"echoings" poems
This is where we cross paths
Is it meant to be?
When you speak the hooks sink deeper
Echoings inside of me
Eyes of pure desire
Masked by double-meanings
I saw her say she loves me
But I was only dreaming
I will light your house on fire
If you do not give me your name
I trace the length of your fingers
The grace of hips leave me insane
I still do not dare touch you
Your coy smile slipping on and off
Your words hint at love and grandeur
The joy of simple life
As if the Norns have snipped a thread
Bony fingers knot us together
I feel the hands of fate
Upon the tapestry eternal
Vibrations I know you must feel
Vibrations I know you feel
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
i like broken houses a little too much.
shattered glass rotting floorings
dust and cobwebs and echoings
so you can nearly hear the laughter and the cries
of her old residents
and how she's kept them in an ivory box
all those years
in her basement
while everything else ******* falls to pieces
and there's nobody to mend a single thing.
maybe nothing's the same after hearing
a hospital hall's echo and how he only
tries to get away from the screams and kisses
and the pristine courtains barerly let light in
and he's a broken mess that hasn't been abandoned
but the impending damnation breaks him
and kills others
death resides but so does life
and which one is stronger
and poetry cannot fix the world
or fix her or fix him or anybody
and buildings should be buildings and a dust-covered door
should not be a call for my curiosity and i should not
mark my fingerprints on it because my sweaty palms
will make her shriek awake and believe
someone's finally going to take care of her
while someone else then walks away
and leaves her walls stained
i feel the allure of it somehow because
there's no more ******* glass to stain break scratch
within her so i must find some in me some that can contain her
and contain me i'm falling
fallingfallingfelldownandwhereaminow
and hospital halls are nothing but white and sad and a cemetery
that's being pieced together and it smells of cleaning products
but the abandoned place has harbored entire lives
so maybe i'd rather bleed out at an abandoned
house without glass
than next to a graveyard in the make
people tell me i should stop thinking so much.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
I could not see the next summit,
the gashed gnarl of its face.
I guessed only that its steepening
inclines had been set against me.
I could hear all the echoings
of the dead in their ice-tombs
where their aims had led them
and buried them, then, deeper,
the incredible footfall
of sherpas, spirited, light
and deft, unbetraying. A silence
stretched on toward a night
long with unhuman testimony.
Then it came: the world-clearing
hammer-blows of distant avalanches,
the palpitations of chaos,
one whiteout of potentiality.
My tent fluttered and gripped
at the snow that stored for spring
all paths to the peak, leading
through veils of embraces,
inconsolable losses, charms,
fantastic indictments. Swelling
its stormfront, then collapsing
into a voice like winter, the wind
took up a human song and broke
across the horizons. It sang,
'You are an unborn fjord,
a chasm yet to be. Only water
sculpts its beauty: let it pass.
Throw no harness over the clouds,
they hold no secrets, but are.
Here, while you plan your ascent
each night, exalting the fey,
the indolent, the totemic, you are
like a thief on a watchtower.
Until every such night has passed
you will light, tend, and watch die
a small, tense fire, but awake
surrounded by footprints.'
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC
Like a ripple...
Spreads the inner arrogant statements of self
Which you'd never tell someone else
Because even sounding them out sounds loud
But you believe in them still
In the quiet subconsciousness of self
Like the echoings of an inner cavern
There is something there
Because something that once cast shadows fell
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC