"crossings" poems
I contemplate these crossings illuminated by clouds
between a shape of thought and its veils
we didn't invent a screen-reality
it was already there, in the scriptorium of mind
I contemplate this geography known only by fingertips
unworded broken lines in tense bodies
I wonder about the lineage of tears, of hopes
how we grow old in this ardour, in the burning of bridges
I nod, I frown at the glaze of time
I move to the center of seeing like a novice
I gaze at the poliphony of being
at our Janus faced trade with flames
I say to myself it's good to decenter the "I" in this poem
however, there is no purity of words
height after height and depth after depth
we betray a simple evidence: we belong to the same air
will we regret our rush towards the malaise of thought,
will we be rowing over the theft of light?
an invisible will is building up, an antifragile declamation,
the soul's defamation
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 3:11 PM UTC
Go to sleep—though of course you will not—
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!
Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices—
sleep, sleep . . .
Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings—
lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream—
A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors—
sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window. Pay no
heed to him. He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen—
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.
The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them—
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.
The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—
lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you—
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes—
4k
The hollow wind funneled the voice
of the distant night-train crossings,
awakening a familiar silence
hanging from the vast wilderness sky
A restless heart hearkening the echoes,
imagining a runaway Pullman
flew away off the rails, airborne
on the winged wind headed north
Winter pausing for a moment
in the shadows of familiarity,
as if parsing the unspoken breathings
in an echoless surrendered sigh;
uncertain if tacit words set free
could ever allow a heart broken
to feel whole again
There is no absolving voice
that whispers in a solemner tone :
Death has no mercy ―
love remains marooned in the wake ,..
and it feels like the world’s gone mad
letting time be the arbiter of perpetuity
The fading dream of a motherless child;
a wish to be held maternally
fell to the ground with a thud,
breaking the silence,
dissipating formless as the shape of water
Muted cold lips so full of questions
morphing into fugitive sighs
come the unsettled night;
when shadows disappear like frail memories
that passed too soon to grasp,
thickly palpable as the warm breath
a winter bird alone on frosty branch
There’s no fear in braving the darkness
in the winter wilderness of life borne alone
There’s no way of knowing what you’ll find
down that long empty road back home
Life just flashes by silently before your eyes
through the windshield
of countless miles and miles
And there’s nothing you can do about it ―
It’s like hearing the moment of truth in a lie
when all I was looking for
was how I got here in this now,.. yesterday
only finding a hopeless poet
scribbling slightly stained pages,
spilling a bitter sweet dream ...
harlon rivers ... February 2018
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
We trust ourselves to know right from wrong.
We trust in the age old sayings of people whose names we can’t remember.
We trust our dogs not to **** in our favourite pair of shoes whilst we’re asleep.
We trust that everyone means well and just wants to get by.
We trust the teachers who taught us the earth is round, and that Pi is 3.14159 and how Pluto is the 9th planet in our solar system...
We trust that not everyone is right all the time.
We trust bus drivers to not get lost.
We trust in the fact that our keys are probably in plain sight even though we’ve been looking for half an hour.
We trust our parents to know what to do no matter the situation.
We trust the world to keep spinning away in the dark void of space with no company but the moon.
We trust that everything will be alright.
We trust that one more pint won’t hurt.
We trust that hangovers are only temporary.
We trust our partners when they say I love you.
We trust in traffic lights and zebra crossings.
We trust that this is our last chance to get a brand new sofa in the DFS sale with O% APR for 4 years.
We trust that size doesn’t matter.
We trust Alexa won’t tell us to **** off, and that Siri will always help us no matter how many times we say we hate it.
We trust that despite our self-doubt and insecurities that we’ll probably still get through another day.
We trust in peanut butter.
We trust that no matter how many times things go wrong, mistakes are made and promises are forgotten, we will learn to trust again...
We trust.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 7:33 PM UTC
10 things I love about myself
1.My unending desire to express myself. I think self expression is key to sanity.
2.Related to 1, is my creativity as an artist. If we instilled the driving force of healthy self expression we would not have near the amount of violence, war, crime, psychotics, drug use etc that we do in society. As a whole the world seems to strive to stuff or hide feelings, I think that is harmful and denial of true self, or of wholeness. On a personal level this saves my very life.
3. My ability to use all negative,bad, traumatizing experiences as a tool of/as Understanding of Universal Human suffering. We are given experiences to understand our fellow man, I do my best to do so with my own experiences.
4. My Compassion, , nuff said
5. Eating my fears for breakfast..or trying to! Facing my fears, and challenging my fears..self quests.
6. Beginners Mindset, I am so very thankful I break for butterflies and pull over for cloud crossings, I near tear with joy at wet rainy sidewalks and the glow of stop lights on wet pavement, may I always honor this special aspect of who I am~ I see the world in a way I wish never to lose, only to expand.
7. Learning to honor my body~ Gaining self respect through self care! I love myself enough to care for myself now, far more than I ever did before!
8. Acceptance that all aspects of myself are pure. My self expression is not **** and as I see it, I am simply unafraid to be me! My expression is pure! I shall accept no shame about it.
9. My ability to accept change with a laugh. I do not stress, stress just adds stress on top of other stuff that needs to be dealt with, it is a distraction!! laugh, move forward and know everything will work itself out..it always does! My inner joy keeps me young.
10.My Energy-Body Consciousness, my ability to sense, to direct energy, to honor the tools that God gave everyone ; )
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
when you love,
you’re a country,
pierced by daily border
exchanged crossings,
to your closest neighbor
and though,
one rerun~returns home by night,
to your prior defining borderlines,
somehow
the externals of the container has
had its internality's modified
for the lines that prior defined
have altered
by passing the
point of prior,
now by thousands of
tiny holes breaching the
thickened protective lining,
by love punches ‘n kisses of
pinprick punctures
the resistance,
pulverized
<>
you are changed,
new language combos spoken,
embrace another with a
bilingual tonguing,
a real treat
to entreat each other and
that hyphen,
that little tiny
linear
~
punctuation mark is
reflecting your creativity of a
Singular Duality
it is mark that
speaks to a new
U~no individuality,
blended and connected
somehow a duo of
someone’s pulverized lines
forms a single stronger
chord
first a puncture
then a patching
finally
an adhesion pleasuring
and a new working word:
composite
the opposite
of
opposite*
Nov 14, 2024
Nov 14, 2024 at 7:26 AM UTC
At around this time of year I would usually
start dreaming of girls with shoulder high hair
racing their way into warm summer crossings,
under midnight white skies,
following the shadow of giants ahead
that would never ever fade in the distance.
I stared again into long halcyon lights
shooting straight up from dying cities,
and every street corner turning slowly into the night,
enough time to feel I would yet be missing
another love story this year.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
The train it rolls along the track.
The kids all get restless the parents all natter,
But at least they aren’t crying, so that doesn’t matter.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
A child hollers out “mum I feel sick!”
“What did I tell you about eating those sweets?”
“Don’t make a mess all over these seats!”
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
The guard sitting bored, in his cab at the back.
We thunder through towns and all of its people,
Passing by churches, and that old pointed steeple.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
A drinks cart on the train? Ah just the trick,
A nice cup of coffee and a cold can of beer,
“How much? You’re kidding!” I won’t get much change here!
Clickety click, Clickety clunk,
Oops, sounds like that rail's missing a chunk.
We cross over bridges, spanning their rivers,
I must close that window, it’s giving me shivers.
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
I’m getting hungry; I could use a good snack.
Back comes the hostess with her goods laden trolley,
No chance I’m parting with even more lolly.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
So many destinations, which one should I pick?
Should I stay local, or should I go far?
It’s certainly more peaceful than driving a car.
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
It feels like we’re speeding along a fair whack.
The seconds to minutes, the minutes to hours,
From towns and their houses, to fields and their flowers.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
Wherever I’m going, I’m getting there quick.
Bright eyed young faces, an adventure, exciting,
The doddery old folk, complain when alighting
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
We pass many crossings and a ***** old shack.
How many golf courses and quaint country pubs?
And weekend gardeners out pruning their shrubs.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
These seats so uncomfy, now my neck's got a crick!
Now finally I've reached my long journey’s end,
And I'm glad that I've shared it with you my dear friend.
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2012
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
People say I'm "in"sane
but if losing myself
in what makes me happy
and drinking exactly 3/4
cup of coffee
every morning
and only stepping on the white
of zebra-crossings
for luck
and always having
my music volume
up to the maximum
and spending my saturdays
reading
and my nights
rereading
and my mornings pretending
that my life is a musical
and having extra happy days
when birds
replace my alarmclock
if all these things are what make you call me
"in"sane
I would never want you to even consider
calling me "out"sane.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
Yes,
Yes it sounds a hell load more sexier
To say I nearly jumped off a terrace
Or
I used to slit my wrists
Than tell you that
yesterday
The lights
Went green
And I
I don't know what come over me
But I walked to the middle of
One of the busiest crossings
And attempted
To peer into my future
In the headlights
Of a bus
I find it easier
To tell people
That I am a head-case
And they should stay away
Rather than tell them
That I sat up the whole night
Crying
On my birthday
Because I felt like a Giant Mistake
I find it easier
To tell people these lies
I still call myself honest
Wonder if that makes me a liar
I find it easier to describe
The pretty way the lights danced inside her eyes
When I brought her something entirely unexpected
But I won't talk about the dark, gaping hole
In my heart,
When I realised that I wasn't worth a **** to her
I don't talk about things that affect me
If my face goes pallid
And someone asks me why
I'll tell them it's cause I didn't sleep
What I won't tell them
Is that half the night was spent
Wondering how I came to be
And the other, thinking about how repulsed I am by myself
I won't talk about the way
I flinch
Whenever someone touches me
I won't mention the fact that I was molested
By my best friend
But I'll sound close to tears as I describe
My sorry friend's case who didn't know what to do about it
There are some things
Which aren't any of your ******* business
But it's **** difficult
To keep everything to yourself
When you've got anonymity protecting you
And no shoulder
To cry upon
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
I look up at the skylight
Rain drops coalescing
The reflection of a few drops
Dancing on the wall
In the breeze
Which is more
A gale
Howling and loud
Outside
Destroying trees
Somewhere
A silvery strand of a cobweb
Dances and shimmers
In the pale sun
Playing hide and seek
The silence in my room
So loud
The thunder outside
So far
The daffodils on my windowsill
Have died and dried
Papery petals, a brilliant amber now
Green stalks greedily still drinking
While the petals thirst
The tops of the trees
Through my window
Freshly showered
Move like a woman
Dancing for her lover
Seducing
Shimmying
And yet
I think of Delhi
Desertlike and brown
Hostile and cruel
The dirt streaked faces
The shining eyes
Of the beggar children
At crossings
The eunuchs who bully
The traffic, the fumes
The noise that deafens
The rich women who flaunt
Diamonds and lovers
The clubs for the haves
The stares from the have-nots
And I come back
To the music of the rain
On the skylight
And the chirp of a bird
Somewhere far away
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 6:53 AM UTC
He was afraid that if she closed her eyes they would never open again
She was always tired these days, her smile stunted, the crinkling in her eyes when she laughed, foreshadowed by the tears,
Like rain droplets underneath which they danced at 3 pm in the Missouri crossings,
And after the luminous laughs shared and warmth shared between their lips came her sickness, closer than ever, threatening to force them apart
Fever always forced her way inside her head, and cough rented her lungs paying the rent in the form of monthly hospital trips
He always held her hand, kissing the back of her palm, clutching it harder than an addicts grip on white powder,
They diagnosed her with tuberculosis, her lungs, breathed out melodies of Coldplay and Laura marling for him when the night felt too long,
Now they breathed in his pain, his fear of losing her to darkness.
Her sunken pale face, wishing on anything and everything that proves to be lucky, an eyelash, sight of a black car when driving underneath train on a bridge,
Crossing fingers to survive through this nightmare that has sketched its outline,
And filled its grey shades in their lives.
He cocoons his body around her in the white bed, her fragile body, connected with an I-V, they could have been a beautiful butterfly, but destiny stunted their growth
She just wants to close her eyes to wish, for the last time, to be able to see his face every day for the rest of the eternity,
But he is afraid that if she closes her eyes, she might never open them again.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
West bound
kroooaaooo kroooaaooo!
I stand at the door of an old Santa Fe car, snow falls silent, dusting everything in visual sense, the better January air bites my cheeks ,as two hundred tons of steel push through the night.
kroooaaooo kroooaaooo!
One by one. The orange glow slumbering towns, passes by
A Hudson rambles ,down the blacktop towards the crossings
kroooaaooo kroooaaooo!
I retrieve my zippo ,and light my cigar and melancholy ,takes over
The sun peeks over the horizon ,reflecting like a billion diamonds nestled in the snowy Fields.
kroooaaooo kroooaaooo!
I daydream of a diner with black coffee, cold marble counters eggs and bacon.
I daydream of a cheap room ,with a soft bed to rest my aching mind
A gleeful sleep.
kroooaaooo kroooaaooo!
The whistle blows Kroooaaooo ,leaving the sole evidence that we were there we push down the steel trail ,into the pale dawn with Miles.
Kroooaaooo!
Miles and miles with no sleep,
I miss Octobers copper air, Old honest me,
I seek to find.
A full October moon,
A warm wind,
autumn leaves,
The sound of silence ,in All its distractions.
kroooaaooo!
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 7:45 PM UTC
Your nails stain my skin like Alaska,
grains beaten into my elbows from riverbeds
and the crossings.
“Have a drink with me, my treat.”
I remember you from way back,
listening to Dave Matthews Band
while we emptied out veins in the front
seat of my Volvo.
Revolting, we voted independent and
we decided to never come back to the night
where Alaska was even a possibility.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 6:40 PM UTC
I remember
Gran’s bony hands gripping my wriggling wrists
Crossing streets,
Watching my parents leave for business trips
Screaming, crying and kicking at their departure
Gran held me firm in place poker faced
Family additions
Dragged away like furniture:
Made felt like I was the fist that punctured the peace,
A surgically removed cyst from familial bliss.
Trying to demonstrate
That she was not as straight
As die, rulers, skyscrapers, line geometry,
My one time fathers frivolities
Preoccupied my attention
Until austerity crept back into her manner,
A gulf snatching me away from her temporary lapse,
Her gnarly hand seizing my shoulder.
Her part played to a fading friend and children gone
Continental drift.
Ocean crossings for funeral celebrations
Ravines forming in her fathomless foundations
Avoided my attention
Bright wrapping paper covered my childhood perception,
There was no melancholic manic depression
no lashing out with verbal accusations of abandonment.
Isolation.
Bubble wrap layers of armour; parental protection
steadily cast off in adolescence,
Left me reeling with raw emotion after seeing my grandmother broken.
My father staring at the TV ignoring the reality of her sanity,
It is easier coping with the match score rather than the eyesore.
Sitting in silence sooner than covering circular topics exhausted.
This is the most either can hope for, every move calculated, deliberated.
She waits for death so she can be liberated
He waits for deaths so he can live again
In memories reclaimed,
bony hands gripping wrists,
Establishing familial bliss,
My one time grandmother’s frivolities ,
A collection of her life’s mythology,
Not the sum of her anthology.
We will rewrite her biography.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
i guess life is a crossing
and people keep passing
the lord made me black and white
with a light on either side
people keep passing, hippidy hop
they keep crossing, hippidy hop
and thats what happens on me all day long
people keep passing, hippidy hop
they keep crossing, hippidy hop
and then the cars come along
there are those who wait for the green man to show
the mom tells her kids 'thats only when you should go'
There are those who don't think a lot
'You could have died', 'it was worth a shot'
There are those who play in and out
Opportunists trying to move about
There are those who just have all the time
Testing nerves, begging the wheels to crime
people keep passing, hippidy hop
they keep crossing, hippidy hop
and thats what happens on me all day long
people keep passing, hippidy hop
they keep crossing, hippidy hop
and then the cars come along
people keep passing, hippidy hop
they keep crossing, hippidy hop
and thats what happens on me all day long
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
Determined to have left by half-eight,
cats fed and plates away,
they were late.
This raconteur of the recce,
part time life model to Rosetti (among others)
had corralled cagoules onto arms,
thrown shoes their way, warmed up the car,
had marched across driveways, crossings, marshlands to playgrounds
and so far had lost none.
This was him without coffee, a fifth of his repertoire,
and they weren’t even his sons.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
Esteem of reflection billowing up whenever one puff fades.
Day in, day out.
Pass in, pass out.
Staring off into space, am I getting better at geometry?
Looking into the line of nowhere.
Physical lines may just happen to converge with this.
Darkness may happen to eclipse it.
A point happens to be on it.
A light happens to shine therein.
Lines may also conflict with it.
Colors may not align with it.
Conglomerations may exist there without any congruence.
People happen upon it.
Muscles and nerve endings traverse it.
Needs cross its consciousness.
Predictions cross over it too.
Some ideas are superseded here.
The esteem of reflection scans all areas: physical, emotional, and mental.
The internal image is destroyed, or ground to dust.
Sounds are implanted upon it.
An imaginary self-concept is manifested on it.
The cycle of new crossings re-circulates.
Like this whole poem only affected my knowledge and not reality.
I sit up.
My body is placed on this line.
Like it is on stage acting for this line.
Cleanliness and neatness cross it.
The esteem of reflection takes on the form of part of my body.
I lay back down.
The self-concept reiterates itself.
As if my body's forms must assert themselves.
Afraid to look at bold symbols.
Afraid to act like I touch the things in this room.
A sense of shared humanity is spit out by my head.
I am the weak and selfish one.
Not esteeming another.
Only esteeming me and my reflection.
Not sharing a room.
Like I'm pulling down and in.
With my head in the sand.
I consider knowledge that isn't directly observed as secondary.
And I don't mean observed in a book.
This self-concept becomes the center which organizes the things that cross the line of nowhere.
It is the best comparison to my physical self, yet a figment of my imagination.
It is shaped more by attention than by materiality.
It's funny how anointing is at once a rising over and a descending.
Yet it cannot fully transform my mind.
For even this blessing crosses the line of nowhere.
And the esteem of reflection rises above it.
But when the line of nowhere becomes the self-concept then the mind is fully transformed.
The esteem of reflection would have equality with the self-concept.
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 1:49 AM UTC
We see millions of people coming over our southern border
Millions of people are here illegally some through no fault of their own
When your parents bring you here as a child you have no say
When you are born in this nation from illegal parents it is not your fault
Our government works on the principle that we need to return them
They want to build a fence to stop them
Some want to legalize the ones here and start over
Reagan tried this and it proved to be a failure
We need to look at why they are coming to our country
We need to help their country to become economically sound
We need to enrich our southern neighbor instead of China
We need to embrace Mexico and choose to help our neighbor
Nobody wants to leave their home, go to a foreign country
To find a job, to be secure or to face the depravation of family
We will never see an end to border crossings as long as the economy
Of one nation exceeds the economy of the other.
We can help them there within their border or we can help them here
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
moon beams read all the stories to the children at night as they
went to bed, not sleepy
the Underjordiske were everywhere they could cause a fray, always
acting out and creepy
and lost people from far away have stories to tell
but eyes, echo against safe canyon walls, they are lost too,
And the Earth gives a beautiful sigh out my window, and the branches and leaves say "again, do it again, do"
I let my self drift on the Columbia River, an inner tube swollen with the air from the smelter on the steep banks of that place called home
and here the clear and cold night snaps me out of my reverie
for just a moment, I see the gloaming
the dream, I had as a child climbing mountains all,
ones that scratched the belly of the sky
from there I would see all the longboats there that ever floated
on any ocean or any bay with sails on mast high, flags to fly
and the bright lit ones would be the funeral pyres
lighting the way to the Rainbow Bridge,
"Odin, Ve, can you hear me?"
big dreams that don't fit in small houses and needles
from the street won't pick locks but pierce lives, lost souls of the sea
and my past is a lover that lets me sleep at the foot
of her bed, curled up on a cushion of Dogwood flowers,
every morning to wake up in a different alley and walk just long
enough to see that I am lost, powerless
but i fear that this is savagely wrong
and there is no music in here to sooth the beast
standing so close to border of reality that I
hear all the illegal crossings scream, West to East
and Belugas gently drop
into the deep part of the
of the River Fraser where I wait, they leave
me her letter and take the bait
and she said "she didn't think
I would mind if she found someone
else, as the distance and time was further
than she first thought", and the tears...
filled that flow since, and through time
Empty
at my feet helmets, two, both an ancient one, a new
one, i light the letter divided in half light the paper on fire
and
my great great great grandfather says as he
turns away saying "there is no shade in the shadow of the cross"
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 2:44 AM UTC
my feet had barely greeted california
when my face matched the new summer,
cheeks blooming uneven,
eyes green as moss
and every face i glared upon
avoided looking too long.
walking through my least favorite airport
chin high, silent and ugly and wet,
i grieved for myself, i pitied my future, and mourned my past.
something lodged in my throat screamed with more assurance
and clarity and confidence than i have ever known
"this is not where i belong!"
i cried for my feet no longer squishing silica on white beaches
old skin disappearing in tiny fish
or kissing rainforest mulch, under-dressed in flipflops
taunting flora and fauna and fate
i cried for my skin, abused and bronzed
exfoliated in world heritage parks, the first shower in days
and oiled from water crossings in a run-down four wheel drive
a beard of blemishes i didn't bother to hide.
i cried for my ears, robbed of every accent,
of the crashing waves and roar of waterfalls,
or the same six songs played in every club in cairns
and the pterodactyl screech of flying foxes.
i cried for my hair, for my hands, for my nose.
i cried for my mouth and my tongue and my legs.
mostly, i cried for the death of laughter that started in the
pit of my stomach and rose up like carbonation
to my chest and my lungs and my neck and burst
like floodwaters in dorrigo
the elation and exhilaration and euphoria of being alive
that spilled out of me in screams and shrieks
and bubbled and flushed and insisted
so fiercely so strongly so urgently
that to relent was not even a choice but a right
and then half a year later
i sat dully in a fluorescent corridor at my transfer terminal
feeling my heart retreat, defeated
dreading the long months ahead
promising nothing but drudgery and boredom
letting the tears drip onto my boarding pass
black ink lamenting, too
and not a single person approached
or spoke to me
until i asked to wash away the moment
with a diminutive bottle of ***
a mile from the surface.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Solace is to be found amidst a cathartic tornado of contemporary embellishment, whilst heaven exists beyond tactile and psychological fiction.
Although obscurity joins hands in affiliation with a questionable character, I fear the Greeks whenever they bear gifts in the form of a wooden horse.
Therefore, write your grimoire and let us waltz into the misty realms of ceremonial magick.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC