"continuance" poems
Oh sleepless night
What a trick on me you play!
For the reason I cannot sleep
Is because I anticipate the day
We build our day up
To have it elapse at night
But how too often a time I experience
A continuance through the night
Oh how unfair to me you see
For nighttime is a break much overlooked
Because I walk through the day quite sleepily
Which is difficult in a day so overbooked
Sleeping figures
Rejuvenating minds
Your mind is cultivating in peace
While my face is forming lines
Oh how I wish I didn’t get so worked up
I expected this to happen
Which ironically is the reason
My tiredness has been dampened
I lay in bed, ready
Ready to try this out
A pleasant sleep is all I wanted
Without completely passing out
How I get so jealous when
You lay there and drift to rest
While I’m dealing with two polar issues--
Either abruptly collapse into sleep or else from it slowly digress
Oh sleepless night, you tease me so
You fool with me and upset me so
For when thinking of tomorrow I surely know
I’m not going to be as lively as my potential.
It’s like I’m a hobo on Fifth Ave
Looking at the rich not realizing what they have
I get excited over spare change
While you collect your pay checks again and again
So let’s face it, tomorrow I’ll be miserable
And I’ll look forward to when the clock strikes night
But then the hours I have will become considerable
So I’ll lay there restlessly and drift away just before the light.
So I’ll get a taste of what sleeps like
But I’ll never get to experience it right.
Oh you cruel, mean sleepless night!
Where dwells your brother so known as the “Goodnight”?
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity, with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…
tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer
it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…
7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
Consider the sea’s listless chime:
Time’s self it is, made audible,—
The murmur of the earth’s own shell.
Secret continuance sublime
Is the sea’s end: our sight may pass
No furlong further. Since time was,
This sound hath told the lapse of time.
No quiet, which is death’s,—it hath
The mournfulness of ancient life,
Enduring always at dull strife.
As the world’s heart of rest and wrath,
Its painful pulse is in the sands.
Last utterly, the whole sky stands,
Gray and not known, along its path.
Listen alone beside the sea,
Listen alone among the woods;
Those voices of twin solitudes
Shall have one sound alike to thee:
Hark where the murmurs of thronged men
Surge and sink back and surge again,—
Still the one voice of wave and tree.
Gather a shell from the strown beach
And listen at its lips: they sigh
The same desire and mystery,
The echo of the whole sea’s speech.
And all mankind is thus at heart
Not anything but what thou art:
And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each.
7k
Teasing the beast
Looking for a feast
Hounds barking at our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Compartmentalizing symptom after symptom
To hide the great systematic sickness
Labeling the suffering, outcome from desire
We, wholeheartedly accepting being
Appropriated, labeled, discarded
As construing our own oppression and sadness
Enduring the **** of our minds
Being castrated of our consciousness
Before we reap the products
Of its bold liberation and grandness
Its the belly of the beast
And its hungry
Insatiable, amoral entrails
Hoping to salvage a feast
From the casualties of d(e)moc(ratic) wars
Hoping we feed our monstrous fear
Thirsting for the greed
Dripping off of accumulating wealths
Impatiently waiting, we keep parceling out grudges
Disfiguring our minds, our souls, and our bodies
Its misanthropic nature lashes out without conscience
Knowing we'll never realize we are masses
Disappearing the individuals who realize their suffering
Ensuring there's no collective opposition or action
Trying to reassure we are weak
Knowing at some point or another
We all act mute, deaf, and blind when anyone experiences:
Oppression
Pain
Silencing
****
Hunger
Fear
Violence
Repression
Retaliation
Discrimination
Torture
Negation
Alienation
All forms of mental, psychological, physical, and spiritual mutilation
Fearing death more than fighting for necessary abolishment
Preferring to live out our veiled miseries
Endorsing their continuance
Instead of risking our lives for everyone's liberation
Always ensuring the feast of the beast
By its very efforts trying to decree our very human nature
Ingraining greed, fear, animosity, and weakness as if inherent of us
All parts of its most damaging weapon: the seed of discord
Its implantation, a socialized deep desire for self-preservation
Sheep bleating painfully toward our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Signifying the impending recapturing
Of our true transformative desires
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
That Kiss
That kiss that makes your knee's weak
That kiss that makes you want to freak
That kiss which no one could regret
have you ever had that feeling where you
don't know if that girl is the one until
you had that kiss?
That kiss that makes you miss her already
That kiss that no matter what you do,
you can't feel steady.
That kiss that just isn't kidding
That is the kiss my heart is feeding
Have you ever felt that feeling
of compassionate, soft lips touching you
gently and it all just feels right
That kiss of Continuance
That kiss of Love
That kiss of a princess
That kiss of affection
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
What I wouldn't give to hide
and break the glass covering my mind
release the tension as it builds up
relieve the steam
let loose the dreams
smell the new horizon spanning my fate
look across my mind's ocean
and forget all of the commotion
caused by my own brain’s turmoil
fixed in the work of turning the soil
the labor, the toil, spanning generations.
Discovering new fields and meadows of the mind
would help, not hinder
a cerebrum such as mine
expanding further past the shore
deeper into the metaphorical earth of conscience
but instead I await a rescue
for, what simply more could I do?
the lines of capable and not so are thicker than before
and I'm on the side of failure
my continuance is dependent upon my hindered success
my mind and my clothes and my body's a mess
I want the shake and break the glass encasing my brain
crack the display case
do more than what is required
but how can I do more when I can't do less?
How can I derail this train of thought that I will never be the best
and I might not even be good.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
#
*Not all was lost
to the beast,
nor to the silence
that sheltered it.
For deeper still,
beneath the rubble
of unspoken years,
the child remained.
Bruised, yes..
but not extinguished.
Hidden;
but not erased.
A breath still moved,
a spark unclaimed
by the darkness.
The beast does not feed only
on the wound itself,
but on the hollow it leaves behind.
Gaslighting, scapegoating, silence..
all these are its masons;
carving out a chamber in the soul
where the beast makes its abode.
There, in the aloneness of the child,
it feeds from within,
claiming the silence as its fortress;
the emptiness as its throne.
And the door creaks again..
not always the first door,
but another..
a new figure cashing in
on the void they sense.
Their entry feels like company,
even love,
yet it is only continuance...
a repetition of the first harm.
Worse still when the creak
is painted with a smile,
when exploitation wears
the mask of care--
The abode deepens,
and the beast settles further
into the soul.
Yet the fortress cannot hold forever.
The silence cannot smother forever.
Even the grave-dirt of denial
cannot bury it whole.
For the child endures
where walls collapse,
and the smallest cry
outlives the loudest lie.
The beast devoured much,
but not all.
And in what survives,
the future breathes;
a testimony,
a beginning,
a voice
that will not be hushed.*
#
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 3:44 PM UTC
***** of echoes, the virile resonance quaking lust -
Throbbing caverns shudder to ****** inciting vestal musk
Entranced of nocturnal bedevilment - barefaced in galactic greens,
Spores ethereal yet concealed to the Queen
Sumptuous omphalos; her ecstatic womb engulfing the bloom,
Carnal reckonings devoid of Mosaic release as panting creatures swoon
Vigorous pollination morphing the nectarean sheath
Roused stamen shrivel in an animus induced retreat
Again we'll rise to salute our idol
In burning continuance:
Fertility extolled
With pleasure recompensed.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
The aromatic scent
of Fresh rain falling
upon dry earth,
is the essence for
the continuance
of all life itself.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 7:45 PM UTC
By accepting the terms of this agreement, you represent and warrant that you have the capacity to love.
Any similarity to a previous love is circumstantial; this love is not affiliated with other loves.
We assume no responsibility for for the shortcomings of prior loves;
we do, however, assume all responsibility for any loss, error, or communication failure incurred while in possession of this love.
It is, after all, love.
Love is available as is; no specific results are promised.
If you are at all unhappy, you are encouraged to return love.
If you find love to be damaged or defective, well, it's love.
Slight imperfections are to be expected, and add to the character of love.
Love may occasionally send you poems, letters, or declarations of its continuance. If you wish to opt out of this correspondence, you may cancel your account at any time.
The service may be temporarily unavailable from time to time; this may be due to maintenance, or periods of reflection. It in no way implies or forecasts termination of love, unless specifically stated so.
By accepting this agreement, you agree not to abuse love by acting in a manner inconsistent with the provisions listed above.
(please say yes)
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
as they pick up a mound of the Earth and throw at genuflected roses.
these battered men in parks searching for light
and my woman is no longer with me.
it’s all vaudeville: this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant flutings, these unprecedented fluctuations.
opening the yellow gates to death
as the automobile churns the last of its exhausted snarl.
we are children peering through glass cases
as death laughs at his hopeless clientele,
sad, desolate progenies in working-classes,
in parks, in factories, somewhere along Mendiola,
or just treading the waist-high hellish froths of Dapitan,
there’s always death in the nooks of the quiet
and from where birds stir in sidereal circles, death
with his hands resting on the cage, chases us back to our homes.
death the changing of the gatekeeper.
death the telling machine.
death the dentist.
death my next door neighbor.
death, this boorish broken-winged Maya twitching in front
of my dog’s shadow shot out of the Sun’s shameful recoil.
death, my loud and loutish muse,
death the truant,
death, the copious fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
death, in my hands through darkness and light,
death through troves of enigma,
death through undisputed clearings,
death the long line of red beads in EDSA,
death the gates of Plaridel,
it’s the moon following you, trailing your measure,
i hold my woman’s used shirt, pick up her photographs
and there’s no tender movement left but the still-seeking lion
prowling the jungles of my heart, seared by lovelorn undoing.
through the bottom of the sky and the unchanging roof-beam,
the weathervane ceases to a sojourn and the wind is trapped
in a place where we cannot utter any word between the gnashing
of our teeth – through the wasted years, through the sleeping in and out
of homes filled with beatings, to cathedrals swollen with tribulations,
and to the vineyards wrung out of wine, my lover, walking through fire,
sound silence.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
semi-colon;
where a sentence could have ended but did not,
instead adding a rejoinder.
the space between the dot and comma
there hovers the fate of lovers,
the whispers of hope for the hurting,
and the continuance for those
awaiting the now postponed end;
semi-colon;
the tattoo of a writer who has something
left to say, the brand of those
whose adolescent tendencies pull them from delivering
that much needed break, fracture,
ending of the story.
the ghost of where you could,
or perhaps should, have stopped.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 8:30 PM UTC
We waited like birds that had lost their wings
With our feathers lying at our feet
Our heads turned up, offering a smile
Until showers of faded leaves fell on our faces
Plucked from the hearts
Of our trees
Refusing to ask questions before time ended
We became unsure of our skies
Lowered our heads, denying our smiles
To the continuance of life
Thinking it was not possible to feel joy
If we cried
We did not know that we could fly up in wonder
Our wings remained ever secure
Even when we could not feel the sunlight
Brush the flowers in our fields
Or move into the doors of our lives
Bright and pure
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 4:03 PM UTC
Accidental introduction
Slow destruction
Deceptive beauty
Slow destruction
Accidental introduction
An invasive species
Not something with which to be reckoned
It can not be reversed
Not something with which to be reckoned
An invasive species
Superficial beauty
Brief Enjoyment
Ruinous existence
Brief Enjoyment
Superficial beauty
Tendrils of beauty
Tendrils of expiry
Self contradictory by definition
Tendrils of expiry
Tendrils of beauty
Taking everything needed for continuance of self
Removing what is needed for existence of everything else
Choking a red-faced, forlorn life
Removing what is needed for existence of everything else
Taking everything needed for continuance of self
There is no escape
The reach has extended too far for reversal
All that is left is acceptance of destruction
The reach has extended too far for reversal
There is no escape
There is no escape
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 5:03 PM UTC
Everything is happening so quickly
so many negatives surpassing the
insignificant glimpse of positives
that never seem to suffice,
there’s always this light at the
end of the tunnel that everyone
speaks of, yet i continue to see darkness;
a journey down this long tunnel brings
no illumination but only a continuance
of nihility, the damp walls
seem to bring the chill humidity
closer and closer with each step,
the droplets echo the narrowing,
flickering lights dissipate at passing,
the gag sparking stench of sewage
and ***** make the voyage to
light even more unbearable than the
previous hesitant inching towards
the so called spoken about bearability of life,
sudden scintillations of light bring sight
of russet, worn doors, consecutively placed,
discoloured of crimson roadkill,
I open the first door and see a woman
tied and bound, gag in throat,
beads of sweat turning the white gag
to watered milk,
the dirt beneath her nails entwines with skin
and blood dredged by her own fingertips,
to front is a tray of what seems like
torture tools
*intrigued, I slam the door
and avoid a kiss
from Judas*
The next door, I open and see a man
sitting facing the corner,
wrapped in a flickering fan,
staring at a wall of carvings of ticks and dashes,
to see arms of cuts and gashes,
with a tray next to him
comprised of razors and knives
he sits picking at skin of bruises and hives,
tempted to grab the tool and corrode self,
with the reflection of whats within, I slam the door
and avoid
Finally the third door
eagerly stares to
me with anticipation boiling veins,
I press my ear to foreshadow,
I hear a cries; a man of hatred
and a woman of pain
I open the door and find a bottle of whiskey
I take a swig and feel as if Judas kissed me,
Within the third door; walls
with peepholes to confirm the calls
on the left I see the sliding knife
over-panting roadmaps of russet to
the neck of the bound woman,
the screams are deafening,
they present a vibration,
stuttering thoughts, and releasing the fixation,
prompting the admiration
to view the second door,
I see myself, in door 2
tremors and convulsions
seeing blood expel every vein
as the verticals
halt oxygen to the brain
Departure brings me
to the abysmal realm of society
where the burden of negativity
proves to provide no proof towards what
differs between the endless, narrow
tunnel-visioned cesspool of bone marrow
and psychosis driven visions and the
narrow pathed voyage of life.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
I
I heard a small sad sound,
And stood awhile among the tombs around:
“Wherefore, old friends,” said I, “are you distrest,
Now, screened from life’s unrest?”
II
—”O not at being here;
But that our future second death is near;
When, with the living, memory of us numbs,
And blank oblivion comes!
III
“These, our sped ancestry,
Lie here embraced by deeper death than we;
Nor shape nor thought of theirs can you descry
With keenest backward eye.
IV
“They count as quite forgot;
They are as men who have existed not;
Theirs is a loss past loss of fitful breath;
It is the second death.
V
“We here, as yet, each day
Are blest with dear recall; as yet, can say
We hold in some soul loved continuance
Of shape and voice and glance.
VI
“But what has been will be—
First memory, then oblivion’s swallowing sea;
Like men foregone, shall we merge into those
Whose story no one knows.
VII
“For which of us could hope
To show in life that world-awakening scope
Granted the few whose memory none lets die,
But all men magnify?
VIII
“We were but Fortune’s sport;
Things true, things lovely, things of good report
We neither shunned nor sought … We see our bourne,
And seeing it we mourn.”
1.4k
She stands in the doorway
of his mind
blocking access
casually,
he can not wait;
not for psychology
to lock itself out,
psychologically;
He wants to find things
like the tooth paste
in her mouth,
goals maybe
sensum, hope
maybe some humility,
or match books
or destiny involved,
opening gates
of engagement
seeing frames that
come up
from peoples minds
streaming from the
paranormal den
doin' it, getting
in their face.
But he didn't,
cut her off
did he?
Not the way you wanted
not the way
a garbage disposal
grinds to wake you up
in the mornings
with responsibility
every minute
A destination,
A demand...
One blink
into the next,
a continuance,
every ache
a breakable cord,
tired but tethered
to her accordion heart.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
LIKE THOSE LONG SUMMER DAYS
WHEN THE SUN HAS BEAMED
FOR WHAT FEELS LIKE DOUBLE TIME
IN SLOW MOTION
AND THE UNSPOKEN NEXT THING I THINK WE ALL WANT
AT LEAST A LITTLE BIT
IS TO WATCH THAT BURNING
FIRE-SPHERE
FALL FAST INTO THE CURVATURE OF DISTANT ROUND
AND CONCEDE INTO SUBMISSIVE NIGHTMARES
SUGGESTED BY THE DARK
BUT THE NIGHT IS SO REMOTE
AND THE SWEAT THAT KEEPS
IS TRUE PROOF OF THAT WAIT
SO CONSTANT A POUR THAT I AM NOW AFLOAT
I CAN NOT MAKE A DASH RESULTING IN THE OUTRUN
FOR EVEN A SPRINT WILL SEIZE MY WIND WITH EVIDENT PLAGIARISM
SO MY WAIT CARRIES OVER
INTO A NEGATIVE TIME LAPSE THROUGH THE MIRROR OF REVERSE
MY WAITING GOES ON
WITH AN ACQUIRED PATIENCE AND INNATE COMPASSION FOR MY OTHERS SHOES
A DISCHARGE OF INSIGHT INTO THE INCEPTION OF MY SELF DESTRUCTIVE CONTINUANCE
LIKE MY DESTRUCTIVE MAKE UP
THE WAITING FEELS UNNOTICED UNDER AN UMBRELLA OF INEVITABILITY
BUT FORMS FEET OF SWEAT
IN THE SHADOWING WAIT
BEHIND MY EVERY STEP
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 9:50 PM UTC
just because your problems are bigger than mine,
doesn't qualify you as being
better than me;
but sure, we need apes, like we might encourage
buying stake at the butchers and
a quasi-Narcissus reflection in Darwin...
that's what happens when presupposing
someone's supposed idiocy, it happens
that way in democracy, without a autocratic godhead
of authority, many more are prone to being
prescribed madness, because being sadistic
with dementia patients and those disabled is all
that more rewarding than when a "patient" can punch
you back, bloody-nose your face...
and this is how Christianity makes sense?
might as well call the adherents of Christianity
children wetting their beds and fuelled by a desire
to maim their fellow examples of the species...
Darwinism will not do... it's a farce...
the animals involved to a categorical grouping
would not do what humans do to each other...
so we evolved from monkey to escape the tiger
and the snake? i hardly think tigers or snakes killed
with sadism involved... for pleasure...
but if the sadistic impulse was always ours...
we evolved for no good reason...
i'd rather experience the hunger of the tiger
or the snake than experience the sadism of a fellow human being...
and that's a humanism, it doesn't invoke a god
or morality that should be kept...
i'd rather a tiger **** me for sustenance than some
trivial bog-standard thief from the London estate knifing me
for a ******* bike... i'd rather end up in a tiger's digestive
system than in the "evolved" court-of-law debating
bicycle theft -
animal-cohesiveness knows no sadism,
human-overpowering of animals knows everything
but humanism, hence the need for humanism per se,
poetry and a novel... we write poetry but at the same time
perform holocausts... if we are evolutionary products,
we are by evolutionary standards a successful paradox...
we contradict the pluses with the negatives we produce
subsequently... we have evolved / transcended
the original parameters... but we did so paradoxically;
i'd still rather die from a tiger easing my death
by the vampire-bite of my neck that
the exfoliation abiding with the electric chair or
the iron maiden... the author of the Bonfire of Vanities
got it wrong... we really did use our imagination...
we used imagination for the expression of torture...
Disney can do **** all than quack like a duck
to quiet simply approve the endemic continuance
of the practice... because most people will
simply apply for t.v. and come dine with me
spectaculars.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC
The flames soared high
Above the broken city-
Troy sodden by war
Necks cut, women ***** children
Enslaved. The sea mirroring
The city’s pain, screaming waves
Piling on the shore.
In the dust lay
The groaning towers of Iliam
The beaten
Shards of a brilliant culture
Felled and fouled
By barbarians.
Around the moping Cypress
Heroes' ashes
Lie infertile,
While Achilles moans in Hades
Weeping unwashed tears
For his body's fading
And his shadows continuance
In eternal gloom.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
"God why, why god? Why me? Why is life so miserable? I want to give up. Show me. Help me."
These words. The ones weighed so heavily on a hospital bed. They dragged the air down to my shoes leaving all lungs without oxygen.
The walls felt deep.
Never ending abyss of confirmed failures. Continuance of a ringing that still bleeds in my ears today. The slow beating of a flatlined life.
This was simply the bad news on repeat. Stuttered and obliterated my brain waves that couldn't find up from down.
I've never seen a heart spread so neatly on the floor.
The pieces too small to pick up one by one. Instead we stare and observe a life not wasted across the linoleum. Watching the pieces flutter and shake in their space
So we swept the pieces into the corner. No need to keep this reality playing like elevator music. Stand by if you know what's best for ya.
These walls are for the broken hearted, the wretched, and fallen, you'll fit in just fine.
Lets push this bed out the window, it will be the first time we've been free in years. Like a bird? **** that, today we are our own.
Find wing tips fluttering fallout baby balling on a window sill. Haven't felt this way before. Outpatient freedom that will last as long as that nice pair of socks that somehow, your dryer ate and turned into lint.
I'm gonna need some therapy with that noxious cup of coffee. I can't simply continue the same beaten path.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
Death:
Some illusory state
wherein vitality vibrates
across recombining chemicals.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
that I ran into my friend Vic was a good thing
because we leaned on the shadowy cars and he gave me
some new words: Faith, Reconciliation, Continuance.
But driving home, they began to fill me up with grief
so I tossed them out the window like a finished cigarette.
And I went down to talk to the creek, who was filled with a grief
of her own, a grief of too much water having fallen
in too few days. And she had me dash my empty beer bottles
against her tortured stones that night, had me make
the shrill cry of a hawk as I let each one fly.
And with each crash she gave me back my former words,
my old & tarnished words, the fs and ts
honed sharp enough to really hurt somebody bad. And sharp
enough to hack a trench into my chest, so the water could roll in
like freshened blood, roaring the way it roars against
the creekstones: girl you're alive, alive, alive . . .
I call the creek a woman because she had a woman's wisdom,
a woman's bitter tears, even had the housewife's old cliché
about how all love ends in either death, or separation
from those we love. And the creek made me remember
how they want you to believe the only way off the meathook
is by dying first.
She said: *whatever you do, whatever you do
don't let yourself be the one who dies first.*
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
Following her or her kin is death,
A promise of satisfaction and power,
Allure in her scent which no man knows not.
A winding trail downwards,
to summit back is a task olympic.
Lies and power she feeds to all men,
Until the breaking point, reached, lies his decision.
A continuance of relations would strip him of his name,
but re-emboss “hers” on top.
With “hers” comes pleasure and failure,
intricately interwoven so failure lies beneath the shine of her promises.
Her trap’s success now laid,
the old magic forces her to reveal the third option:
To chose not hers or his own but the name of creator.
With it comes grace, with it reprimanding, with it fullness.
When choosing this name he sees her facade falter,
Her caresses and lips, retrospectfully viewed reveal carcasses and absinthe.
Turning from the fruit and choosing the blood.
Covered in it, he is king.
He has power,
he has a name,
he has a future,
he is conqueror because of Him.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 8:10 PM UTC