"brane" poems - Hello Poetry

brane mu pesme da piše u srce krastaču mu nasadili prste mu lepljivom svilom spojili u noge sačmom gađali iz očiju sve mu suze isisali eno ih gde suva leže nisu više ni tako zelena u uši mu ptičji izmet nagurali i na čelo žig iz sna prijatelje mu isterali umesto njih strašno zlo osanotvorili samo su se smejali ponekim udarcem u kičmu ga budili dok je nem tumarao po svetu u pesme su njegove duvan motali ili bi slova izvitoperili takve na čitanje davali brane mu život brane mu da diše

0

Apr 17, 2015

Apr 17, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC

lovke

nem

brane mu pesme da piše u srce krastaču mu nasadili prste mu lepljivom svilom spojili u noge sačmom gađali iz očiju sve mu suze isisali eno ih gde suva leže nisu više ni tako zelena u uši mu ptičji izmet nagurali i na čelo žig iz sna prijatelje mu isterali umesto njih strašno zlo osanotvorili samo su se smejali ponekim udarcem u kičmu ga budili dok je nem tumarao po svetu u pesme su njegove duvan motali ili bi slova izvitoperili takve na čitanje davali brane mu život brane mu da diše

18

NIGHT LOOKS IN. Night looks into my window; I sleep in a dark nowhere a nowhere spitting up steam, the streets in their wetness, the rolling night, the moon unbroken, hidden, like the eye of fall that blinks cold tears, then recedes under the soft ground. A rogue wind and a new season overlap life and death; a damp chill on my spine illuminates it, as it throws off the mem- brane of fear. I seek possibilities; they have given up looking for me. I have given up fighting back the chill of solitude; a bare- knuckled wind holds summer at arm’s length. The snakeskin winds itself around my mind, shedding its snake, pouring out cold venom this is the best winter, or the best in a long time. I surrender to the movie machine, the great blinking eye, a shroud of black- and-white. In shades of in-between I find the new ability to live inside the celluloid; this is where I make my hiding place, and I scamper from room to room with no notice. I forever sit and listen as the great Rubinstein plays, makes love to the keys, coronates Chopin. I am safe here, in 1950, or thereabouts, sitting in a chair apropos to 1950, and I answer no phones and in fact, am not truly of this world, nor of Rubinstein’s, but I can migrate well, A Zelig of diminishing returns, and a kiss is the only thing I lack, and it is getting warmer, and I still wear my old coat, And when night again breaks into my house, I am in a better place, away from the lost children of my old hopes, Away from the fangs of tyrants who want me happy; Away from the blind moon and the rocks I could never stop throwing. Steven Stone January 2012

0

May 3, 2012

May 3, 2012 at 12:45 PM UTC

steven-stone

NIGHT LOOKS IN.

NIGHT LOOKS IN. Night looks into my window; I sleep in a dark nowhere a nowhere spitting up steam, the streets in their wetness, the rolling night, the moon unbroken, hidden, like the eye of fall that blinks cold tears, then recedes under the soft ground. A rogue wind and a new season overlap life and death; a damp chill on my spine illuminates it, as it throws off the mem- brane of fear. I seek possibilities; they have given up looking for me. I have given up fighting back the chill of solitude; a bare- knuckled wind holds summer at arm’s length. The snakeskin winds itself around my mind, shedding its snake, pouring out cold venom this is the best winter, or the best in a long time. I surrender to the movie machine, the great blinking eye, a shroud of black- and-white. In shades of in-between I find the new ability to live inside the celluloid; this is where I make my hiding place, and I scamper from room to room with no notice. I forever sit and listen as the great Rubinstein plays, makes love to the keys, coronates Chopin. I am safe here, in 1950, or thereabouts, sitting in a chair apropos to 1950, and I answer no phones and in fact, am not truly of this world, nor of Rubinstein’s, but I can migrate well, A Zelig of diminishing returns, and a kiss is the only thing I lack, and it is getting warmer, and I still wear my old coat, And when night again breaks into my house, I am in a better place, away from the lost children of my old hopes, Away from the fangs of tyrants who want me happy; Away from the blind moon and the rocks I could never stop throwing. Steven Stone January 2012

78

There’s a madness within that roils my soul, and entreats me beyond safe confines. What is it that pushes me to the edge of the mountain tempting me to jump and end the uncertainty? It’s not just wanderlust, not just a desire for peril. It’s a quest past aching to outright pain. Let me jump the brane from internal peace to the terror beyond. Can’t wait for unknowable possibilities. Can no longer sail with prevailing winds. I must hurl myself into the typhoon.

0

Nov 13, 2020

Nov 13, 2020 at 1:31 AM UTC

allanbrunmier

Forbidden Seas

There’s a madness within that roils my soul, and entreats me beyond safe confines. What is it that pushes me to the edge of the mountain tempting me to jump and end the uncertainty? It’s not just wanderlust, not just a desire for peril. It’s a quest past aching to outright pain. Let me jump the brane from internal peace to the terror beyond. Can’t wait for unknowable possibilities. Can no longer sail with prevailing winds. I must hurl myself into the typhoon.

13