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Knit Personality Jul 2018
Root of all thirsting,
    My greatest desire,
A single drop bursting
    Can put out a fire.
A single drop wholly
    Divorced from the brine,
A single drop holy,
    The liquid divine.

        Find what you love,
            And let it **** you.
        Water, I love you.
            **** me, will you?

Raindrop or dewdrop
    I want on my tongue.
For the old drop and new drop
    These verses are sung.
The new drop and old drop
    Of water I crave,
The hot drop and cold drop,
    From cradle to grave.

        Find what you love,
            And let it **** you.
        Water, I love you.
            **** me, will you?

Drown me in oceans,
    In crystalline seas,
In H2O potions
    Of perfect degrees.
Drown me in teardrops
    Divorced from the brine,
In flawlessly clear drops
    Of the liquid divine.

        Find what you love,
            And let it **** you.
        Water, I love you.
            **** me, will you?

#
Joseph Loggi Oct 2018
I got a couple of things to say
That I feel would clear
All that fog that hangs
Inside my head
and makes it
so hard to
think.
But if I open my mouth
All the mist will
Come out
And I won't see
the truth.
ELK Apr 21
I am what I fear
I am my own demise
the very force that splits marrow
and thins blood
I am the choking that comes
with the clash of sorrow
and brine

-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
Ashley Chapman Sep 2017
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
                          
                            we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.

Mindless,
         In the soup of silicone,
                            
                            all
Myt­h-makers,
         Pouring over electro-spawned
         networks,
                            
                            fall
Workers,
          In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
          megabytes and terabytes,
                            
                            down
Everyone
          Far from the wood, the brine, the
          mud that caked us,
          In tighter and tighter
          digitised  projections,
                            
                            click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’

Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,

                           enter:

Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,

Now a waking voice,
          Hardened, digitised, recorded in
          bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
                        
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
                          mirror.

          A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
          To record the echo in the hollow
          of our Being.
Wrote this a while back. It was published in The Tunnel Magazine, which was great. Anyway, hope it gets a wider audience.
Madeline Harper Sep 2018
My blood is a toxin
Toxic like wine
The ink from this pen
Is duly mine

Your name is a drug
My drug and my wine
My body was your temple
Now become a shrine

The harlotry is my venom
The venom is my wine
And for all that I may account
I know I've walked the line

The whisky is my poison
The poison is my wine
And I find it warmer here
Beneath the dying brine

Now my thoughts lay bundled with twine
And here I am, fresh out of wine
If there's poison in the wine, then hunny I'm drunk
shamamama May 17
.                                                 sea and sand,                                          .
                ­                          salt and surf, foam and
                                       froth, greet and gather, tumble
                                    and turn, rock and roll, spray and
                                 spin, cross and current,                roar        
                               and rise, crash and curdle,                mix
                            and mash, blend and bash, drip
                         and drop, pour and plunder, leap and
                     layer, mound and mist, shine and sheen, scoop
                  and scale, spread and span, fall and falter, leap and
               layer, splash and spire, bubble and brine, writhe and write
         s             e            a           w           o           r            t           h           y
reflections on the ocean surf
L Maughan Sep 14
can you feel the summer
bleeding out
in fallen pink ladies
sweetened on the ground
and the sunny wounds
of barren
five starred receptacles
green reminders
of dropping blooms
tougher than a frost

do they miss the color

if a rose could speak
in September
would
it pause and break
as I do in this distance
...seasons have no mercy
come to me burning on my skin
as an icy brine would
make fossils of dim ideas
that grew and bound these limbs
from touching what they wanted
Q Jan 2017
Walk through my soul forest
and sense
Anciently evergreen and wise
Fresh dampness deep with life

Rocket through my mind galaxy
and know
Burning nebulas of inspiration
Infinite dustings of thought constellations

Fall into my heart ocean
and taste
Tides brackish with emotional brine
Love foaming on shells and shorelines

Breathing life into my body
Blooming peace into my life
Take a moment to see me
And these natural forces of mine
Marla Jun 11
Every morning I wake up to puddles at my feet,
Storm clouds swamping me and making it impossible to breathe.

The downpour only grows more as the days progress,
A dying glow fading distant in my empty chest.

It's hard to find the storm's eye when it seems to have died,
The tar and ashes from a bonfire burn lowly outside.

But me and my life, I suppose we are just fine...
The rising tide drowning us in it's icy cold brine.

Perhaps one day, it will all come to an abrupt end.
Until that day, I'll drown myself with an ocean of gin.
zebra Dec 2018
come here with the jackknife and see what I'm made of
i'm **** candy she said
taffy and blood
a steaming deli
doomed chicken of the sea
doll parts, splayed pomegranates
femurs left in a ******; wish bones
eviscerations to admire
peaches and cream sprinkles
skin like cold grey soap
barbed wire ******'s spas
like a toilet flushing
spirographic squiggles
at the museum of modern art

video girl
video girl
video girl
like
butter flies flutter bye

dead movie star dancing
a matinee cyclops
everybody wants a glitter ****
incandescent candy store
a piece of her to take home in little bite size chunks
in a heart shaped pink box leaking red meat
enshrined crucifix; kosher
an **** of heretics like me
and maybe like you

god is whatever is in your heart

i pray to modernism
to be saved
by *** death and resurrection
and a bigger ****
impregnation ghoul
like a solar ******* hero
*** heroine
a Bedouin and a Jew ******* each other off
in a New York City
Holiday Inn
while the Kabbalah and Koran read each other

I packed the suit case
with a yellow mucous colored rubber tube, a razor and stockings
I don't know what ill do with it, but ill think of something

God spins death
so why cant you; or are you to good for that
albeit a narrow construction
to carve my fate in such short order

ill get into my short short funeral skirt and girly bobbles
ill go up and down on you like a yoyo
sea Venus foaming *******
til you flip me over
a deli sandwich
and cut me in two
splattered ketchup
on the blue plate special; extra mayo
while a huddled sabbath of *******, extra ******
groan like Pisgah turned to mulch
indigo shards suicide note
ending in
i don't mind
and precise instructions
please chew slowly while I **** on your teeth
stuck rot
while still kissing you
better bring a napkin and floss

you know I would get hot,
seeing my one way ticket next to your return one

wish we could
**** candy
pastel chew
blood bubblegum
melts in my mouth like quicksand
hissing fruity drops looping
you go down like squid
clawing your way back up half chewed with that hurt look
making wet mud holes blink
dark vapors tear my eyes

you wont need a head stone
your feet will look good sticking out of the ground
with anklets
a fashionista
except upside down
your funeral; a foot kissing ritual
religion; follow dead feet, to paradise

head down *** up
you know; the position of power

your the new aeon
grave stone arches with toe ring twinkles
rectitude striving
hot head buried in dirt
antagonizing worms
because your to hot to chew
like molten core
a zombie ******
velvet tabernacle
smooth leg art
and pretty pointy toes
ascending
where glitter lights shine
pickle brine
green
in a
Promethean ******* ballet
phantasmagorias dark embrace

this is no ordinary love
dialog of paraphilias
surreal horror subversive
a poem about the non-rational sacred
untethered poetry
song of a shattered world


Across the spectrum of religious experiences—from the archaic and chthonic experience of sacred power to organized religion—surrealism arises in that elusive threshold between the sacred and the profane, between the illuminations and of everyday life and the more formal expressions of the sacred. The mysterious, contradictory nature of this liminal zone is embodied in surrealist literature and art: matter becomes metaphor; the ordinary object becomes extraordinary; and images evoke emotional disturbance and ambiguity rather than specific ideas. The ambivalent force of the surreal resists conventional rational categories of intellectual discourse. Behind its elusive potency of mood and charged associations lie the fundamental ambivalence and non rational power of the sacred.
—Celia Rabinovitch, Surrealism and the Sacred
Richard Barnes Dec 2018
Your sorrow is expressed by the tears upon your face.
Words written in silken letters of brine.
By reading this message of sorrow and pain they contain; Please
Let me wipe these letters from your face with forgiveness.
trf Nov 2018
i'm a yellow chill
a daffodil in the rain
thought i found my place
kinda heard to explain

sip each glass of wine
your palette needs a rest
taste his *******'s brine
along your lips

signing documents
you can't help hide your grin
sweat beading down your brow
my nervous penmanship

is this what they call peace
four hundred dollars an hour
the clock says nine past three
rounding up minutes they devour

caught you dead to rights
my son's new step father
when he sees your blight
harvest grapes turn sour

i feel constant dread
our son can't cope the truth
so far above his head
your soulless attribute

i'm a daffodil, more like a coward in the rain.
These troubadours, between truth and lies, corrupt lovers, women and husbands and keep saying that Love proceeds obliquely
A tenso (Old Occitan [tenˈsu, teⁿˈsu]) is a style of troubadour song. It takes the form of a debate in which each voice defends a position; common topics relate to love or ethics.
Andrew Guzaldo c Oct 2018
“Solidity of my heart is ever repeating,
Yet yearning for things I'll never know,
The heat of the earth upon my feelings,
The zeal of the flurry gusts upon my dermis,

In the beauty of sunlight falling on water ways,
As you can feel the warmth of the sun as I have,
I’ve confronted my life’s crusades before this melody,
Oh yes yours be a simple cup of water for a diverse life,

It is the brine of the ocean that makes me crave more,
Tears that make my ever repeating heart stutter,    
Tear drops warm as the flurry gusts upon my dermis,
Tears abhor the interior sole destruction of my soul,
        
Tears hasten down my cheeks like rivers,
Tears now smell and taste like the salt of sea brine,
As it leaves a taste of red fervor within my heart?
There will always be peace now way in my soul,

Tears sooth me like my feet upon brine sand stone
As I walk this journey I may stumble and fall,
For that infinite one that has left me now all alone,
I shall ever be fulfilled now in my melody of tears”
By Andrew Guzaldo 10/10/2018 ©
By Andrew Guzaldo 10/10/2018 ©   #Poem # 130 HP
Timothy Oct 2018
There is no comfort on the storm tossed sea,
Where haply death claims lives without a trace.
There in the froth, the gale, the waves that be,
Convulsed from clime to clime, and now embrace
What I just cannot fathom nor conceal,
The dark and boundless depths that now reveal—
The lives, long gone, a homeless corpse up churn'd
The shores that change but ne'er cease to recall
A rage that sank both sailour and the learn'd,
No knells, no coffins, graves, or ev'n headstones at all!

O, rolling ocean, ship's wreckage contained
Inside thy stomach deep and rotting be,
The slave, the free, the captain thou retained;—
Mere bones, that once were faces, they to me
Are nameless and unknown, they be not mine,
All wrapt in tangle, fathom deep in brine.
Somewhere someone adored and loved their form;
Yet now fore'er engulf'd in bub'ling foam,—
Still in the barnacles that are their dorm,
Old ship was matchless to the storm—hear thy last groan.

Yet standing on thy shores, heave to and fro,
No evidence of death that catch my eyes;
Thy waters glass, they sometime toss and go
Without impending gloom, no darken'd skies.
My love, ocean, rekindled all for thee,
Within my heart, within my soul, and see;—
Time changes not thy waves wherein I play'd
As childhood waned, adulthood now I find—
Both cheerful and the cheerless waters spray'd,
Thou givest hours of cheerfulness and death unkind.
( Dedicated to Tryst. )
© Timothy 20 January 2015
mariamme Oct 2018
all i want is my water
let the salt stain my skin
let it fade my fear to grey
my tear tracks taken over
by the ocean expanse
taste the song of the sea
in brine, bitter, mara

the wind off the dunes
a prayer in the form of
knees printing themselves
into the sand, hair tangled
sea stars dried & kissed
my fingers twisted into
knots, i cry & thank the sky
for the rush of release
the sea brings me

like nothing else i love
notes fade out, i listen
a melody of breakwater
my soul cracks open
like a cave on the face
of the cliff, a chorus inside
a mockery of my pain

the gulls remember me
ask me have i changed
have i learned to sit still
to take the water into
the depth of my being
put aside myself & be
the receptacle, the lover
to mara, the listener.

have i learned? maybe so
and i miss my water
the salt tears drying slow
bare body dusting off
the fear like grains of sand
onto the earth under my feet.
15 october
2:57 am
te extraño, mi mar salvaje.
L B Oct 2016
"There in the midst of it so alive and alone
Words support like bone..."  Peter Gabriel's  "Mercy Street"

Orion abandons the sky
dropping his club
casting his belt toward the horizon
Just once, for a moment, he glanced away
from exalted ****
his vanquished prey

He’d seen the picture—
A girl of sixteen
lying awake—muses in her head
eyes shut, arms thrown back
behind pillow
Tee shirt stretch across lean chest
Hips mingle with blankets
She is scattered there
among the minions of her hair
behind her mouth of unkissed words
____

McCaffery's Coffee is open late
He’s seen the picture
Muses in his head
His arm almost around her
Hers on his shoulder
Small—feather-light fingers
lift the hair of his neck
Reaching around her
his hand searches and slides
along her silk-draped hind
...and the view he has is amazing!
___

Music— and waves pounding and lapping
at the life he fears....

Little boat stranded in gray mists
till a thousand tiny birds alight
in a peppering and fluttering
stir of time
in greens of brine
as the sun pries through….
___

McCaffery’s is ready to close
but the owner, knowing
douses the overheads and turns away
leaving candlelight to crouch and duck
and blink in circles

How long and free we
are allowed to gaze....
so full of wind and riffling water
Stars above and stars below
blooming on the floral silk of night
Vespered lilacs exhale
Votives of warmth
beneath his hand
Silk sweating—
familial in their rocking

Distant lightning loosens eternity
You might listen to this music with it:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYw9UrsFJa4
"Swear they moved that sign...looking for mercy"
"I am with the Father.  I'm out on the boat, riding the waves--riding the waves--of the sea"
Chris Saitta Jun 10
The desert is not the grave of the sea.

The heaving reign of pharaohed seas,
Rule in bloodline of palm wine and embalming fluid of brine.
The tides are their mummified lips,
Whispering the coming forth of spells eternally to the sky.  
All goddesses, like shawled Isis, in lamentations of hair
And past-wept somnolence for Egypt,
Lie across the heart-bound murmur of waters
From their dead kings and the kingly divine, Amun-Ra,
Whose bird-starred eyes fill the canopic jar of the cosmos.

The sea is the grave of the desert.
“Palm wine” and spices were used to rinse out the abdomen of the remains.

The Egyptian Book of the Dead was a phrase coined in the 19th century.  A more literal translation is The Book of Coming Forth by Day or Spells for Going Forth by Day.

The heart was actually the only ***** left intact in the mummified dead. The other organs were kept in canopic jars though some were rebound and reinserted into the mummified remains.

For a slide video of this and other poems, please check out my Instagram page at chrissaitta or my Tumblr page at Chris-Saitta.
Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which washes stony structures clean with radiance that laves.

Deserted streets, once dense retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with  faded words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.

Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes...
They frame a frail forgotten tale,  in carved unwritten runes
with symbols hung like halos strung in lifeless, limp festoons.

The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.

A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.

Stilled chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.

Stray footsteps swarm  through church no more (apostates that profane) -
their echoes in the nave ring thin, while chalice cups maintain
a taste of brine in altar wine decaying in the rain.


No face will come with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, or beg lethean balm.


Six steeple towers, steel and stone, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in melting tracks.

Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across a cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, with no one left to fete.

Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep... a clutch of clammy clouds.


No breath will come  'cross jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.



The castle clock, unwound, defrocks! Those peerless speechless spokes
unfurl the blight of reigning Night by spinning off her cloaks,
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now voiceless things on phantom swings, like statues made of clay,
mark marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.  

The sun-bleached bones of those who've flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).

The terrors wrought by conscience fraught once stalked and lurked nearby
to rip the shrouds from  curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky –
now wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.

And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears  in sheets of shallow gray.

Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
exhale a gust of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a *****.

A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane,
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.


No souls will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.


EPILOGUE

Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
Emma Ottinger Jan 23
With hesitation do I dedicate to the half-empty,
but there's a vision of a girl I can't quite shake:
up to her Achilles tendons in rambunctious folds
of rank, grabby, carnivorous sea.
Disgruntled and shivering, but there all the way.

She’s the rare bird convinced of common feathers,
not so much ugly duckling as self-deprecating swan,
never so bold as to lock eyes with the water
for fear of seeing herself in clearest view,
and never seeing for sure that she’s a heart of beauty.

Not that she cares, anyways.

She's got the sappiest music taste—
though I’m not supposed to know that, either—
characterized by aplenty
of heartfelt bangers we loved in youth and pretended to be over.

She's no Mr. Brightside.
But ****, when she cleans up...

The only silver lining she believes in is her sharp-edged contour,
cutting as the retort she’s got ******* on the pulse of.
She just doesn’t need to shout to prove it.

I've the off-and-on friend who resents without saying,
no words to spare when she's busy as of late struggling to breathe.
The silence I took for elegance is suffocation,
but at least black lung is still the vogue, I’ve heard?

And through the struggle comes a wicked perfection:
the ability to lay waste with a whisper,
and revere only in the rawest quiet.

Her humor, sometimes for the offensive,
is the most potent sense of feeling
that doesn’t take looking at her own self.
She as herself could light up a room.
If only it weren’t so much easier to fall short.

Because never would she outwardly want to be on someone’s mind,
(little does she know she jumps to the forefront of mine)
yet in that same reluctant, teeth-grinding urge she denies herself
in the desire to find her good lighting,
I have in the desire to let her know she is beloved.

But to tell someone they’re poetry to you is a pin in the grenade
that these budding wisdom teeth just can’t grasp.

She’s there now in the sea I still liken to her eyes.
Windows to the soul akin to a place she hates,
just as capable of resentment.

All I know is I’ll be torn asunder if she loses herself
beneath the brine of a bottle or the message of faux-hope within it.
In a churning silence of the drink,
there’s no honest sentiment with which to compare.
Lost at sea, with no quality control,
fool’s gold is such a fine, agonizing release.

Yet on she heads, carving mountains in her path, for a swill.

Still, every time I see her again,
I know I’ll never help loving her some,
while I pretend there's comfort in the fact
that most of us had to sink before learning to swim.
Dedicated to Mere. All of her.

Symptoms may include:
Anxiety, restlessness, or a sense of apprehension.
Blue-tinged lips
Rapid, irregular heartbeat
Cold, clammy skin
A feeling of suffocating or drowning that worsens when lying down
Difficulty walking uphill, which progresses to difficulty walking on flat surfaces
Tori Dec 2018
'Neath a cover of black faux leather
bursting with half-written verses
Lie coffee stains, old bird feathers
and lines of illegible cursive
the bitterness of heartbreak
on lines by brine besmeared
of victories and of mistakes
and thresholds I have cleared
This is my skeleton key
a glance into thoughts long passed,
for my broken memory
I hold a looking glass.
Lyrical Dream Mar 10
It was a beautiful way to burn-
To dig a grave in the brine and darkened corals of the rocky sea floor,
Her golden rays
Shimmering a soft blue against the scorching trails of wax tracing his limbs.

It was a beautiful way to burn-
Wrapped in her arms,
Trapped in her warm kiss,
melting his world away and flooding his body with gentle,
yet violent,
Flames.


It was a beautiful way to burn-
Slowly,
painfully,
Carelessly.

It was suicide.
And, despite the warning signs,
He never realized that he was falling
Until he hit the ground.

But, of course,
it was a beautiful way to fall-
As a shadow against a sunset,
Stretching his dripping fingers
into the golden sky
As shimmering wax scorched his skin,
And blackened feathers drifted into sun's gentle rays.

And before he met the waves,
He gave a final, forgiving smile to the sun,
Who blew a warm kiss into the glittering sea.

Yes,
It was a beautiful way to die.
to be determined May 2018
cigarette smoke clogs her arteries
twelve packs a week
bleeding teeth and nails dawdle in her broken hallucinations
the cloud of harsh chemicals mask the iron in dust
it coats her tongue and hands and feet
the minerals latch onto the crevasses of her flesh
refusing to relinquish their rightful territory
she knows all of this
all it took was ages in a bathtub
overcome with mildew
for their stubborn tendencies to become evident
she's since abandoned attempting to scrub the brine away
this poem has been published in The Gifted Penman's Poetry Collection: Volume One
This ocean will billow, deep and true
creating currents from me to you
From the offing to the beach
The tide will flux with infant like waves
And when the brine reaches our feet
We will know we have made it to a better place
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