"mantic" poems
i melted off of you
like crystal clear water
as the snow changes form
_you were the mountain i depended on_
i had found home in your rubble
justified all of your cracks
when all along i knew
it wasn't me who
was falling
_it was you_
back then i was blind
but i thought i could see
how beautiful you + me could be
when my light peaked through
those broken parts in you
i guess that's what healers do
we attract the broken ones
knowing there is room to fill
but i have got to stop
and remember that no one
can understand my warmth
when they've only ever lived
in the cold corners of
my hopeful heart
when they only
loved me as
i looked
away
but that's
not romantic
it just left me frantic
yet all of that darkness
has made me a
mantic
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 8:13 PM UTC
With querulous turpitude, I stood
Disdainful denied reassurance;
Selfless. My crying heart
The echo of the wind rebuking
All that is remaining of
what I used to be.
Grotesque deformities my reflection
The pain of pure love etched
In dreams of aeons passed.
Hideous beauty a frightening peace
A sweetness I founded corrupt;
Hell my heaven
My paradise.
Honesty a musical once
writhing in my breast
A seraph convoking legions,
Now wings out-stretched
I break my own treacherous heart
A fiend of Heaven a demon of Hell
The first fallen
Unto likeness absolved
The pennated breadth of twilight
Breeding familiarities contempt-
I have wearied myself, O God,
And I am consumed,
Resolute of inequity.
He that is down need not fear plucking,
Experience is the teacher of fools
And a gentle lie turneth away inquiry:
If the mountain will not go to Mahomet,
Mahomet must go to the mountain;
The nakedly wan mantic
Velleity to tear Christ's body
Malapert, before the ruddy shoal;
Society covers a multitude of sins
Within the penitent sanctity of
Heaven's holocaust, in which
No man can serve two masters-
Oh that I had wings like a dove!
I would fly away and be at rest
Eternal and absolute,
An angelic image of my shadowed self!.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:35 AM UTC
Strange times. When I speak of caressing your mantic lungs
I don’t know what I mean, but I know
I would hurl you under proper circumstances.
Darling, one whisper falls from a tree silently
so as not to wake the ghosts from their siestas.
Your robe has holes I can’t write of. I can fathom
getting there, what that might entail, wrapping,
as I am prone to, my fingers around your furry pincers
while I wait for you to read my rights to the ceiling fan
who whirls above our renovated combustions like the glowering
eye of our Lord upon the teary-eyed wicked.
I am not looking to escape through the window, darling.
I am diving for your diamond-in-the-rough, peeling off barnacles,
making moustaches of seaweed. You threw it into that ocean-
sized trough in which you drown lizards as way of
stress-release. I don’t know what I’ll do next.
The poor man. You give me your hand,
darling, and your robe, your robe is shiny like a pubescent star,
and it shimmies like a wagon piecing itself apart, as you
piece yourself apart, starting with your smile, which was always more
like a photograph of a dune in a textbook.
You give me your hand. It is a blue egg
dusted with microorganisms. I sprinkle it with our fragrance,
what’s left of it. I wish happiness upon your sleep-life, doldrums
upon your late-night haunting. I am tired and these
machines are so convenient, bringing me on all-expenses-
paid visits to the site of your burial. Or is it your sister’s?
I quote, my heart is like a walled onion.
The poor man is tired. It is not 1904 anymore.
You are not smiling anymore, darling, but you give me your hand.
You give it in a basket with parsley and cheese
and cut-outs from The Waterlogged God.
You give it almost grudgingly but I will keep it.
You tell me you’ve been dreaming again of train stations.
I wonder what that means.
I wonder about your eyes.
There are many spiders inside the wall, and along it,
and on the chandelier’s fingers, and inside the spiders.
I quote, a dream is worth a thousand dustpans, but you,
darling, are worth so much more than dustpans.
But I grow weepy, as stated. What do those dark blue lines mean?
Your fingers, darling, smell of a dark cloud in an electrical storm.
Your palm is a circus. Your nails ticket stubs.
That one’s from the alligator show. You dislocated your
throat. I had a plan. If you stare into someone’s eyes for
more than six seconds, you’ll want to lick them.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:20 PM UTC
*** on the beach
Sand between our toes
Hearing the sound of the waves
As we both moan
Turned us on even more
Living out his fantasy near the Pacific Ocean
In this cold temperature our bodies bring warmth
Beach regulations doesn't prohibit this act
Placing kisses on my lips and around my neck
No lifeguard on duty
As he drowns inside me
Wetness of the ocean couldn't compare
We live for these moments for him and I to share
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 10:17 AM UTC
Little girl
Chocolate brown
Living in a
***** town
Mama’s weak
So she lies down
And men come by
And lift her gown.
Tin roof clatter
Rain above
Drowning out
The sounds of love
And when the sounds
Die away
Her mamas doctors
Dress and pay.
Little girl
Spanish town
Turistas always
On the prowl
Her playground is
This neighborhood
Of peeling stucco
Splashed with mud
Mama hides her
In the closet
This is no place
For her small poppet
But times are hard
Closed legs don’t earn
And she must feed
Her little girl.
Little girl
Has an Abuela
She does not live
In this bordello
A sibyl -
She has mantic powers
She reads the future
In her cards.
Bee stings in her throat
At night
She prays to god
With all her might
- Ayudar a este niño
And help her mother
Si usted oye me dios
Don’t let them suffer.
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
Ro-
mance is in the air – or
so they say at this time of year in
the heart of the Thousand Islands.
No-
thing quite welcomes summer
like the morning smell of seaweed fresh-
ly caught on some vacationer’s
pro-
pellers - excess water
draining from the boat’s engine, creat-
ing sporadic puddles up the
street.
I see no romance in
Alex Bay – too many tourists; too
old, too young – No young lovers. Not
E-
nough privacy in the
souvenir shops or bustling streets for
young lovers to embrace and watch
the
sun set or rise off the
Dock of the Bay. Mother duck leading
her ducklings towards the bread crumbs the
old-
er generation has
cast aside for them in the fishy
water. Kids just don’t know what ro-
mance
is anymore. Perhaps
because Spring is ending and not be-
ginning. I must find the romance
in
these islands. There was a
story passed down through the years of Boldt
and his lady and Hart Island.
He
re-named it Heart Island
and with his millions he made it just
that. A castle he built her, a
Play-
house for the kids. Gardens
and walkways, a Yacht House, a Tower.
All this he built for his love.
Can
you imagine, waking
up every morning to the smell, the
sounds of an island called yours? In
the
midst of the St. Lawrence,
the freshness, the cool, the sun beating
down on your grass, your estate. How
ro-
mantic an idea.
Of the one-thousand, seven-hundred
and ninety-three islands, this one
be-
longs to you and your love.
To travel by Ferry each day to
the Bay, to dine every night at
Cav-
allario’s Seafood
and Steak. Oh the wonders of Alex
Bay – I found romance after all.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 4:19 PM UTC
Her voice was the sweetest thing
that she will ever speak, if only
she would speak to me again.
When the chocolate strawberry that is her voice
melts onto my tongue and into my ear
things appear that shouldn't.
The strange lands, my unbalanced self.
But with her voice, the sweetest thing,
I feel that all other people make no sense.
So I'll risk it - I'll risk everything I have
for the invisible caress that turns my skin to fire.
The caress of the infinite fingers made by her beautiful voice.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 2:12 PM UTC
Under the Bridge, along the Promenade: we
walked with words trickling through our
waxy lips. Where the Seafront was all silk.
Where the Waxwings, sealed wax tips,
lumbered about the Empyrean yonder:
splayed upon a Canvas
of Sapphire and Azure.
Before the Starry Night has come.
Before we reached the Shore only to
Digress.
"Liebe verleiht Flügel,"
I heard, or read in a Book.
The Streets are crimson rust;
The Spectators in Sanitariums watched
drab passersby. They shambled and
coughed admixt the crowded room, only
to find the Peristyle vacant and dead.
A Mantic Women, cards of dread,
stands on the corner; our
eyes catched, and She speaks:
"Wo bist du?"
"Wo bist du?"
Louder and fists shaking:
"Wo bist du?"
The buildings doddered, filled with
Cuscuta.
In Montauk, where we met, now withered,
covered in snow, I stood - my comportment
unsteady. Flashing in the distance I see
Point Light - Captain Kidd musing with his
Money Ponds - an Angel guiding wonderous
blights - The Recognitions, blimey,
Mr. Gaddis has gone blind - The Faustian
apotheosis abound -
The Streets are crimson rust
filled with dread.
Smelling of Jack-by-the-hedge -
I'm walking...
Noctivagant aura permeates -
Mich.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC