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Thom Jamieson Aug 2018
He dreamed he was loved.
A love guarded fiercely, with passion.
A love that was not unconditional.
Not the blank slate love of a child
or an animal so programmed by instinct.
This love was willful and earned.
Having glimpsed an injured brilliance
beneath the flab and sweat and stench she weaned it to health.
Making it stronger, and brighter,
and more prominent with each passing day; until it erupted.
And he was transformed.
to embody that brilliance.
And she protected that embodiment.
Letting nothing call it to question.
She cared for him as he never could for himself.
She soothed and softened
and loved the deep furrow from his brow.
And her passion overwhelmed him.

And he wanted for nothing.

And when he opened his eyes
To **** and filth
with only the kiss of concrete
and the banter of horns
and obscenities
and footsteps.
******* FOOTSTEPS.
Heels pittering purposefully to mask exhausted uncertainty
Brogues, and wingtips clicking; with a cocky juvenile illusion of importance.
Boots plodding heavily under the weight of duty,
to build, and fix, and secure for the others.
And through a fog laid thick and throbbing
by poisons chased dutifully the night before;
he felt her fierce love for a fleeting moment
Guarding, and loving his shining brilliance
until it erupted from him;
With bile and blood, **** and regret
coldly rejected by his concrete companion.
And she was gone once again.
I almost never write in the third person but thought I would give it a try (part of my narcissism therapy ;) )  Feedback welcome  (also part of it...:))
Maria Monaghan Jul 2018
The sun sets on Ireland,
patchwork fields illuminated by the august light of
abiding memory.

Misty hues spilling
over the mountains,
glimpsed through a mist of tears
fighting not to be shed.

The last sunset
of a brief glimpse of manic happiness
and friendship
and love.

The fields flash by,
each one transforming into a rose-coloured memory,
and a tsunami of melancholy threatens to
knock me down.

Heavy sighs and
knowing looks and
held-back tears and
one last caress of your sun-kissed skin.

The sun sets on Ireland
And opens into a bright new tomorrow.
Nuha Fariha Dec 2017
When we kiss I taste
the sweet saltiness of the
ocean's lingering graze

When you laugh your eyes
glow like sunspots dancing
on the water’s calm surface

When you breathe in my ear
I hear the gentle roar of waves
And when I trace behind your ears
I feel the the soft underbelly of seashells

Late at night when cars sound like
Waves hitting a distant tidal line
You whisper "How can you love me
when I am like an ocean and you
have only glimpsed the shoreline?”

But I've stood in enough tides to know
The hypnotic pull of the unknown
And coughed up enough water
to know the pain of drowning but
there's something that keeps me
returning and yearning to swim
deeper into this ocean's expanse
Randy Oct 2018
I'm not perfect.
My flaws easily seen.

Things I've made.
Will burn with ease.

Good I've done.
With right pure heart.

Will last for ever.
It will be my start.

It is my part.
I see it now.

Do for others.
I'm learning how.

I'll never be whole.
In this life seen.

In the next life glimpsed.
My soul will be clean.
I don't rhyme to rhyme.  It has to "fit" what I want to say.  Isn't that the way its supposed to be?
In the summers when you were a boy,
you would take a mattress to the roof,
you would wake to the stirring of
leaves, the blue hydrangeas, cashmire
coats,
persimmon sunsets,
when you were a child your mother
would take you, her callouses running
like rivers over your skin,
her green eyes on fire,
don’t you remember?
It’s the same spot they buried your father

remember, the narrow lanes
where you could see dust gather
underneath bare feet,
people from the east in
their white cars;
in Belsen where
you could find god in a *******
and in Eurasia where we
steal like clever thieves,

in the night when the lights shone
for you, how you would hold your head
as the ache deepens within your skull,
maybe there is more to life than just the physical?

The moon is in Taurus,
you lie awake next to your mother
and you count the lines on her face,
in her aging you find your history,
in the filth there is always beauty

then.
the world starts to erupt,
there are people whose voices like
molten cause revolution

this is the part you do remember,
the bombing, the deaths, the bodies.

you remember how faces of your neighbour, of mothers with their children
like apparitions of Venus,
can be glimpsed peaking out with their
azure eyes dying underneath
pillars and railing and soot,

you learn how to turn gas into midnight fog,
how you can turn empty shells into rocket ships that take you back to your mother,

you learn how bomb craters can become home and house warm bodies,
How clothes can rip like paper
when you are searching along shorelines
for home,

you realize no one wants you,
not you - but the idea of you,
the idea of who you could be

They have not seen the way your hands
shook when the sun caressed the parched
skin of your mother’s body,

now, you’re eyes close in prayer
your cheeks brushed with the godly red
of childhood,

but you do not know, child, that the
world does not work on prayer,
and has the ocean ever listented to the drop?

You forget how many centuries deep the ocean is,

but for you I pray,

I turn to God to atoms, to energy and divinity,

that the waters
their sails masting half way,
and you capsizing in hope,

I pray the ocean knows

I pray.
been a while.
Mark 3d
Go find for me in all of botany;
The rarest green amidst the sweetest mire.
That blooms of petals white like cottony,
Of growth 'twas serenaded by a lyre.
Replant with gentle skill by window's sill
Repose the eye that sunlight does not steal.
The blondy gaze, so fixed herein and still,
Unless the breezes kiss corona's seal.
Then flowered dance shall sway to hymns of bay
And whom shall follow trance'd with steady eyes;
Be titled botanist, of beauty's play.
Degree that yields each morn' when sun does rise.

Find that and glimpsed what fair does lay this bed,
But 'pare her side the flower, flower's dead!
TW Jan 31
You once told me that when we die,
we become another star in the night.

I never really cared about your zodiac and lunar signs,
I never paid attention to the solar action shooting by,
You'd wonder if it's magic plans or broken scrap that flew the skies,
You were psychedelic dresses, I was only wrapped in suit and tie,
It never blew my mind until I finally gave your truth a try,
I glimpsed the puzzle pieces in the time before the moon would rise,
A tapestry on galaxies, depicting myths, and human lies,
I guess you proved me wrong again, I was quick to scrutinize.

Now, I'm studying the subjects and sitting in observatories,
Thinking back to when I'd write them off before I heard the stories,
Earth is boring now you're gone, I hope you're up there yearning for me,
Every star's a soul, I'd see you but there's nothing worse than stormy
Nights and light pollution, it's a blinding kind of nuisance,
I'd be admiring your fusion but the sky has turned translucent,
But still I'm plotting charts of stars, I'm always making observations,
Waiting for the day I get to see your face in constellations.

I wanna chase you forever, whether heaven or ****, I'll go,
Can't let you float away, I'll take a world tour with my telescope,
The way I speed through hemispheres, this night will be the death of me,
But otherwise I'd only see you half the year, you're my Persephone,
I'll trek from Arctic harbors, give binoculars to polar bears,
Shiver in my igloo, hands together, say a hopeful prayer,
And no, I won't be lonely there, your soul will be a solar flare,
You'll whisper an aurora, northern lights to let me know you care.

I'll whistle Canis Major and Minor, and let Orion guide me,
I'm quite unlikely to quit, what kind of guy would I be?
To search the Seven Sisters for an eighth and get inside their psyche?
I'll question Cassiopeia, Cygnus, and Pisces nicely,
Ask if they've seen something fishy, and then I'll talk to Taurus,
An orbit tourist, I'm daunted without the gall to forfeit,
So if you're gone, then I'm glad that this was all you taught me,
I live each day for the night and just endure the morning.
Marianna Jan 20
He who is feared by many, stood before me
as the faint moon light glimpsed on his scarred face.
His shadow swallowed me whole,
a monstrous creature with an aura of excellence.
He stood there for a minute that felt like decades
and stared down at my useless body.

I felt my bones cracking and my limbs shaking,
his eyes - a void filled with complete chaos,
pierced right through me.

I saw red flowers and dead trees grow out of my head,
dead horses and ****** deer running around in my room,
shadows and screams, tsunamis and hurricanes,
drowned voices and muffled prays.
I saw red skies and blue forests, black seas and green deserts.
I saw myself falling off planets, being thrown off constellations, unwanted in the vast universe, uninvited at the celebrations of the stars.
i saw it all happen in a mere second, a far too long second,
as it all crashed and disappeared on the cold floor.

His shadow, taller than ever, filled every corner of my room.
He raised his head and inhaled all the air that was left in one breath

                                        "YOU CALLED?"

His deep voice made the walls shake and the earth tremble,
and i was left there like an empty shell,
***** and exposed,
as his words filled the room
                and filled my head.
Connor Oct 2018
Every creature performs extremely
in the Night; careful &
violent (perfect)

Essences - proximal to Mysticism - just beyond the reach of shallow darkness as it fills a room (saving shuteye for one flash of blinding perplexity)

Glimpsed through past anguish! hollowed-out
& vacant Cathedral player pianos jotting annihilation inside the soul - chasing incantations unknown to me until overcome by yawning & heartache // So I wake

I remain, here - recalling those pure and perfect hours.
I am darker, but kinder,
too. I have opened to the oceans, put to rest those purple stems upraised & eager to perpetuate their own naive nature

(toss/turn/undulate spasmodically when confronted by a cause, or blaze ! who is repulsed by any lack of confidence - any lie in heart - any failure in answering those pine & prime riddles which hide beneath damp soil or within traditions that may have always had the answers - of which I still, and likely cannot ever know..in which no one can - such is the point of the thing)

Perhaps the Chapel Perilous and
The Farther are at once the same place. A trial - A Paradise
the rippling light in water balanced by a sea of smoke - the peace of slowly drowning in sacred bodies

/////))))))

Folds, fangs - primordial Velvet
swiftness & delirium - impressions of Saturn tarnish your lips - a desk stutters - a black clock howls - the softness of this state is now stone in somber awareness

...Faraway the Holy Mountain
contemplates alone and conjoined at once - in a terror that is also transfiguring - a terror only possible with great distance and height  - say on an Airplane; taller now than the quivering Mountain - yet sensing its entire weight ***** against the sky like music displaces rain and love shudders memory

////PANDEMONIUM

Night Palace / Mercurial infinite of black-ribbon silk returning, the bindings of a separate cosmology - tethered within our own, a Prima Materia - disheveling the **** of our decadent casket Mother - the clawmarks we left behind us ! an opening to all others - a gate of gates - simultaneity, Ivory / Blood

God's humble gardener
prepares for Empyrean, I will see to my own consecration !

Bring me Spring ! bring me fire ! the lodge
hidden in wood unshaken ! make me myself
as poignantly and sincerely as others can be themselves.

Paused on graceful Magicians passing by, hideaways, climates doused in hungry fog. Collecting mementos, offerings to the realm of chaos - and timid projections dancing beneath the New Moon - An Animistic supper for fresh senses & sweetness, youthful flesh in mist - Earthly appetites so easily satisfied

))))))LAZARUS

Awareness of the fire is power !
Stumbling upon Dollhouse Heavens / where
candelabrum multitudes are brightly eclipsed by exits (to another space?)
another state of being, present music is filled in the lobby with fluttering which clears one's head like turning over mirrors

Poetry here is mitigated by tides -

repetitions // one harmony after the next whistling tree to tree //
birds of lulled imagination pacified and meditating cooperatively yet individual // fixedly watching out for tension points, freedom fissures in the clouds // Morning breaks cradles and makes students
of magisterial ladders // appearing....disappearing // opportunities to grasp or release

(pan-flute & drum of wave }}}
textures flattering Fire
Makers - plea with the shining godhead
Morning, who makes right the wrongs of your thoughts,
as nothing can be hidden in the omniscient eye of the Sun
while you wash in hotsprings waiting for adulthood
unhidden, *****, and clean)

II

While I meditate, it's often
I will sense a stranger's face there with me, without a body -
beside my own. Observing - what?

silence? the easing away of flames? silver
cold fills the room in secrecy again - we are at last
for this moment - equal forms - silky & caught between
a deafening trumpet call -
for those lost wandering Eidolic strands of consciousness - which, at varying speeds and distances - find their way thru the fog
and towards

A Center
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018
"C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..."
( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD )

She believed that
deep deep inside her

the flame of a femme fatale
burned brightly.

Could imagine herself stepping out of
some classic Film Noir.

Cultivated herself
to look like Maire Windsor

opposite the dangerously gorgeous
John Garfield.

But her life it seemed had her
stepping into an Edward Hopper.

The isolation and the paint
still wet.

The lonely lady
glimpsed in an hotel window

from a passing train
autumnal rain.

Still she acted always as if
she was in her own movie

walking around  her tiny flat
*****

except for red stilettos
red earrings...red lipstick.

Making up her own snappy lines
to some imaginary leading man.

"Are you decent?"
"Yes""

"But you're....you're *****!"
"You only asked if I was decent!"

The mirror laughed
catching the reflection of who

she could have been
given half the chance.

She never
stood a chance.

She threw a cigarette up in the air
caught it between her lips

her one and only
party trick.

Lit or unlit.
Searching for middle C

on a battered piano
her mind off key

abandoning it
the piano's yellow smile.

She watched the sunlight
carve a block of time

out of the dividing wall.
fading the wallpaper roses.

The bed that was always
empty...always unmade.

She danced to Weil's
Youkali Tango.

Put it on again...again.
Scratching an already scratched record.

The needle gathering fluff.
The porcelain milkmaid...dust.

She disliked the way sweat
gathered under her *******.

They were always a little too large.
Hated men staring so hard.

Ahhhh the faded romance
a sunset heart attack.

Couldn't have wrote
herself a better script.

Staggering in her dance
gasping that all too unsubstantial

air as if trying to
catch time

the presentpastfuture
falling out of her hand.

The wooden acorn
of the tattered blind

tapping against
the ***** window pane.

Neon going green.
Then red.

Now blue.
And then green again.
It had faces and bodies when I was young,
and it was rare -
Maybe once a year, a joke would be ruined
by a walking sneer,
my unselfconscious laughter curdled
by its pitiless scorn.
But, young and sure, I'd bounce along,
leave it forgotten,
and look for the good.

Blessed to expect
that people were kind,
I unshackled it,
disembodied the derision,
unhitched it
from reasoning, living beings

Left it free to gather
in geometric clusters
lurking on the edge of sight
like burning after-images
of a cruel sun

Wordless, sightless, lifeless
empty, ******* spaces
glimpsed with a shudder
on the best days -

gathered in consuming clouds
on the worst.
Unseen by my companions
it eats my ability
to explain or expel it.
It is the cold clear lines
that colour cannot conceal,
etching  empty paths
to nowhere.
she takes a pull of
her Parliament,
face painted in
in fleeting ochre;
an ancient star dying
far from me.

"i was alive once and i swore
i glimpsed the storm in
the laughter
"

we write each other's names
on our palms and lovingly watch
the ink fade as we drink from
them.

that was the plan.
plans end the same as the rest of it;
vestigial and resentful in their silence.

you said your grin was
that of a misfit.
i said your grin lent
dimensions the intent
to rip open.
i meant it,
but i said it just to see it.

"...reasons. things can have many..."

stealing smoke from a Parliament,
that old foolish ochre
skirmishes with night,
i remember that i'll remember the hospice stint intimacy fondly
when i splinter infinitely through dimensional rifts in that moment
you howled at the moon with the
earth dangling from your neck.

"the wild hunt was a horrible
film, but it was our horrible film
"

you didn't even notice me
dissolving into the monolith
and i admire the honesty of that.

we can speculate about what the
next life's masks conceal when
we get there.
smokingkills
Rohan Press Oct 2018
you were hovering
—a blackening shadow—
above me

i glimpsed your aura
—hollow, blurred, bruised—
but didn't laugh at your antics,
didn't reflect on your anecdotes:

just turned away,
just pretended to forget how to feel.
i'm sorry i wasn't there for you
Mikaila Sep 2018
I fight it
Every time I fight it
And I lose
Spectacularly.

It takes time to accept defeat.
I struggle.
It pulls me under and I claw my way out
Over and over.
I am persistent
But things are changing-
The world stops behaving the way it’s supposed to
The earth shifts beneath my feet,
Churning.
Gravity starts to pull me to new places.
I am so comfortable with
Rock bottom
It’s safe down there-
Barren and cool, restful.
Every time, I fight to remain,
Every time, I fall to my knees
Dig my fingers into the ground and hold on,
Praying
To a god I neither trust nor believe in
Because I know what is coming
What always comes
And I know what will be left behind
When it is finished.

Handfuls of soil come up in my hands and bloom with sharp life-
Violets.
Roots like daggers find the lines of my palms.
They demand
Blood.
Turmoil spreads inside of me
And I am torn away.
The world has become an ocean
With no surface and no bottom
And I am thrown through it
Stumbling
Pressing my hands against the rough walls of buildings
Here, take some of this
I can’t keep it in here with me,
I was never meant to be
So vibrant inside.
Vines creep out from between bricks
Turning their tiny faces to the sunlight.
They will not remain
Small.
I can hear the groaning of steel and mortar as I am pulled away.
Everywhere my gaze falls things are changing
The city blooms
With fearful life-
The chaos my skin cannot contain
For I am made of glass
And I hold this feeling like the storm it is,
Something that could break me
And leave me scattered and glittering on the sidewalk.

The light is getting in from everywhere
And I am not prepared for its touch.
I tremble.

Maybe there is no god
But there is this
And I understand the need for it to be known,
The need to worship something
This terrible
And this sacred.
Flashes of emotion pierce me like fangs
JoyFearRageHopeGrief
Little snakes writhing.
I try to soothe them,
And they twist about my head
Whispering your name
With voices like sand.
It falls to the ground and takes root at my feet-
Violets.
If I were to look into a mirror
Would I turn to stone
Or would I grow roots
Too
And finally be
Still?

I burn inside, struggling to keep my footing,
All this power
And none of it’s mine.
I am its vessel and its restraint
And it
Presses
Out.

Nobody sees this in me.
Outwardly I am quiet.
I let the world push me to the next place, the next hour, the next task.
I ignore this new passion that turns in me like smoke
This need to create and destroy
This agony of feeling.
But every so often
I will meet the eyes of a stranger by accident
And see shock there
And I will know they glimpsed the truth of me.
I am afraid I will see that fear in your eyes someday
The fear of burning cities
A fear I couldn’t blame you for
Because it courses through me like molten silver
Whenever I sit in a silent room with only my thoughts.

There!-
On the corner of a subway platform
Clinging to the stone
Vividly blue:
Violets.

In French there is a term
L'Appel Du Vide
The Call Of The Void
It means that it is in the nature of human beings
When they look down from a high place
To desire the fall
And that the desire is what makes them afraid,
And not the height.

I have been staring down
From high up
Like a coiled spring,
Like a struck match burning to the quick.
I have been waiting to fall into this feeling and lose myself
Toes curled along the edge
Fingertips tingling
Breathing deep
Suspended.
My soul resists, struggling like a trapped moth-
It remembers
Even if I don’t
The pale, flat shards of myself
The years it takes to mend
The jagged edges that never really fit anywhere
Ever again.
It fears you
And it fears
Me.
But I stand staring amid the chaos,
Because here finally is a direction,
A path to follow
A choice that I can own-
The only one that ever really mattered.
The pull is strong.
I spread my arms
As I always knew I would
And lean forward
Hoping that I have one more miracle left in me.

The city blooms
And, pushing up between every grate and out from behind every crumbling stoop
Are violets.
Yip Wayne Aug 2018
The serene silence resonates across the room
Depictions of creative minds coloured the walls
Her footsteps crawled across the revered tomb
As her mind drifts into the artists' realm

Little did she know that I glimpsed from behind
While she was deep in thought, I appraised her mind
And I questioned myself, "Is this fine?",
My emotions and amour slowly pushes pass this fine line
In moonlight hour beneath the shining stars
I was in bed browsing for something nice
My eyes caught her like seeing girl with scars
And what story she holds in paradise!

In the cold morning of the early hours
You could hear the sound of her lustful moan
Remains of infidelity in mars
Charlotte is lodged in her own house of stone

Glimpsed of figures of her image in green
Horrible features she haunts them for fright
The terror in her might not be a brim
But what horror she brought to them in sight!

This story's happening in part of France
Her history's a legend with romance!

— The End —