wind breaks its mimesis.
.
outside your house again. the undesirable quake in the monotony of your dog, Oliver, chained to the stilt of the house that does
move anymore.
the absolute quiet of the street foreshadows the variegated Dieffenbachia.
the color of my palm, starting to green.
i could be anything within your presence
as the moon intensifies the plunge.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have
one. It will not be a ***** heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses
my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)
standing near my
swaying over her
(silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see
nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my
(suddenly in sunlight
he will bow,
&the whole garden will bow)
Edward Estlin CUMMINGS
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 5:33 PM UTC
Blackred blood creeps through my veins
Drawn by the blackred rose it crawls down my hand
my back
hardened with work
no longer feels the weight
nor the path which slithers down my spine
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 9:24 PM UTC