"mallets" poems
buzzzzzzz
The bus engine idles
Intensifying the hammering of little gnomes
On my skull
Their tin mallets **** dinking* incessantly
Throbbing
Painful numb as waves crash to escape
The confines of my head
A small clownfish throwing his tiny body
Against the walls again
And again
And again
ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump
The bus hits three large bumps in a row
Jostling and jolting me into excruciating confusion
So tired and so alert
Drifting off to consciousness
I have got to escape this headache...
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
I staggered through the desert, dressed
in brown rags,
ripped. I was surrounded by flies.
They picked at my sweaty forehead,
spoiled my food.
I had in an old wicker basket two crisp apples,
which are brown
now, thanks to those flies.
My feet are dry, cracked and ******
not from flies—
from hot scorpions.
They hide under sand
and pick at my feet.
One day I left my house n’went for a walk; kicked open my front door
walked over the old stone bridge over water bright and blue, for
miles and miles,
on footpaths by little rivers, through mossy forests,
knee-deep in marshes,
hiking over rocky, cold mountains,
stammering across the plains.
I saw the desert:
punched me in the gut.
Beautiful,
I thought—
immortal.
A great tornado of sand
came whisking from the dunes. I checked
my watch: The glass was shattered. The hands were bent crooked.
I unstrapped
my watch and threw it
on the edge of the desert and
I sprinted toward the endless tan horizon, kicked off my rotten shoes
to feel the hot sand between my toes and ran. I fell and fell asleep.
I was bored in my old, old house.
The floor was always swept to shine,
my bookcase:
big, glossy, oak monstrosity.
And no, I did not have a wife,
or children.
I lived in a sunny village,
paved with stone.
By the fountain, birds sang, merchants sold felt and mallets.
I’m too tired for explanations.
And besides,
there is no trick, I left to leave,
to run and jump and roll and howl.
I knew it would end,
like this or something similar.
I decided to
just lie down,
and the vultures came like a great black cloud to circle,
and the heat,
the headache,
my body buzzed cooled a dizzy, breaking feeling came and body was freed
like ice smashing to shards . . . on desert floor, old rags drenched
in sweat-body.
I open my eyes wide.
I keep them open.
Tears come to my eyes.
I let the sun blind me.
I turn over on my side and close my eyes, see red.
My eyelids are hot.
The vultures caw
and shriek like
squealing pigs.
I’m dizzy and my head feels thick.
The vultures will eat me,
rip my skin with beaks,
and the flies will buzz around me
until I’m bones, but
I came here just to come here,
and I lied here just to lie, and
I lived just to live,
so then I’ll die now just to die.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
This dot kami’s ‘Nam when I see you’re all neutral
To futile lords still passin’ Acts of Removal
Pretentious performers as if upon stages
Of casting call characters caught up in cages
Like ****** who off-shore **** the poor on vacations
I’m diggin’ up dirt on the founders’ plantations
When bail-outs are ballots and bullets are mallets
Why not be a rabbit hole in Hefner’s palace?
And dare call it talent, a gift or a passion
Just model behavior for slaves to a fashion
Show running the breadlines when crimes are a dime
In the dozens of ***** Weinsteins on your minds
Instead of the felons when court is in Sessions
Instead of the under-oath treason confessions
In rapid succession they feed you the buzz
Until nobody cares what the debt ceiling was
When the roof has been raised for the privatize party
The right wants us dead and the left shows up tardy
I’m sorry “you people” are making me sick
Guess I’ll just pop a pill from the cabinet pick
Like has-been Michael Flynn’s and these Ex-Tillersons
Resource hogs cloggin’ bogs up with smogs of odd jobs
They’re the slEASIEST Slytherins still seemin’ Jesus
Pro-life until *** aid is the fetus
Egregious excesses of who the **** needs this
Huge 2nd place trophy wife ivory tower
Big guns for a stickless diplomacy coward
Here’s my golden shower tricklin’ down your faces
You blatantly ****** repeal and replacists
You war-profiteering, grand **** of old Racists and fakers, uranium cacres
Still stuffing the stockings of doomsday clock-makers
With melting North Pole lumps of coal-hearted cash
‘Till every last Christmas trees nothing but ash
As the fascist machine builds its pyramid scheme
On the dreams of the themes of your Disney World screen
But the credits will roll as the talking heads stroll in
The shoe bombs of Terrorist’s livelihoods stolen
But I leave ‘em spinnin’ like Christopher Nolan
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 2:27 PM UTC
The thought of you makes me want to refashion old Bible verses,
“Consider it a pure joy to be a part of this trial,” I whisper,
“And you know that the testing of faith becomes perseverance.”
The sound of your voice carries more overlapping melodies than
Hard brass mallets hammering at the tips of my fingers,
More depth than does escape the open casing of my grand piano.
The warmth that flows from your heart is a testament to my lack
Of circulation, despite my ability to swim through the ocean naked,
Far passed the pier and into the horizon, every ceaseless morning.
The sight of you tears me open, tears me open, until I am all
But unable to put my nerve endings back in order, despite the fact
That they are reinforced every minute of my solitary waking hours.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
I
An old man sits
In the shadow of a pine tree
In China.
He sees larkspur,
Blue and white,
At the edge of the shadow,
Move in the wind.
His beard moves in the wind.
The pine tree moves in the wind.
Thus water flows
Over weeds.
II
The night is of the colour
Of a woman's arm:
Night, the female,
Obscure,
Fragrant and supple,
Conceals herself.
A pool shines,
Like a bracelet
Shaken in a dance.
III
I measure myself
Against a tall tree.
I find that I am much taller,
For I reach right up to the sun,
With my eye;
And I reach to the shore of the sea
With my ear.
Nevertheless, I dislike
The way ants crawl
In and out of my shadow.
IV
When my dream was near the moon,
The white folds of its gown
Filled with yellow light.
The soles of its feet
Grew red.
Its hair filled
With certain blue crystallizations
From stars,
Not far off.
V
Not all the knives of the lamp-posts,
Nor the chisels of the long streets,
Nor the mallets of the domes
And high towers,
Can carve
What one star can carve,
Shining through the grape-leaves.
VI
Rationalists, wearing square hats,
Think, in square rooms,
Looking at the floor,
Looking at the ceiling.
They confine themselves
To right-angled triangles.
If they tried rhomboids,
Cones, waving lines, ellipses --
As, for example, the ellipse of the half-moon --
Rationalists would wear sombreros.
1.8k
I.
i kept my eyes off.
turning to face away,
as if god might have tapped me on the shoulder,
and told me to let my love smolder.
my eyes followed the distractions,
as they beat on marimbas,
and as i kept his gaze,
it started to feel like
they were beating
my ribcage
II.
heartbeat altered,
i began to falter.
moving my sight from the dancing mallets,
to my lukewarm palms,
that seemed to tear in passion.
in a sudden fashion,
i raised his head
and looked straight at it
with its wary eyes closed,
and i thought,
that i might have heard,
with a rush of raising concerns,
a heart shatter in shallow nearness,
like a shaky hand might have dropped a crystal.
III.
after the shatter,
my heart began to patter,
at a faster tempo in spite of the latter.
it is because of this,
that i promised to never looked again.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
The moon sizzles like an aluminum
cutlass,
playing jazz scales with its
arthritis knuckles.
Finger tip mallets strike
the ebony piano keys
With a lazy,
Chocolate, precision.
Tickles your spine
like sardines
&
cereal.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
d r u m m e r
he's alive and i don't know what to do he's trying to beat life out of me using percussion to give me a concussion tuning me like a timpani and striking me like a snare dying in a rhythm improvised in a split second the mallets drew blood from somewhere i cant understand and i cant see anymore where am i am i dead yet
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC
"That felt like forever,"
and I meant it
as the sound broke through the noise
of the Saturday morning experience
I was having
and enjoying
I caught your eyes
and you hid from my blurry face
behind the thin flesh
as the phosphenes flickered blue and red and yellow
like my father's old television
that clicked loudly when I'd turn the dial
I buried my burning face
In the soft fabric
that's been through the wash one too many times
and I smelled fresh ink
in the sensation of mallets
colliding with my temples
You wrapped all of you
around all of me
and I felt the crude, harsh lines of your figure
against the curves of my hatred
I held my breath
and released my soul
The building collapsed around us
and in the debris I found photographs
of a face I only vaguely remember
and that old broken heirloom
that I still keep around
even though I know it's not worth anything
But for that one second
when my body and spirit connected
and my consciousness slipped away as I fell into a new dissociation
I woke up and understood
that we were existing only for this
and it felt like forever
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 10:48 PM UTC
trunks filled with junk and the crunk juice flows
flunked out pill popping junkies with no cash go
drunkenly to the shrunken head show
knowing they stunk.
The monks dunked funky mumps victims
on bunk beds and licked them
instead of fixing lunk-headed situations
with linkin-log technologic advances
drinking dogs retrofitted with dance moves
groove on the wooden floor while ****** bore
the Moors with tales of divorce and random ***********
on all fours in doorways
during bad plays on the interstate…
demonstrators, unregulated, on roller skates
wait at the gates of the ingrates filled with hate
and throw pie plates with fated accuracy
and the belated bureaucratic picnic
nitwits in knickers knuckle bump
and plump debutants snicker
the wicker croquet mallets
perform ballet in the chalet
and I have to valet the cars –
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
My right thumb dove from my pitcher
into a man's water glass, soaking his napkin
and place mat. He pulled away from his mug
of Labatt Blue, lips curling the caramel color
back past his picket fence teeth. Like his wife's
diamond ring, she was turned away.
Her face was illuminated by her phone.
Sharon's back with Tom?
Shoot me.
He slid his chair back, legs scraping
the floorboards like a car accident. He stood
a decent four inches taller than me.
Chevrolet was printed across his faded
t-shirt, and his boots hit the floor like mallets
when he stepped. The pitcher in my grip shook
like the Titanic capsizing. This man was the iceberg;
I was the captain panicking behind the wheel.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Im coming of age
In the era of the devoid
Hollow greed seeps unearned
from elephanitus of love
all the dead *** heads
and the glorifed child **** stars
live in tandem with virginity commerce
a descriptive high full of lies
here we are raised to never forget
the look on a beautiful girls face
when the zippers break and all the mallets fall
when mud and blood and ***** mix to a collegiate concoction
Leaving her to bear the scabbing burns
The openings the ambrosia flesh wounds
The giant stamp of pulsing indecency
The markings don’t go so well with her hollow moon smiles
They don’t blend with her regal clavicles
To bend them in with a wrench
Would do no damage to this already feral *****
Don’t try to hide
The billboards may be sagging
But they carry the message loud and effeminate
All the drum ticks and coated arteries will explode
They cant be stopped
Mucho gusto, muy bien
All that we ever where locked into some
Tooth paste stained and tattered bibliomeca
It is true I have become that broken shameful collection
Which we are taught to stain in the wood works of our memory
I turn to page 1168
And I know that the bruises will be permanent
Surrounding the globe and bridging in the gaps
The ones that they left between your calamity eyes
Will they still love me with one foot locked in a bear trap
And a hobo having the last of my eyelashes ?
Or maybe just the scary albinos at the san Francisco bar scene
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 8:56 AM UTC
I never understood the draw of taking life
from your body, believing only one of strife
would obtain the sudden urge to rip and tear the skin
and release from within, demons out,
out from sullied flesh and faded eyes.
To my surprise however it came not from anguish but from quiet.
Steady monotonous quiet that roars in the ears of the forgotten,
thundering its swaddled mallets against the drums of silence
that echo, and echo, and echo.
Pace does not fix and time is lost in the wake of ever steady steps
striking the same ground
in the same pattern
at the same time of every single day which repeats on into forever.
And the rhythm once soothing becomes feverish, ferocious and foaming,
clawing with smooth tendrils through every corner
until the brain hazes over in shades of grey.
And it would be in this cold quiet that one would obtain true pain,
cutting evermore sharply than the knife did flesh
as simultaneously the fragments of rebellious thought seek release through a ruby vibrance.
I never understood the draw of taking life
from your body, believing only one of strife
would obtain the sudden urge to rip and tear the skin
and release from within, demons out.
I was wrong.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
There’s a funny tale read to children today
about a nonsense world found in the fields
on one manic hot morning
past a bubbling stream softly singing
at the place where a curious girl took her tumble
down a long hallway full of puzzles
and doors. If you’re sane, you wouldn’t be here
but here you are now, and it’s all so queer
how food enlarges your body to epic proportions
and critters, not of your typical garden variety,
don’t bother with “excuse me’s”,
“please’s” and “thank you’s”, but most of all
a strange sight to behold, a purple cat
on how to navigate this whimsical thicket
disappears with a trace, you see, of his wide grin of glee
so let us now stroll through the wood, to the Mad Hatter’s
where a tea party goes on forever and ever
and he hasn’t the slightest idea of the answers
to his many riddles.
In the distance rose trees painted red are growing,
while the Queen of Hearts is growing red
with hot rage at her subjects
in the midst of the oddest croquet game
with hedgehogs and flamingos as the ***** and mallets.
Now you could choose to stay here, or try to depart,
I grant you this place’s not for the faint of heart
But once you leave you’ll think about it
the absurdity has made you smile.
You’ll stand again
in the fields of another manic hot morning
hoping to God that White Rabbit will again be coming
late, late, for his very important date,
otherwise the thought of it fills you with dread,
because outside the fairytale books which you once loved and read,
a Wonderland must exist!
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC
Fireworks break up the sky
like shattered mirrors
I'm always chasing mirrors
deep into the sea floor and far above,
they evade me
You would, too
But suddenly I'm the most approachable person in the world
a cigarette parts my lips
but doesn't part me from this cruelly inescapable world
foiled again, I give a bystander bumming a cigarette this token of acquaintance
I hope he manages to escape
Fireworks break up the sky
but they're supposed to unify
They deepen my loneliness always
enjoyed in groups,
people multiply
And I drown into the sea,
in the sand,
in the reflections of my mirrors
A glow bracelet shackles me to reality
My plan to escape shatters again
I have mirrors
But bystanders have mallets
Fireworks don't break up the sky
they fly
in puffs
and in the puff of a cigarette
I am gone again
voices of glee
remind me I am lonely
I'm crying but not for loneliness
for I am never truly lonely
I am surrounded by mirrors always
I cry because I cry,
I don't always know why
I chase these mirrors
but I never see reflections
or answers
Is it glory?
beauty?
appreciation?
I cry because it's momentous
a girl loves a moment in time,
anytime
Mirrors trail down my face
Fireworks break up time and space
I cease to exist
but I feel whole
as if my existence is exactly this
reflections, fireworks, and a wish
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC
I hear pinging
My elbow cracks
She rests on my shoulder
and I dance with the future
Mallets are our feet
and our steps still ringing
have left me swooning
for your every arrival
under my breath
I sing these melodies
certainly they can't go on forever
but how long before then?
Kiss me to forget the past
and remember the present
I dance with the future
because she's a curious girl
You trickle your presence
right through me
until I am here wishing you were too
still
it's not to far
and you worry too much
Kiss me to let go of the future
and remember the present
As we connect
I'll show us a thing or two about passion
Still shy while you shouldn't be
so I give it time
and the present starts to forget our names
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 12:58 AM UTC
Your average human body has hair, a head, arms, legs, a torso, hands and feet, eyes, ears, a brain and heart...
But if my body is made of music, are my arms mallets? Are my legs the legs of a piano?
Is my heart the drum that my feet will always follow? The metronome that my body will always follow?
Is my DNA coded in sheet music?
Are my hands the baton? Are my fingers the keys? Is my spine a xylophone, each vertebrae a singular key?
Fact: The average human body will eventually narrow down to only 207 bones. Are my 207 bones each a separate instrument? All part of the orchestral body,
--This STAGE!
If they say music never dies, do I die?
Does my soul live on generations after I am gone? Will people still remember me?
If my body is made of music...
Will you still listen?
Even if the song is over?
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 9:59 PM UTC
I step through the door
of the place which feels
more like home than my house
My ears fill
with sounds of drumsticks on drums
mallets on marimbas
My eyes fall upon flutes, clarinets
trumpets and tubas
I look up at my family
none of which are related to me
yet they
make
this
place
home.
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 11:19 PM UTC
I want to tell him that I
love everything from a distance
but can cross oceans in seconds
that the people before him sopped
through my fingers like wet sand,
were ever flat and disarranged, empty
men with waterless words and exigent
appetites for my body--(that this is where
i learned the only way to please a man was
to give him myself)
I'm still undoing the knots, unraveling the little girls
coiled in lies, and taking mallets to the plaster molds
I built up around myself, mannequins for different men
and if there is anything I am confused
about it is him, his I-could-nevers, his frightening
absolutes, the ways in which he vows he can never change
*you think you want me but at the back of your mind you want
something else*
I don't want you--not like that. Not as if
your worth was based on how quick you jump into the fray for my sake. How many times you make me smile or say your name--however
you are soaked in rosemary and oil, folded up out of my notebook
into a thousand paper cranes--no, not even like that.
How do I tell you that I see your soul? Your threadbare spirits peeking out and the willowy fibers unraveled in your wake, that you are more than your mothers many marriages, more than the women you did not
want to have-- and deserving of a lasting love that transcends your mistakes and leaves your mirrors remarkably clean, did you know you can be clean?
How do I tell you that the broken do not fix the broken, how I cannot share the blueprint for healing but the burden if he asks--are we in the same book? The same chapter? I once heard that two people must grow in a similar direction at the same pace--are we on the same boat? The same road? On the torrent seas, will you hold your own?
I realize I cannot come at you with such brazen artillery, that the paths I choose have no gates and are often unmarked, not even the grass gives way, nor the trees and twigs their secrets--and the journey is wholly faith, an expedition I have not fully taken but is presently on its way. When I tell you what falls first and where my priorities settle, I speak down the pike of the ways I hope to be and the woman that waits in whole.
So when he tells me I am confusing for the hundredth time and I sink somewhere off the Atlantic with the weight of my own thoughts, I am quiet. His words are ever resounding but do not fill me up--just the glimmering hope that we will somehow
meet
in the
Middle
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
Her silver watch glints at me
So smugly, and cherry red bracelets
Shake from the proximity to
Those hands. Hands that move
Like jack rabbits on hot
Asphalt, like bubbles popping
In grease: she's snapping those
Sticks up and down, in and out.
Wrists and fingers are all the
Rhythm and rhyme I need.
She keeps time effortlessly.
The snap, the tap, the beat
Deep-seated in her soul, the music
Buzzing in her unhearing ears
Swallows me whole. I'm just
A shell caught in the tide
Of her swells and the trough
Bottoms out when she
Stops, slamming her hand to make the
Steel rim POP. Like a witch-
Doctor she casts a spell and
Though now she is gone,
I am bound still.
Sep 5, 2010
Sep 5, 2010 at 3:33 PM UTC
Blood Stained Swords Cut Through The Sky,
Silver Blades Reflecting Off The Noonday Sun,
Behind The Horses A Fire Blazes Tall And Lean,
Striking The Pure Air With Thick Black Smoke,
Deeper And Darker Than Any Nighttime Sky,
Arrows Perch Upon Every Arch Of A Wooden Bow,
Thin Feathered Tails Stand Like Stone In The Breeze,
Flags Raised Along With Hundreds Of Spears,
Mallets Grasped In Ghostly White Knuckles,
And Twisted Smiles Form--Ready For Victory,
Thin And Measured Breaths The Men Do Take,
They Say They Stand For Their Freedom,
Though A Blood Bath Means Nothing In A Barren World,
Such As This One They Prowled For Lesser Years,
Grasping Everything In Their Disgusting Rage,
Lives Included,
Souls Deluded,
Eyes Pale And Blue As A Withered Corn Flower,
The Whiter Part--Yellowish And Tinted With Tears,
Salt Dripping Down Their Cheeks Forming In Suns,
Armour Glistening As Shields Are Set Into Place,
Scowls Slithering Through Their Metal Masks,
Staring Down The Enemy,
War Paint Trickles Down Their Arms,
Tears Mirror Them As They Stream Down Their Faces,
All They Wanted Is Change
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 7:13 AM UTC
Midnight.
Getting into incredible scenes as the southern US dreams
The color of your soul
Where unshackled, dancing spirits take control
Feet contact to terra firma via tactical movements painting its target
You attack, artistically
I resist no longer
Upon your canvas
I fall
Rome
Where (apparently) all roads lead to
Your heart, the coronary Colosseum.
A stronghold I yearn to hold tight
Under the roar of the crowd
And the loudness of your beats
Harmony
There are psalms that Cadillacs crank
Your viscous soul
At the seat of this purple drank think tank
Sticking to my ribs like backyard barbecue
Santoor mallets tapping my heartstrings
Doing 10 in a 65, side-to-side
Front, back
Letting the melodies ride and glide
Air
Whatever words you'd utter, I'd usurp its presence within the second it leaves your lips.
Floating on cloud 9
To catch your breath with my fingertips
Kinda like I want our lungs to be in a relationship
Or something close to enjoying the heights
Then record our previous accords just before
Midnight.
Ifeanyi N. Okoro II - © 2018
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 5:52 AM UTC
they seem to think I can heal you
they seem to think I can heal you,
but the truth is I can only be there
and when there are cracks in the ceiling
and the mountains are frozen or gently
rolling over mustard seeds, I will hold
fast to the one Mainstay and encourage
you to do so too--because I can't walk
with your legs or talk with your words
nor can I delve inside your dark waters
and know how to navigate your thoughts
that so often I won't understand--
and I won't change you because we will
be a team, a single cog rotating in a royal
body, bearing the heat and blows so that
when you are away and toiling, or burning
the sheets with newfound anger, I will
stand by and let your battles rage until
we meet on middle ground and grasp
each other's forearms in the dust, heaving.
with you, this will not be a game. You will not
be a piece, a checker, a player. I will not move
you or take mallets to your foundation because
it will be mine too--I will not hate you because
that would be hating myself and I will not hate
myself because that would be hating you--
I will not question your love for me like I have
questioned the masses, because this love will
not be antiquated but fresh and ripe each
morning, anew with our combined inquiries
and issues of heart, barrels of quinoa to sink
our fingers into and count ceremoniously
each grain a celebration, a victory poured
over quiet nights shared between whispers
and hushed prayers
and though your initial compliments and flattery
fade away, when our first meeting has worn off--
no lit suppers but bowls of hot oatmeal on the
couch, when our voices have failed to address
the day and time has only built between our hips,
I will quietly say that I have missed you
because though we are one there will still be
wedges---doorstops, rocks and boulders and
great things that drop and slide between us
that find their way into fissures in our flawed
surface
but
I will love you through that.
I will love you through each fight and missed
opportunity to apologize, every door closed a
little too hard, each cold dinner or syllable too
harshly spoken, when I send you
to the supermarket and you arrive with only
half of the groceries, when the world is splitting
in two and we are fleeing from city to city and I
can hardly recognize you through the grit and grime
I will love you.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
Chaotic words, chaotic thoughts,
Bombastic ideas and pensive deliberations
That float, even fly like volcanic ash,
Pounded out of the molten Earth as if
God were hitting the crust with a hammer,
And the masses of ash and dust cloud the sky,
Streaming like red and black chalk
Across the asphalt of uncharted thoughts.
And they rain, rain down
Like a tempestuous conflagration,
Beating upon the earth like mallets on drums,
Vibrating ever-so tenuously in the ears,
But resonating with verve somewhere within,
And then it stops,
Never to be heard or seen again.
And in its place are the bright rays of the sun,
Shooting light like a harpoon toward the ground,
Digging into the supple soil with a medley
Of confusion and anger,
Of apprehension and isolation,
And they burn caustically,
Warm the body as if they were pockets of magma,
Sliding across the flesh
And trickling into the pores, digging down
Into the heart, shaking it, squeezing it, weeping atop it.
And then the night comes on
As the sun retreats below the horizon,
And it brings with it the complacent lights
Of the stars high above,
That glow gently atop our brows and
Reflect dully off our shirts,
Dotting us with the paint-like
Stains of the unbridled release
Of laughter and intimacy,
Of love and vivacity.
And the placid night lights,
They seem to **** up all the heat,
Seem to save it from its vice,
And they dispel it into the great beyond,
Into the great unknown that stares down on the Earth
And renders it quiet and inhospitable.
Yet for some reason,
For some ungodly or unholy reason,
This night brings peace,
Even if dangers lurk somewhere in the dark.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC