"longish" poems
crisp atmosphere, special ordered
for perfect pumpkin patching, apple picking,
stout sweaters all, a blueish autumnal sky,
orange 'n red leaves delivered on time
the old uber-man-grand-pa,
hired as a day driver,
saddles them up,
three generations all tucked in a
repeating mise en scène
a replay of some thirty years earlier,
when the now-father
was about the same age,
as his boy, three years aged
and yet so impatient
asking the same question
his father perfected,
in the same sweet voice,
at about the same time,
in the same way,
a little voice from deep in
the cavernous back seat,
sighing, squeaking with an
I've-seen-it-all ennui,
some mere five minutes into
the hour's plus journey
to the 'country' bound
"are we there yet?"
titters 'n snickers from assorted adults,
but grandpa weeps words with composition instant,
so many answers to such an important question,
so serious that an admission, confession
required, due you,
grandpa still asks the same question
every day of his life
it's Sunday and longish poems per Yeoman,
strictly verboten,
God knows there's an essay unwritten
as the answer, a symphonette with
a thousand opus, by-your-command repertoire,
a pumpkin for every patch,
some answers that even may be a
young prince's carriage in hiding
but for now let this suffice,
sometimes yes, sometimes no,
and sometimes, the goal line just goes and moves on ya
so with utmost seriousness
a purposed thoughtfulness proposed,
posing said inquiry knows no age limitation,
if you have not asked of yourself this day,
"are we there yet?”
then the answer is surely,
not yet
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
she was young
and had struggled all her life
like a cursed devil doll
with the darkest impulses
pain was ***
*** was pleasure
and death she thought
oh wow thats an ******
while her little girl friends
all
may berry kittens and sunshine
screamed in terror
at the horror films
like minced mice in cleavers
she thrilled to the part
where little innocent
katty bratty blondy
got it hard and ******
with an ice pick in the belly
and then stumbled
around
waring her surprise face
blink-less
trailing blood
finally getting to the ice box
pulling out her last
ice cream on a stick
and while eating it
fell head first into the cooler
dead
she thrilled witnessing
the girl poked through
like butter
by a guy with eyes
like spider bites
in a jet black
motor cycle jacket
and electric bolt tattoos on his face
all blond
duck assed
jelled like filigree in
wild root cream hair tonic
she imagined his ****
pink longish arterial
a real throat gager
she, helpless, sacrificial
and oh so willing
being murdered by a boy
who loved her that way
his **** a
a piercing blade
the very death of her
her little hot pink ***** *******
a gooey cauldron
of drooling tears splatter
she thought
how can any body want this
Oh but i do
*** yes please
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
On the sidewalk standing in the rain
the old man is a wounded dove.
Longish white hair: wet feathers
grounded in a storm. The rain is heavy
and repeats itself, like buckets of water
thrown out of windows.
The old man stands there
holding a memory or a wish.
Under the streetlight
his wet hair glistens like tinfoil.
The downpour is a creature
that’s eating him up.
Darkness projects
from a deserted apartment building.
The ground floor windows and doors
are boarded, nailed shut.
It appears dead, like an old disease,
or stripped, like a despoiled tomb.
Its bricks cracked and crumbled,
wooden casings dry rotted and helpless.
Painted in bold red
across the boarded front entrance,
a graffiti-message: Girls Rule.
Looking back at the old man,
he stands the way a king stands alone
when doubting himself.
Dark crawls around him. The old man stares
at the building. He is motionless,
in memory. Rain gallops over him.
Inside the warmth of a café,
my steaming coffee. Outside, the streets
are laundered clean of everyone
except for the old man who stares
at the apartment building. Time has grown
over his face and body, has grown
over the broken down building.
Now the rain is as heavy as mucus
and with his tiny body
the old man shuffles away into the dark
and gradually disappears
like a casket being covered with earth.
_______________________________________
from my sixth book-length manuscript
©dah / dahlusion 2014 / 2015
all rights reserved
"In Streetlight, His Wet Hair" was first published in
'Switch (the difference) Anthology'
from 'Kind Of A Hurricane Press'
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
If you ever die
If you ever die from me
Looking at my longing eyes
In guise of a mystic veil
Dead drop at the twilight hours
White longish fangs
Of the piercing moments
Will unfurl its wings of fire
Setting sail in an invisible gondola
At long last to carry you home
To the isle of your birth
Even if you ever die at all from me
I will stand upon the deck of noontide
All alone in my aloneness, all alone
Staring vaguely at the rushing gondola
Surfing invisibly away from me
Tearing apart the veil of grazing mist
At the twilight hours casting spell on me
To diminish myself into you
And with you I too diminish away
From you, all away from you
In a shroud of love and longing
As if you never died away from me
In my longing eyes for you, only for you
And like The Prophet beloved
Prophesying on the blue mountain
From his never ending well
Of wisdom depthless and deathless
I will remember you as silently
As the sound of scorching darkness
And I will remember your heart
As saying for ever to me, only to me:
“A little while,
A moment of rest upon the wind,
And another woman will bear me." *
* (The italic quotation is from Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet)
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
My pants had a hole in the pocket where I carry my keys
and
after a week of picking them up after they had slid down my leg to my right shoe
and another week of carrying them in my left pocket with my phone and glasses transferred to my right
they are too big to fit through the hole
I decided to sew the hole closed
To do this I bought a "sewing kit" at the supermarket
It contained thread, needles, a tape measure printed on tracing paper
that little wire loopy thing that helps you thread the needle
and a pair of ridiculous scissors.
The label "scissors" carries with it certain expectations
Cutting of course
and finger holes that actually fit your fingers
It's like when you order a hot dog
you expect a tube of meat in a longish bun
not a wilted salad between two stale rice cakes
The issue was that these "scissors"
met neither of those expectations
that one has when picking up scissors
They seemed to be stamped out of a new alloy
of aluminum foil
and mylar balloon
The "blades" didn't actually meet
and the holes for fingers
would present an obstacle for any escaping green pea
I did use them and finally
after some sawing
cut the thread
I was going to complain
but thought of who had probably made them
this pair of ridiculous scissors
and pictured
the child or man or woman
in a sweaty factory somewhere
probably hungry
They might work long hours
for meager wages
and
I sit in a comfortable life
and complain about ridiculous scissors
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
A desk covered in art
witty and weird.
A play for which I've a part
minor and mundane.
A car that I cannot drive
broken and bruised.
A flood that I can't survive
sinking and soothing.
A hairstyle I can't percieve
longish and loopy.
A dress sense copied by many
perfect and quiet.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
Tonight, I am afraid.
I am afraid because I had a piece of toast 13 hours ago, and there's nothing left in the fridge except some horrible strawberry liqueur, which I am drinking despite the fact that it feels like acid in my empty stomach. Me, I'm 5 feet 11 inches, 112 pounds, blue-eyed with longish blonde hair. I'm hungry, but it appears that New York doesn't feed outsiders. So I'm listening to Leonard Cohen on Leonard Street because that's the only thing I can think of that makes sense right now. Smoking in bed, my small luxury. I had a neighbor who leaves me toast and coffee in the morning, except I haven't seen him in a while and I'm too proud to knock on the door and ask for food. It's strange, leaving a perfectly ordinary life for this desperation, this skinny **** that I thought was important but now just makes it hard to climb the stairs. I'll make it, though, right? It's almost September and that's when I'm supposed to make money. Money. I just wanted to go to Italy again, feel the life I should never have left again. So okay I’ll be their clothes hanger, their one-man show, walk a pretty walk for them, and then go somewhere else. Except right now I'm considering the hospital, that sweet IV that will keep me nourished. I can't afford a taxi though, and I don't know what is I’d tell them- “Hi I'm 20 years old, broke, starving, alone, and afraid to sleep because I don't know if I'll see another day”- I think they would send me to the psych ward instead. I don't know, I am supposed to be a hybrid of girlish innocence and feminine mystique, but all I really want is someone to put me to bed and watch me sleep so I know I'll be safe. It's 3:26 am. I have no one to call. It's just Leonard Cohen and I on Leonard Street, singing through dry lips and fading into the white of the sheets. If I called for help, I doubt they'd find me in the bed. I'm here, though, I'm here.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
never is a longish time
evermore miles longer,wider
vulnerable to repartition
everlasting in it's perpetuity
re-quiescent supine eternally
rewound
rewound
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
Long ago
How I loved you so
You tore me apart
When you let me go
I was broken
My heart
Oh, it was so broken
Eventually it healed
Although it took
A month
My scar twined together
Now I feel myself
Falling out of this galaxy
Out of common sense and into you
I can't help being endeared to you
Knowing your dreams of flight
Seeing you red nerd glasses
Adorable
Longish black hair
Amazing
Smart
Awesome
Creator of all that is holy, help me.
I need to stop
Because you are no good
You have moved on
I must as well
Lord, grant me the power to resist the strongest of emotions
Because I cannot
I will not
Give in.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
To be immortal, eternal
To last throughout the ages
To stand above all others
Written of by the Sages
To battle through adversity
Overcome all of the odds
Lay low all of your enemies
Ascend to the realm of Gods
Hear the melody of your tale
Pour from the mouths of Bards
Your cunning and your trickery
Your proclivity for dice and cards
Your saving of maiden
Your taking of the same
Your duplicitous nature
The building of your name
So many disguises, outfits, faces
A new person for every event
so many skills to learn and master
All or your time is used now, spent
You have stretched far, a longish span
A passing storm heard in the distance
A raging power, destroyer of worlds
A torrent of change at your insistence
You step into the glow of life’s evening
Looking back on this long trip
A small smile brightens, tired eyes
As into past dreams you slowly slip
Eternal? Immortal?
throughout the ages?
Who cares of these things?
What matter the Sages?
Fully lived lives are the answer
Moments grasped firm, held tightly
As the end must come for us all
Go to your end Proudly, not lightly
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC
The Funniest Word: Sesquipedalian: Long-Winded
I just learned the strangest word:
An adjective ne’er seen or heard.
Sesquipedalian.
Sesqui-pedal-ian:
Are we the aliens depicted?
Is it us the word has painted?
Latin for a foot plus half**
Which makes me laugh.
“Polysyllabic or long-winded”.**
If there ever was a winding
Longish ended word, it is sesquipedalian.
You have to laugh
At something that’s a ‘foot plus half’
That uses fourteen signs to say it.
‘Sesquipedalian names, or prose’
God only knows how long is wrong,
And even, what is wrong with ‘long’!
Eighteen inches, fourteen letters.
Something in the letters fetters.
Words are born from situations:
Every nuance. each emotion.
How they come about’s the question.
Are we so observant, we,
Disposed to live linguistically?
I’ve no idea,
But it sure is
****** funny.
**18 inches or 45.72 centimeters.
The Funniest Word: Sesquipedalian 9.27.2020 A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin
sesquipedalian | ˌsɛskwɪpɪˈdeɪlɪən |
adjective formal
(of a word) polysyllabic; long: sesquipedalian surnames.
• characterized by long words; long-winded: the sesquipedalian prose of scientific journals.
ORIGIN
mid 17th century: from Latin sesquipedalis ‘a foot and a half long’, from sesqui- (see sesqui-) + pes, ped- ‘foot’.
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 6:56 AM UTC
Softly, they tickle
As they crawl, like fingers
Down caramel cheeks
Flawless, beautifully scalped
Dipped, sliding from both
Along her pores, tiny hairs
From her brown lashed eyes
Shadowed in sorrows
It's her cross, she cries
For pains unmade, left alone
But those tears stains skin
Bringing color to touch
Red, again so deep
Like her lips, pursed
Her tongue darts, tastes
It's the way; her way
She looks and sees
Upraised eyes, first time
All these years, through time
Friends lost, begging and gone
Mascara blood stained tears
Humming soundless tunes
A sorrowful lost small smile
Hunts her lips, painted matching
Her eyes bright
In palest moonlight
Seem to sparkle, nice
Memorizing glances; fight
Longish fingers dipped in red
Look, sensually gesturing
Spellbound graceful trap
Predatory heart
Still blood tears fall
Not for you, not for you
As she reaches, slow
Tears become rivers
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
And walking down the line,
And walking down the line,
Blood hot to fuel the limbs a-crying,
Struck not for rhythm, only rhyme,
Best for sighing
And dying in retreat.
And in my chest of pine,
A map rolled up so thin,
Drawn wit with all the twists of time,
Stray shores lit up by ocean-shine,
Uniquely won,
But smudged with soot.
Clouds from the soil – a sign!
This little mist of mine,
Will yearn to chuck its static tine
Among the tatters and the lint
That settled in my chest of pine,
a boneyard relic dank and bare
which homely cries
A ravaged syncopation twice.
And veering from the line,
And steering from my way,
A day or two to stay away
From bays of beasts and feasts of lice
and many a morsel,
lost to vermin that squirm
and grow and bite my
leg bleeds green;
Known to knaves that
waved grave flails and scattered ****
that ****** its own to Hell,
where overdue a longish spell sent
Falling from place to grace
that face that drew a thousand beads of
albatross tears, of murky reeds
and cheating, stinking, reeking,
absolute, terrible,
miserable,
mistakes
Fall in line!
And burps another Rhine,
Boiled quaint in bogs of brine,
That pickles crisp the limp old rind
Of cogs and bands my chests of pine,
Buckskin drying all the time,
******* coke, doing lines,
tonguing chic,
pearly swine,
concede a side
I’ll never find.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
Look at me now
My once curly hair stick-straight,
My once fresh eyes Kohl-laced
Wonder at my dexterity
My pinkish tender fingers have gotten disfigured
To longish, darker, and wiser ones; you’d hear my
High, shrill laughter, that doesn’t conform
To the graceful springy adornments that it had before
gaze at my iconoclastic room
That smells of adolescent hormones
Swelling with teenage rebellion and
Punk shades of red and black,
A radical departure from my late pink paints
And Barbie shades;
Feel my feelings now
That impalpable blood red ocean
Thoughts no longer wander around Santa or snow white or
Maidens fair, instead
Just hang around vainly, hovering in midair.
But don’t you gape; it’s still that naïve little
Girl you knew, with wide eyes and a mouth adorned with
Chocolate stains who blabbered incessantly
About all things only half-understood; only that now,
All the chocolate has been licked clean
And behind it every truth that hid harshly revealed.
If you can deal with the radical, then believe , it’s still
Me.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 7:57 PM UTC
“***I read to find inspiration.
I write to restore candor to the mind.***”
N. Scott Momaday
<<<<<>>>>>>>>>
Find Inspiration:
a phrase that diodes light, a one-way current within,
making me a selectman, “of thee I sing, of thee I write,
of thee am I composed and fodder for thy dissection &
”my decomposition.”
a phrase that reads me more than I read it,
jumps onto my ontological eyeballs, a great leap
forward, and I suppose humdrum you could call it,
inserted inspiration
Restoring Candor:
thus begins expiation+ excoriation+ exhumation;
a longish road to candor restoration, where plausible
deniability is denied, Jedi verbal mind tricks are
just in movies, and candor is really “can-do(r)!”
but
no one dare say that
for fear of being laughed at,
a cancelled jingo-lingo-patriot.
Oct 24, 2021
Oct 24, 2021 at 10:47 AM UTC
Johnny stood
at the cafe bar counter
the female barista
had taken his order
two lattes
a cappuccino
and a mocha
beside him
a short dame
spectacles
dark haired
longish
ordered her order
to another barista
Johnny watched
the baristas
signora
signorina
the female
Italian barista said
the short dame
was inattentive
o sorry
she said
I was elsewhere
Johnny smiled
taking a glimpse
of the dame
she caught his eye
and she smiled shyly
the dame fingered
her cellphone
Johnny took time
to appreciate
the female
the figure
the eyes
behind the glasses
as if for one moment
he had an art work
before him
then the barista
serving him
said the amount
he paid
and took his order
to his table behind
where others sat
taking in his mind
the art form
gone to her place
captured in his mind
the dame's neat face.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 6:54 AM UTC
Ghostly goings on in my underpants
Where me found ****** sycophants
Brown little creepers with longish tongue
Ghosties have got me by the ghoulies
Somehow it doesn't seem wrong.
Natures little crawlers rising to the top
If they don't release my ghoulies
There all be for the chop
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 6:58 PM UTC
this morning I'm wearing
a rather longish frown
as one of my favorite sites
has unexpectedly shut down
they gave no advance warning
of being off air
last night when I went there
everything was looking fair
panic and horror have struck
at the pit of my gut
twill my beloved site remain
forever shut
others who visit this domain
are also under much strain
they are feeling
a most terrible pain
the site management
haven't yet answered my emails
would seem that all communication
is as slow as a troop of snails
not one word have I heard
from the other end
the whole situation
has driven me around the bend
not being able to gain
access to my longstanding account
hath been so upsetting
and so hard to surmount
a most trying start to the day
one has had to endure
the site being down
without any sign of a cure
later this Wednesday evening
one shall hop online
to see if the site is traveling
in a manner fine
one must be hopeful
of the domain running along well
then one shall have admittance
into its oyster shell
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
you walk into my mind
like irresistibly you walked
into my life
also at unexpected moments
I catch a glimpse of beauty
and feel you touch my cheek
looking at the screen
I see your face
return to me
a loving smile
you sit beside me
in your longish yellow dress
when I am in my car
and when I fall asleep
or wake up drowsily
your presence
hardens my desire
and makes me catch my breath
the thought of you!
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
We walked past
the water tower
hand in hand
then Jane stopped and said
my parents are concerned
that you may expect things
expect things?
what things?
I said
she gazed at me
beyond kissing
she said
I looked at her
at her dark longish hair
her dark eyes
peering into mine
your mum said something
about limitations and rules
but I hadn't the foggiest
what she was talking about
I said
Jane tightened her hold
of my hands
I am not like that girl Lizbeth
I don't believe in ***
before marriage
Jane said shyly
staring at me
I thought we were
not going to talk about her
I said
just an example
about where I am not going
Jane said
o
I said understanding at last
the whole penny dropping
with a loud clang
did your mum think
we might do that?
I added
Jane nodded her head
well she was frightened
we might go beyond kissing
in a passion one day
and well you know
what adults are like
Jane said blushing
I thought she
trusted me or us?
Jane let go of my hands
human nature
my dad said
is not automatically bound
by human rules
it takes intelligence
and a willingness
to not go beyond
those rules and limits
I nodded my head
but we can kiss still
she said
and hold and be close
but not go where
Lizabeth would go
if you let her
Jane said going red
and looking away
across at the Downs
let's not talk of her anymore
I said
I haven't and won't do that
a tractor moved over
a far field
cows mooed in a nearby field
she took my hand
and we walked on
along the lane
I told Mum that
Jane said
not about Elizabeth
but about us and that
we would not
the sun was out
blue skies
and I was hot.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC
They rarely bother to mow here anymore,
Once a month, perhaps every other
(Times are tight, full burials being pretty much
A thing of the past these days)
Though it’s unlikely anyone would notice
If the grass grew a bit longish,
Or the crownvetch and crabgrass became a little more prevalent,
No one being buried in this part of the cemetery
For the better part of a hundred years now,
The stones bleached and faded from decades of sleet and sunlight
And acid rain from the auto plants of Flint and Lorain and South Bend,
(Now boneyards for gears and drill bits themselves)
Those names still legible on the teetering, unsteady stones
Mostly the stolid Scotch-Irish surnames
Vaguely familiar from the town’s founding generation
Found on its street signs or pocket-parks,
Their descendants mostly having fled to friendlier climes,
Though the odd lesser strain of the families remain
(Not that they would choose to pay tribute to those ancestors
To whom they have fared so poorly in comparison)
Though many more bear the family names of their trades,
Clusters of Coopers, Weavers, and Smiths,
Their stones bearing the sentiments of grim Victorian fatalism,
Thus in mercy early call’d away or The happy soul is that which fled.
Such thoughts are quaint, eccentric things to us now,
As would be the clothes they wore, the songs they sung,
But we would know them nonetheless,
Know the muted joy of their minor successes,
The depth and finality of their defeats,
The sting of bowing and scraping
To the owners of the mill, the haughty town fathers,
As they served them at the milliners or the drug store,
Their odd, fleeting dreams of grandeur having come to rest here,
Cherry-lidded as they proceed to dust.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 9:35 AM UTC
He said his name was Joe Young.
I teased and called him mighty
When I'd pulled ahead and stopped
To intercept him at a pullout.
His bicycle, encumbered, stem to stern,
By neatly rolled up and tied on bundles,
Seemed too heavy to be pushed,
As he was doing, much less ridden.
He wasn't a young man by any means,
But when I shook his hand, his grip exuded strength;
His eyes full of the merriment that comes only
From a heart that loves life and enjoys living it.
Joe's untrimmed beard covered his face and chest,
Blended at the sides with longish uncut hair.
Whether blond, red, or gray remained a mystery.
His lips, as he spoke, hid behind a wide red mustache.
We sat together on the tailgate of my pickup truck.
Our stories of adventure traveling back and forth.
My own seemed mild compared to his, but when I told my dream,
He laughed aloud in genuine appreciation. He understood.
He went his way, trudging byways, seeing the country, edge to edge.
I drove on, richer for having seen his eyes and heard his voice.
And when I, too, hit the road in months to come,
I pray I’ll cross paths again with mighty Joe Young,
Somewhere in America, living life his way.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
One day there came into the club
a stranger causing a great hubbub
with his soldierly, swaggering, uniformed figure,
and short black hair and moustache a-quiver,
and with him aides and associates ten,
all muscular, military, mustachioed men,
and looking around with disdain he decried
not a table there was which was not occupied,
and noticing a nearby noisy group
of diners spooning up their soup
at a longish table seating twenty
and laden with food and drink a-plenty,
he called the captain with this demand,
“Give me that table, it’s my command.”
from The Adventures of George
©Blair Gowrie (Roderick Macdonald)
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 4:05 AM UTC
Carrera scrawling his notes for the
‘War for Australis Incognita’ sat beneath
a lush fruit bearing tree; Bob’s plan for the boy
seeming to going be into effect despite Bob’s
abandoning his original plan for him.
Charlotte putting the boy in shorter skirts
and matching the light lavender fabric
with purple stockings and red garters.
The boy’s bustier barely held his
flat-chested frame and she had pulled the
laces straight and true tight around his
torso squeezing the breath out of him
to give him cleavage where none was
to be had. Pinning his longish hair
into pigtails, scrubbing his face clean
with an astringent cold cream and applying
powder to his smooth face over which
she painted rouge, eye-shadow and lipstick.
Seeing Carrera writing busily below
the glistening red arctic apples, Nancy
approached the distracted writer.
Carrera was lighting his ***** pipe
when the boy whom for all the world
resembled an attractively winsome female
came over and sat with him.
“Excuse me, sir, may I ask the greatest favor of you?”
Not recognizing the boy despite having
never seen a teenage girl on ship
Carrera hastily pocketed the smelly pipe
and turned his attention to the big blue
eyes before him. The lips were thin squiggly
lines that spoke is a whiny rasp
that was not entirely unappealing.
“Yes, my childe, what can I do for you?”
“I would certainly love to eat of the tree
growing above you but alas, I cannot reach
the sweetest fruit. Would you be so kind
as to hoist me up so that I may gather
a few you would perhaps share with me?”
“Why, of course, girly. Here, stand on my
shoulders,” said the poet kneeling to allow
the slim fellow to plant a hobnailed boot
onto his broad shoulder. Carrera couldn’t
resist raising his head once the boy
was up on both shoulder reaching for the
ripe apples of a new sort, the boy using
his petticoats like a basket to catch the
fruit he could swat from the low branches.
Carrera was staring straight up his petticoats
to the visible stocking tops and garters.
Carrera’s mind swimming with fantasies
of derring-do and adventures that he assiduously
avoided any first-hand knowledge of,
his gaze locked on the baggy breeched bottom
below the boy’s skirts, Carrera thought he’d
been struck by something like love at first sight.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
(Longish Read)
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Coming home to a face I don't recognize
She always has a way of coming back to me
Her home is my butterfly garden
The one place nobody else has ever seen
She's poisoned my butterflies
But I've wilted my own Rose
I'm stuck in my own creations of hell;
Captivating thoughts of what could've been
Captivating dreams where she visits me
Some would say "Why're you stressing? Everything you're experiencing is a part of a blessing." But that's wrong, because this "blessing" is what keeps me constantly stressing
She left her mark and I solidified it
She gave me scars that I deepened
She told me things that have consumed me
And now...
From these scars, her mark, and her words
I'm trying to piece together an some sort of an escape from my own personal creation...
My own personal hellscape
Nov 16, 2019
Nov 16, 2019 at 5:07 PM UTC