"conversed" poems
I want to go back, back to my New Orleans
This place that I call New Orleans is actually Louisiana
But still, the gorgeousness of this dirt and grime
The live oaks stretching over the 6-lane wide streets,
Touching leaftips, making a canopy over the passerbys
Crepe myrtles showering streets with lacy pink faerie dresses
Smells of beignets and seafood fill the French Quarter
Intense, consuming, warm, loving sun burning through your shirt
In New Orleans to say horses sweat, men perspire and women glow
is to be ridiculous.
In New Orleans everyone sweats like pigs.
As for the grime I mentioned, this exists mainly in
the sidewalks cracked by live oaks which make an adventure of every walk down the street
And in any semi-deserted street
To have a Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day without a parade and citywide party is to toss aside traditions and the New Orleanian way
The New Orleanians are welcoming, hearty and heartwarming, tough and unafraid to talk to a stranger on the streets.
An old black man once greeted me with 'konichiwa' as I walked past
A middle aged white man once struck up a conversation with us as he realised we had shared the same ferry earlier in the day
An old asian woman conversed familiarly with our family at Cafe Du Monde simply because we are Vietnamese as well
A teenaged white boy waved at us as we drove past him jogging
A different old black man stopped and serenaded my siblings, mother and me with his trumpet just because we smiled
Several young mothers and women have stopped my mother to gush over my siblings and me, usually when we were very small
I, myself, have given directions to a tourist or two, lost near Cafe Du Monde or the levee,
And I hope that the warm smiling spirit of the Big Easy will remain forever immortal.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
That night,
No clothes were stripped,
Only Both hearts were split open.
There was no physical contact
Only for the first time
Their souls met.
That night,
In the vicinity of pin-drop silence
No words were uttered
Sparkle in their eyes
Conversed with immense articulacy,
That night,
Inside smiles
And eyes
Became their mode of communication
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
Once, far away, Andalusia of time.
Was I, this dreamer, this student of crime.
Devouring textbooks with a gluttonous glee.
Of masters I conversed with, with lives like movies.
FBI-profilers, psychopathologists.
Faces carved from paleo-lithic stone.
The hearts of sailors betrayed by Triton.
Their ill-fitting suits an anarchists cry.
Oh blessed hearts long since buried in the plots,
of victims whose killers would never see man’s courts.
Who knew the world and hoped to teach I,
this fresh young prey with a predator’s eye.
This fresh young prey with a predator’s eye.
Sat I with the masters, in those secret little rooms
where the dead are shuffled to have chosen for them a grave.
And it’s never more real than when the beast sits still.
In the agonising ordinary glow of the halogen buzz
that shines on guilty and innocent alike.
To reduce us all to such pathetic things.
That if not for the debt, this creature’s crimes
one could pity being on such obscene display.
If it were not known to me, in great detail
the river of misery and depravity he had left in his wake.
As a mugshot robs the aura, so too the well lit room.
And I understood why it took a much colder mind.
As even though I possessed all the faculties which
could follow and track and trap the prey;
the predator must also ****
And being in those secret little rooms
I knew I could not see it through.
I left it to those stronger than I
and leave my mark through other designs.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
I had a dream I smoked some ***** with a Rasta Man
while we jammed in the name of the lord to some tunes
the children of Africa roaming free like wild beast
once the cradle of civilization turned into tombs
by the ungrateful, heathen souls that ran amok
in the name of annihilation and war.
But we are fearful pious men, as we inhaled the herb
the grass is the shepherd that nourish us like Giraffes
the sky is the ceiling that we reach with our blessed hands
the rivers gives us skins like Crocs to be able to survive
harsh whether, the blood-stained desert left behind by men
witnessed by the pale eyes of the torture souls of this land.
And so we inhaled and puffed like chimneys in a North Pole night
we talked about the smiles of our seeds stretching far and wide
how beautiful is a voice when it’s brought to life by a loved one
how the scent of a pure woman can bring the dead back to life
deadlocked, we are dreadlocked like grapevines until Jah lets us
the mental slavery that keeps us chained to the ships of our ancestors.
We never once conversed about the frail indignity of the mortals
the uselessness of hate, the ways material possessions can’t help you
we reached Nirvana without taking our feet off the common ground
we shared a spirit, bonded between long hits made of peace and love
in the freedom of those free thinkers tinkering with words without rest
in the children of Jah, daydreaming at night in a warm bed made of bread.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
Whilst camouflaged
The Golden Dragonfly
With emerald eyes
And rubies, and diamonds
Upon it's wings, and tail
Slept
And whilst it slept
It dreamed
And within its dream
It wandered
Flying over a turquoise pool
The Golden Dragonfly
Began to ponder
On its existence
And wondered why
It was a dragonfly
But then she saw her own reflection
On the soft rippling blue water
As she became aware
Of her own beauty
And instantly found
An inner tranquility
Just at that moment
As is the way of dreams
A long rolling tongue
Shot out
And swallowed the Golden Dragonfly whole
The frog
Had no other thought
Than to feast
The Golden Dragonfly
Then woke up
Relieved
That it had only been a dream
But now
Also aware
That it now had conscious thought
Beyond its natural instinct
And at first
Felt quite afraid
Looking around its surroundings
First making sure
That there were no frogs around
It glanced up
And realised
It was attached
To the outer skin
Of a curious looking creature
Some kind of giant
With hair flowing
In the soft zephyr breeze
And without realising
Spoke to the giant
"What are you?"
The giant
Looking startled
Had obviously wondered
Where the small voice was coming from
The Golden Dragonfly
Spoke again
"Are you going to eat me?"
The giant
Then realised where
The voice was coming from
Looked around before answering
Whispered, "No!"
The Golden Dragonfly
Accepted that this was at least true
"My name is Lucianne" said the Golden Dragonfly
Not knowing, until that moment
That she had a name
"My name is Petra" said the giant
With the long flowing hair
"I don't understand how it is possible
to be conversing with a dragonfly"
The Golden Dragonfly
Felt the same confusion
As it had never conversed with anything, ever
And never had questions to ask
But now
The questions came quicker
Than her wing beats
The giant spoke again
"You are welcome to remain on my waistcoat"
"And we can speak more, when we get to my home"
At that moment
A sudden gust of wind
Blew the Golden Dragonfly
Off the waistcoat
Into some dense undergrowth
And within this undergrowth
Sat a frog
And in an eye blink
A long rolling tongue shot out
And swallowed the Golden Dragonfly
Whole
The giant, named Petra
Searched the undergrowth
For several hours
Shouting out for Lucianne
Other giants around
Became concerned
When Petra explained
That she was looking for
A talking Golden Dragonfly called Lucianne
Petra would often return to the park
But never again
Did she see, or hear
The Golden Dragonfly again
by Jemia
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 8:18 PM UTC
Through so many years I ran
Afraid and ever cowering
The darkness always at my back
Voracious, all-devouring
Through my mind its black claws reached
And picked apart my sanity
They scraped all chance of joy away
With endless inhumanity
Through the days and months and years
it chased and clawed relentlessly
Eventually I wondered why
I ran unending breathlessly
Through the dark I turned and looked
Pursuit suspended nervously
I granted it a name and face
It glared with vicious fervency
Through its threat I held my gaze
And ventured forth an inquiry
Its flare of rage could not repress
My newfound curiosity
Through the long nights we conversed
Debating, chatting, bickering
The darkness that devoured my life
Shrank back, diminished, flickering
Through the darkness I now saw
With unexpected clarity
We spoke as friends, no longer foes
Embracing newfound parity
Through the dark I look, and laugh
My friend now laughs along with me
Despite how it had always seemed
The darkness is a part of me
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
Long Curly brunette hair falling down her spine
Sad brown eyes staring at nowhere
Tanned skin in the dead of winter
Like yellow on black she always stood out
Bruised lips from biting too hard
Uneven nails that used to caress her lovers back
Concentrating on the new book she's reading
But her mind is wandering,
Longing for closure she know she'll never get
Untied conversed laces tied around a tree
Symbolizing that she'll never be free
untold words she'll never speak
Silence is the only thing she seeks
faith means redemption
And redemption she knows she'll never get she's a brunette beauty seeking solitary
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
Last nite I dreamed of T.S. Eliot
welcoming me to the land of dream
Sofas couches fog in England
Tea in his digs Chelsea rainbows
curtains on his windows, fog seeping in
the chimney but a nice warm house
and an incredibly sweet hooknosed
Eliot he loved me, put me up,
gave me a couch to sleep on,
conversed kindly, took me serious
asked my opinion on Mayakovsky
I read him Corso Creeley Kerouac
advised Burroughs Olson Huncke
the bearded lady in the Zoo, the
intelligent puma in Mexico City
6 chorus boys from Zanzibar
who chanted in wornout polygot
Swahili, and the rippling rythyms
of Ma Rainey and Vachel Lindsay.
On the Isle of the Queen
we had a long evening's conversation
Then he tucked me in my long
red underwear under a silken
blanket by the fire on the sofa
gave me English Hottie
and went off sadly to his bed,
Saying ah Ginsberg I am glad
to have met a fine young man like you.
At last, I woke ashamed of myself.
Is he that good and kind? Am I that great?
What's my motive dreaming his
manna? What English Department
would that impress? What failure
to be perfect prophet's made up here?
I dream of my kindness to T.S. Eliot
wanting to be a historical poet
and share in his finance of Imagery-
overambitious dream of eccentric boy.
God forbid my evil dreams come true.
Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg.
T.S. Eliot would've been ashamed of me.
3.9k
She was my homecoming queen
She was the period to the end of my dreams
We conversed on the golf course that night
Her blouse unbuttoned
Her breast bare
Shadows danced across her chest
as the wind predicted rain
How I wished I remembered
what we said
But all I do . . . are spider bite kisses
How the years decay
Lucky in love
Lucky on death
Teeth that once were sharp
have been ground down
Homecoming Queen
My Homecoming Queen
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
you've danced on the sun and
conversed with the stars and
the universe knows you better
than your mother does, but
the earth knows what you feel like and
the ocean has kissed your skin and
the dirt remembers your fingerprints;
they say that home is where the heart is,
but you're torn between who knows
your body and who knows
your mind
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
Sipping espresso, double affogato of course, topped with cream and
Chatting with Miles, I saw Calliope sauntered in from the rain.
Her dark mascara limped away from her crystal blue eyes
As she waited for the barrister to turn his head.
And when taking her cup,
Somewhere between Bird’s schizophrenic riffs
And Blakey's syncopation.
I fell in love
As I watched her lips purse and
Blow casually at the lid, cooling the
Fiery liquids inside but igniting mine.
I decided to ask what brought her in from the
Rain.
My words queued in my throat as I stood
To speak.
My knees cracked, testifying to the years I stood on them.
My heart tapped out a cadence as I strode
Over to her table.
I could smell spice and ginger of a perfume I knew so well.
Her chestnut hair fell in damp tendrils across her forehead.
Extending my hand with a napkin on the end I said, “ I would love if you joined
Me for a biscotti.”
With a sparkle in her eye her painted lips slid across her teeth,
“I am waiting for a friend.”
Walking away I sat dejected but not rejected because as she
Conversed with him she peeked at me
My Calliope
And all was well.
~AD~
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 2:48 PM UTC
The color red, it's your favorite
The color white, your car, your house
Shakespeare, we were King and Queen
Choir, you sing like an angel
Gymnastics, you competed
Joseph, you directed
Laser tag, you destroyed
HIMYM, we watched as we cuddled
Your scent, it still lingers on me
Wine, I'd love to drink with you
New Years Eve, we talked all day and night
Mitchell's, we stayed for hours and conversed
France, we traveled together
Poetry, you got me writing again
My car, where we kissed at midnight
My basement, where we made love
It all reminds me of you
Sometimes I wish I had amnesia so I could forget...move on
But I love you so much
No case of amnesia could take you out of my mind
Although sometimes it hurts
I want you to know
That I love each and every one of those little things that reminds me of you
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 10:18 AM UTC
The Equestrian
When we met
We could and would
Have a sunday brunch
We ate **** word appetizers
Before eruptions of love for our main course
We conversed about ecstasy
And drank tall glasses of progeny
And picked morsels of fantasy
Passed on the dessert
Enough sweetness in wetness
Salivate like rabid wolves
Over the thought that
your body brings me deepness
I guess I'm in depth
She straddles my imagination
I saddled her provocation
Learn the speed at which her mind gallops
While
We share our addictions
Compare our afflictions
Only to conclude we're of the same breed
An option I could of
If only I would of
But knowing I should of
Cause the timing is never right
Not all heros ride into the sunset
Not all villains would meet there demise
Xin
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
[ final, before flight ]
learnt through dusty feet
and stomachs growlin’ their
dyin’ growls. days and weeks
with leakin’ roof, and
nature’s bountiful army
marchin’ on and through.
candle-lit synthetic canvas
absorbin’ fired raditation,
*** upon baked ground
starin’ at drunken fire pit –
conversed two hours, and
with dawn one side meld’d
in the dancin’ orange and reds.
walk’d macadame, in full June
the tar bubbled to the surface
and patch’d holed soles –
surfaced skin, turn’d black.
graveyard of gypsum;
burnt out child’s playground;
horse protectin’ territory, or life;
pawnin’ everything not bolt’d down –
death of materialism,
birth of a **** off mentality.
bought Black-and-Milds so to
reroll a few cigarettes,
save wood tip for later use.
save everything for later use,
stash everything for later use.
stab’d in stupidity and
made to mend the wound with
worries of:
will i use this hand again?
[ C ]
cryin’ for Annie, cryin’ out,
knowin’ she will return without
my concern. knowin’ she’s
probably rummagin’
through some neighbor’s house.
cryin’ out. cryin’ out.
lyin’ down on pallet’d floor,
gettin’ usher’d out so
she could ****
[ A ]
mouse detectives on VHS,
an awkward glance at left –
all the signs, none of the glory.
misdirectin’ for no reason,
reappearin’ without reason,
disappearin’ for every reason.
[ T ]
road impart’d day’s heat
through all the night, and
moon lit unknown paths.
cryin’ out, peddlin’ faster,
carryin’ weight in
hope at final penance.
no penance.
[ O ]
an artist’s rush,
turn’d paper to masterpiece
with seemin’ lack of effort.
stole heart, keel’d in, cast off to
placebo girl in roomate’s bed.
- - - abrupt ending
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
I am now sitting cross-legged on the grass,
And it starts to rain.
Slowly my dry hair is heavy with water
And my clothes are soaked through.
My cell-phone is in my pocket,
And I know that soon the water will reach it's center battery
And it will die.
This knowledge doesn't bother me, but even now,
I hope that the last of the tiny phone's electric breathe
Will let out a vibration, telling me I have received a message,
And I keep hoping it is from him.
....
Each time we conversed of an end
I was so quick to tell him that love was the strongest and not to worry.
I wasn't thinking of what was best for him, or me,
I was only thinking of what I wanted.
I hear many people say I am mature for my age.
I am mature in somethings.
But not everything.
....
Recently my mother told me,
"Sometimes we need a big shock to open our eyes, to help us move our feet forward."
I understand that now.
He always said he knew what would be best for me,
And whenever he did I would be get angry and tell him that no one knew.
I wouldn't listen to what he said.
I would fight it before all the words were formed,
Because I didn't want to let go.
I didn't want to wait for a future that might have us in it,
I wanted that future to be now.
All the advise he gave me was for our own good.
By fighting and fighting it I brought an ugly end to our friendship.
This has been the biggest lesson of my life,
And though it is hard, this is how things go.
We make mistakes, many times repeat them, and then we have to face them.
I am looking into the window of my room,
Where on the sill there stands his painting.
I am the white and pink flower.
He is the golden and black bee.
He has wings, and he must use them to fly.
I have a stem, and for a little while longer I must grow taller.
One day I will break apart into little seedlings and the wind will carry me through the air,
And then, then is when I may fly beside him.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
Ham took you to a cafe
on London Road;
he was meeting
Bernard there.
Sit there,
Ham said,
indicating a table
by the wall with wallpaper
with a flowered pattern.
You sat; stared
around the cafe;
frowned at two men
at the next table.
Who's there?
You say,
pointing towards them,
wondering where
your Lord Hamlet had gone,
and these two jesters
at his court.
What's the matter, love?
One of the men said,
smiling, eyeing you,
taking in your hair and eyes.
Nay, answer me,
you said, stand,
and unfold yourself.
Ham came over
to the table:
Hush, Ophelia,
he said.
He apologised to the men,
twirling a finger
at the side of his head.
You gazed at your lord;
he contested
with these jesters,
you surmised,
eyeing them.
They looked
away from you;
conversed between themselves;
sipped their mugs of tea,
ate their breakfasts.
You sat gazing at your lord
bargaining with a rogue.
He brought
two mugs of tea
and bacon sandwiches
and sat opposite you,
his back to the jesters.
Bernard will be here soon,
Ham said, gazing at you,
behave yourself.
Bernardo?
Yes, Bernard,
so keep your voice down,
Ham said.
He began his sandwich;
you began yours.
Bernard came in the cafe
and ordered a tea,
and waved.
Bernardo,
you said,
you come most carefully
upon your hour.
Hush, Ophelia,
Ham said.
Bernard smiled at you;
he tried to understand you
and your vocal expressions.
Bernardo,
you said softer
and waved.
He waved back
and paid the rogue
and went, and sat next you,
facing Ham.
Unfold yourself,
you said.
Ham raised his hand
to hush you.
You sat and ate
and drank.
Your lord was speaking
with his minister;
he spoke of battle,
you assumed,
and jested of wounds
of war.
You felt your ***
beneath your dress;
it felt so sore.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
He didn’t respond for five hours on the Fourth of July
It was warm
I was tired
Cell phone rested on my thigh
And I sat
And I waited
Another hour passed by
He was mad
Or maybe his phone was dead
Or he was with that girl,
Autumn,
He said she was giving him the eye
So I picked up my phone
And sent a message that read,
“Hey baby,
I miss you,
So, can you please reply?”
He was my world
My everything
The who made me sigh
As I listened to silly love songs
He made me want to try
To spend each moment
Speaking not from my mind
But from my heart to his
Two more hours went by
His soul with mine
Intertwined
It was dark now
Cool
Into a chair I reclined
And I sent another text
“Hi, hope your day is going well
Text me whenever,
I’m getting by.”
I missed the moment when
My brother managed to embarrass himself
Yet again
And why it was so funny
I’ll never know
Because on the phone remained my eyes
Another mindless hour went by
And finally
The phone’s ringtone chimed
But I didn’t pick it up
Let alone waste my time
With someone who made me feel so confined
I felt the wind brush against me
Smelled fresh, crisp, summer air
And I spent the night
Sitting in the grass
Watching the stars
As they danced and conversed as the fireworks burst
And I realized
I could love myself
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
I had so many chances
to give us a chance
I passed you in the hallways so many times
but I just shuffled by casually
and pretended you were just another boy
but you most certainly were not
oh no, not to me.
We conversed with our eyes
and they told me enough to know
that you wanted me too
I knew, oh I knew
but on that last day
I made a most detrimental mistake
and instead I decided that my nerves
were worth more than my heart.
-kk
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
Eye contact leaks personalities
You hope stay secret
Yet
They beg to be seen,
Recognised and conversed warmly with
They only wish to feel not as strange
As their owner fears they are
Be held, loved, cherished even,
Just not shunned
When lids shut,
or gaze averts,
Believe safety is inside yourself
But please,
Know that's a curse
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 7:02 AM UTC
As true as the sky is blue,
A best friend is always there for you.
From dreaming of dragons in a dizzy daze,
To standing together in scary school hallways.
Jessica the daring, Stephanie the brain,
They are two links in a chain.
Jess is ready to jump at the drop of a hat,
While Stephanie would prefer to pet a cat.
Steph's test is an ace,
While Jess's is a slight disgrace.
They say opposites attract,
The two were made for each other, and that's a fact.
However, a problem has breached this affinity,
There's a new boy in Jess's vicinity.
She has fallen head over heels,
For his bad boy disposition and decked out wheels.
Steph is not too fond of this new addition,
She's finding loneliness is her new condition.
Jess is too busy and cancels plans,
Steph worries and begins to wring her hands.
An attempt to capture Jess's attention,
Jess has yet to mention,
Steph has boldly dyed her hair,
But Jess just doesn't care.
Lips pressed against Blaine's,
Jess's head is in the rain.
Her judgement has gone cloudy,
With Blaine, she's beginning to act rowdy.
Every day they go farther and farther,
Blaine is pressuring her even harder.
Blaine has gotten into her head,
And hungrily leads her to his bed.
Now Steph stands alone in the halls,
And Jess stopped answering her calls.
It's been months now since they've conversed,
Steph's heart is about to burst.
Bad boy Blaine is not so great,
For Jess's sensative mental state.
They have begun to yell and fight,
Steph notices and thinks it's not quite right.
Steph tries to help; Jess tells her to stay out of it,
But there are signs that she's been hit.
She comes to school with bruises black and blue,
Steph knows this is nothing new.
Everything's beginning to fall apart,
Blaine has shattered her fragile heart.
In tears, Jess has a confession,
Her life is now ruled by guilt and depression.
After weeks of sobbing and crying,
Jess decides she should be trying.
She hesitantly picks up the phone,
And calls Steph at home.
Jess tells Steph her regrets about Blaine,
About her letting him inside her brain.
She gave him everything,
He toyed with her heart like a cat with string.
Jess and Steph now see eye to eye,
Now that Jess and Blaine have said goodbye.
They are once again two links in a chain,
They help each other through the pain.
After all, what are friends for,
Than to be there when knocking on each other's door?
A best friend is always there for you,
That's as true as the sky is blue.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 9:43 AM UTC
By The Madman http://leb.net/gibran/works/madman/madman.html
In the silent hour of the night, as I lay half asleep, my seven selves sat together and thus conversed in whispers:
First Self: Here, in this madman, I have dwelt all these years, with naught to do but renew his pain by day and recreate his sorrow by night. I can bear my fate no longer, and now I must rebel.
Second Self: Yours is a better lot than mine, brother, for it is given me to be this madman's joyous self. I laugh his laughter and sing his happy hours, and with thrice winged feet I dance his brighter thoughts. It is I that would rebel against my weary existence.
Third Self: And what of me, the love-ridden self, the flaming brand of wild passion and fantastic desires? It is I the love-sick self who would rebel against this madman.
Fourth Self: I, amongst you all, am the most miserable, for naught was given me but the odious hatred and destructive loathing. It is I, the tempest-like self, the one born in the black caves of Hell, who would protest against serving this madman.
Fifth Self: Nay, it is I, the thinking self, the fanciful self, the self of hunger and thirst, the one doomed to wander without rest in search of unknown things and things not yet created; it is I, not you, who would rebel.
Sixth Self: And I, the working self, the pitiful labourer, who, with patient hands, and longing eyes, fashion the days into images and give the formless elements new and eternal forms--it is I, the solitary one, who would rebel against this restless madman.
Seventh Self: How strange that you all would rebel against this man, because each and every one of you has a preordained fate to fulfil. Ah! could I but be like one of you, a self with a determined lot! But I have none, I am the do-nothing self, the one who sits in the dumb, empty nowhere and nowhen, when you are busy re-creating life. Is it you or I, neighbours, who should rebel?
When the seventh self thus spake the other six selves looked with pity upon him but said nothing more; and as the night grew deeper one after the other went to sleep enfolded with a new and happy submission.
But the seventh self remained watching and gazing at nothingness, which is behind all things.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
I.
I awoke with different eyes today;
What felt like the eyes of Antares;
A lucid frenzy orbiting
ambrosial crimson dahlias,
Laughing.
You bore witness to the opening of my ribcage
That I have solemnly manifested
for your mind only.
I have opened my rib cage for you, yes,
Like a weeping delicate bloom,
Birthing in the winter desert,
travail.
This is your virginity
Mothered by my violent torn hands;
My bones shudder;
Vibrations of prophecies,
Oracles of each single atom
Bursting within the cosmos, singing—
I prostrate;
Submissive to your fragility.
You colored my skin
With the shade of your rouged lips,
And like the moon,
my branched bones became Spring
By your mouth
Entombed beautifully in the garden of our creed.
Don’t you know that your hands,
Your hands are flooded
With sins?
the sins you have encountered with your victims;
Like me, your victim;
Our veins flow from the rivers
of mother earths chest.
Nymphs with there pale skins;
They bathe in your hidden ocean of blood
That has yet to burst forth
Held behind the enshrined gates of virginity.
I hold you above my head,
I humbly wear you as my crown.
II.
I awoke with different eyes today
Perhaps the eyes of the black cat
Dying her ninth death.
I devise these things,
And I can tell you
The pleasure of feeling
Nothing.
III.
I awoke with different eyes today
Half life, half death.
I have gazed at life
And cried.
I have conversed with death
And laughed;
And by all means
Analogies have never seemed so bona fide
as the affairs of the sun and the moon.
IV
You awoke with new eyes this morning,
A woman.
You are now a woman.
This is the only difference.
forgive me for my words.
-Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
the day after they found you
a wordless homage to ophelia
i walked down to the shore
and conversed with god
trapped in a seashell
you're writing me letters
from out at sea
and your handwriting
is not quite the same
but it's all sealed in salt
you've got me on the deck
at last, and i cover
your eyes with my hands
they're in the wrong place
but that's okay
i can't untangle
your legs from your skirts
and your skin doesn't fit
but i've given so much
it's okay, it's okay
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 10:35 PM UTC
I conversed with
Salesmen today
I was smart and witty
They hung on every
Word I spewed
My opinions where all astute
They bowed with great reverence
My attempts at levity
Were greeted with heartfelt laughter
I conversed with
Salesmen today
I was John Stewart,
Jerry Seinfeld, and Bill Clinton
I was interesting and debonair
Then I came home
To you
And I am . . . Nobody
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC