"oblique" poems
Dogs take new friends abruptly and by smell,
Cats' meetings are neat, tactual, caressive.
Monkeys exchange their fleas before they speak.
Snakes, no doubt, coil by coil reach mutual knowledge.
We then, at first encounter, should be silent;
Not court the cortex but the epidermis;
Not work from inside out but outside in;
Discover each other's flesh, its scent and texture;
Familiarize the sinews and the nerve-ends,
The hands, the hair - before the inept lips open.
Instead of which we are resonant, explicit.
Our words like windows intercept our meaning.
Our four eyes fence and flinch and awkwardly
Wince into shadow, slide oblique to ambush.
Hands stir, retract. The pulse is insulated.
Blood is turned inwards, lonely; skin unhappy ...
While always under all, but interrupted,
Antennae stretch ... waver ... and almost ... touch.
7.1k
Alone into Rainy, twist a Dai clove, pattering rain, wind lingering foot Yuhuan, lengthy dark gray rain curtain hung plaintive, oblique rain splashes dusty track marks, those rainy season, those day's dependent, those nostalgic every night in this late spring rain, scraping completed my cold lonely, rain turned into a long and narrow alley Resentment, thwarted flows into atria, cool diffuse through the apex. Do not turn around in your mind of the day, I count, chatter thoughts of you, and for your Ai resentment, Acacia entanglement, filled Chu pain, no know what to say, but unfortunately does not help, once the owner of the rain falling, once clouds drifting sea oath, I never touched your warmth, sigh Lane is a rain: Wife - Why shallow edge. (yiwu export)
Came alone intersection, waving a monotonous right hand, held in our left vague shadow, the breakdown of the raindrops bounce dust, Red rain, your shadows, swaying like a willow in the rain erratic, like a hard rain exhibition wings flutter Ling heavy, like rain, pedestrians hurry hurry ...... once Pengguo footprints Bingqing appearance of your hands, had led a faint in the rain blessings Juyi Peng broken tile rain dream, comfort our goodbyes, we pay homage to the past. Acacia is the way the dust, whisk Yang is confusion of resentment, lost pain.
This year's rainy season to refresh my mind, I view Acacia dream dreams, the pain, resentment cut into the rain, stuck into the soil; tears into the hands of deep stone, sank; to have a bunch of rendering painful injury worry text buried in the memory, so that resentment heart of the sea to swim, let the pain out of the bone marrow, dusty track once marks, wound treatment desolate, firmly stand in Kuwata, enterprises no longer envy sea water. (yiwu export agent)
Let love and hate, love and hatred, grace and resentment, thinking and pain in the rainy season falling, drifting in the rainy season. I left alone a pool of water, the flow of soulful call. (Yiwu buying agent)
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 5:03 AM UTC
[From Fragments, The Following...]
... so it was that the Urth bled less. The Birch Moot was becalmed by the Anvil Cloud of Impending Deluge.
The Young Gods made sport of Their Names, and aimed to Oblique the colony of clever flesh
groping at the tender roots of an insipid devastation. The First Ones had vanished.
But Time was born and the Mortal Whirl released the Hounds of Change. Transition fused -
with the Eternal; and the offspring of unloved Spirits, roamed the Tangible. All Suffering was amplified
in the diamond lungs of a divine corpse, dreaming.
... for when the iron heart of The Cast Out was retrieved, the Legion of Heaven poured unseemly Grace upon the Fathoms
and the High King of Doubt, forced his blade ' Nimue '
into the soft palette, of the First Mouth. The Stars were born and The Void overheard the First Naming.
A solid drizzle of enchantment cloaked the oaken Yggdrasil
and The Pattern unleashed the folly of Pattern
to mask the virtue of succinct Chaos. The Children of The Lower Sky ate their Masters and thereby swollen -
gathered in the underbrush of the Fecund.
They came to Know Regret by Answering Prayers. The Kingdoms of Wane were waning in the fearsome riot of Creation
and not a boy, a man from no woman
and no woman
a man.
... the siege lights of the petty stars, babbled in the wake of yawning eruption and nullification. the ****** theater of blood
was made Holy by way of forcing camels into eyes of needles in constant dystopian joy.
... and that's how the rain gets in.
[ From the ' Kingdoms Of Wane ', a Lost Tome from Antiquity and Dada ]
What ?
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
1483
The Robin is a Gabriel
In humble circumstances—
His Dress denotes him socially,
Of Transport’s Working Classes—
He has the punctuality
Of the New England Farmer—
The same oblique integrity,
A Vista vastly warmer—
A small but sturdy Residence
A self denying Household,
The Guests of Perspicacity
Are all that cross his Threshold—
As covert as a Fugitive,
Cajoling Consternation
By Ditties to the Enemy
And Sylvan Punctuation—
5.5k
Sitting solid on a thinking throne
Drinking bottles that sing melancholy tones
Singing lone, resonating to your bones
Your fragile little frame cannot save the show
Not when you're casting skys clouding with crows
Your mind is pale, sick to it's stomach
Everything up there can't reconcile, but luck
It's begun to resonate quietly like a comets tail
When your playing on mental jungle gyms of shale
I'm sure there's things that keep you up
Drugs, and alcohol, and fasting all day
A cyclical belt of asteroid tales
You think so much you've burnt an image
Of cotton dreams, so soft and harsh, but somehow sail
You may never grasp them, but you've reached so far you've become so frail
It's hard to try, it's even harder to pry
Open your heart, and let yourself cry
The castles you build are built of tears, and the cemetery near is calling your fears
The foundation is weak, and your pastor you seek, but everything you've found thus far, oblique
Cast your shadows as you will, but they're just funny puppets you've conjured in the night still
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
This Love Song seemed like a safe place to unpack my ****
But a safe place is where Lyrics go to die.
And this is Not a Song.
and it starts like this. all the time.
II
i fella sleep in a widdle boat and told a seagull that i was having a dream
about talking to seagulls and he was astonished to have the pleasure of meeting a boat
that had the good sense to plug the hole with a poet…. because they never wake up
and they do so with extreme prejudice. that simply screams Resident.
In Fact!
He’d never even seen a boat. So there’s THAT. I offered Seagull “ The Cool -Side of The Pillow. “
So I could sit upright for a moment and jot this down. He was like “ What’s a pillow? “
And I had no idea what it was that brushed against my legs
but It was There. then It was Gone. when i stopped using the metaphor.
I was treading a fathom
of pixie dust and transgender proto-gods, all cuddling in a huddle of metaphysics
as adorable as a radioactive abrupt
stop.
III
Ah yes… someone was cooking bacon… and bacon is sleep’s kryptonite. so the dream was a wrap.
and i had a bird’s nest woven from the silk of my discarded cocoon. codename: Chrysalis.
and my mouth was dry. a stubborn dry that follows a deluge of phantasmagoria
on a Futon that is a God to cat hair. My Futon is Oblique and Omnipotent.
Apparently.
Uber Mecca for Cat Hair. I fell asleep on that.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
we are sitting on the riverside
we smoke cigarettes
the smell still reminds me of you
your smile brings back so many memories
your septum piercing is kinda oblique
i want to touch it while we kissing
that’s not much to ask
you probably taste like red wine and marlboro
i wish we would did this earlier
the background music has changed
some current joys playing on your phone
remember darling, we danced to that song
but if you don’t remember anything
i can tell you what we did
while we were drunk
Aug 19, 2020
Aug 19, 2020 at 6:19 PM UTC
Her Name is Woman
~for Woman~
The body replenishes, even the signs of decay
that come for reparation,
Positive confirmation
her organism survives, alive,
tree circles yet measuring time,
Till a devitalizing time comes, when,
this cellular process concedes degeneration
Then the wondering shifts; new facts sifted;
now the reckoning is not a calculation of
Mortality but of her living immortality;
dive to divine neath her black cloaking, reading
Wounded word revelations, her own Bible stories,
giving nomination to Woman-name
The long shadows that her souls excavations cast,
costs of her stories individual,
Highwaymen robbed her with glass knives
but each remaining black hole lights a story, lost, but
Burning icy inviting, pulling us into book boxes inside,
compost of sheets of composed white clarity
Care not that each riddling reference is obliged to be
oblique, inexplicit,
Woman her name, all encompassing,
her views codified in lines of faith,
Woman, is that not
a mining, and a manifest,
of hidden birthing,
comforting us in warm shades of
Human courage
12/26/18 5:51pm
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 5:57 PM UTC
Piano and guitar playing light songs
soft tape, fresh rain, streets oblique
christmas lights on her walls like she
lives in a dorm, eucalyptus smelling
fresco paintings with 666s on them
bring on the full Fall, dim cars
outside and their alarms or engines
in the pause of our sleepy conversations
we go in deep when we’re satisfied with
the noise we’ve made
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 2:48 PM UTC
Twice the fool is the runaway
Who hides his trail, as he hides his ache
All bottle and pills, temporary sleep
Insomniac daze and cheap dinner meals
Static lies on a stationary screen
Radio chatter can’t feed the famine in me
The world is aflame
With no one awake
Sunrise slumber
I fall unconscious to the restless on midnight pavement
Breaking bones or breaking bottles
Selling skin or dealing dust to lost souls
Hearts tucked and folded from the cold
Future oblique
I dare you, predict my dreams
Late riser / never bloomer
Packs a bag, a change of clothes
To deadbeat joints, and dead end posts
Been as many years gone as daily cigarettes smoked
Bloodshot symmetry eyes
I see in every passerby
Like the whole city gone up and left their troubles behind,
You and I
We’re cerebral projections
Locked into motor whirs, recursive disintegration
Status acknowledged, clean cut
Black and white since day one
Mould breaker, you’re told you’re out of line
Gutter graves or veins, stay your place or fall behind
The only constant is the throne
You sit upon or come to view as your body’s own
The red light stare, blue flicker flares
Blare on your skin, like prisms, colour wear
Better to fade to grey than know yourself
For what you truly are, just a shade of catch and tell
Dire straits
No deviation
Full advance
Or desolation
Empty eyes
Golden restraints
I don’t want wealth
I just want change
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 8:51 PM UTC
I am a jigsaw puzzle…
Packaged, broken down and oddly pieced.
Vivid colors. A curious captivation.
Although… with time they have faded…and creased.
Handed down like an antique quilt.
Fragile and warn, only portions of my picture complete.
Left wondering if I will ever be seen as one.
Admired as whole, even with corners somewhat oblique.
So I set out on a journey:
Re-genesis of the soul.
Craving colors unimagined:
An apocalypse of the world of dull.
Along the way I caught a glimpse.
I unearthed Utopia.
A world lent only to dreams and fairytales.
Yet I couldn’t seem to give in and face this phobia.
I continued along my search.
This time with a new groove in my step.
Part of me wanted to turn back,
But that could’ve meant loosing the little I had left.
I felt something flowering within.
I may have looked away, but that moment a seed was planted.
Roots of strength embedding themselves into my soul,
A new chance at life finally granted.
Fresh oxygen to inhale,
As this life grows inside of me.
Battling with worry and yet no panic at all.
Something so charming and enormous, the world deserves to see.
Branches of love breaking through my surface,
A bungee cord tugs, than allots some slack.
Leaves of unwritten memories begin to evolve.
This budding life needs nurture…I need to turn back.
Before I can set foot to turn around…
Utopia at my fingertips.
Life, nurture…a wonderland unsought.
And that is all before the meeting of our lips.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
With Good Business brewed is Good Business told
Confirmed the New Mentor who taught us well
Such swig a Sterling Medicine behold
But knowing our Skills his Avid Trust spell
Forsought this Blue Trade our Clients rely
Was that our Webbed Gifts can reciprocate
That within those Months our Service apply
To increase the Bank's volume aggregate
Such now our Eagle wears; Tri-Coloured Schemes
Weaved in pleats forth to Genious unique
And if we can prove to maintain those Seams
Will he be Proud of our Learning oblique.
Once that's done, to the Pub he tips his Zest
All the more content our Minds would not guess.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
i am of the light
despite
my shroud
that crowds the villains in the toppled telemetry of my steeds
galloping gallantly from the burning cities of my dreams
i shall gleam from her or he
that which delivers
their truths faithfully to their dreams
open wounds turn invitation
in the pity of hungry thieves
who dared to dream
of peasants king-ed.
as we sing
sing
of desperation
in passionate confessions
of jaded wisdom
passed on through every failure
never to falter
in the betrayals of Walters
lost
in loss-less flac files
i have miles to go
smiles to grow
daggers projectiles
from mild mannered children
freshly ridden
of maniacal miracles
spiritual
but not stupid
we are troopin
this lucid movement
grooving
to the repetition of the drum
the gas blow back of a gun
the bursting bubbles of bubble gum
having fun
i learnt goodly on the run
learned nothing in victory
learned nothing in simplicity
complacently
snickering it all away
bullet by bullet
case by case
and eventually the blade
in my compassionate displays
we shall congregate
and hate ourselves
**** the donks to hell
dwelling on the cellar doors
that darkos teacher adored
in verbal massacre
of the written literature
of cracked brain fixtures
seeping the lines
in cold tingles
down the spines of maniacs
just relax
mix it down on a track
spit the thesis into pieces
through the creases of cracked sneakers, and out the speakers
of trouble seekers.
mistakes make us
deliberate chaos
tossed
upon the fakers
who cry to think
the dream
became a reality
mistake us
for serrated blades that rip the hearts from beasts
sometimes i stop to think
while having a drink
conclusive brinks
of sanity creaks
of my humility
secreting
frivolously
the disposing of my jealousy
of your feelings
hellaciously
i rip a felony
from a face
in appealing agony
antagonizing me
in the frenzied forensics
of my oblique
outlooks
none of us
were ever crooks
speaking to self
while being booked
in hell
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
Innocence is as pure as true love
As clean as a dove
As heavenly as fondue
A far cry from untrue
Innocence is the sound of the wind through the trees
But I sometimes wonder
Is it always what it seems?
Or is it not?
My love always said
It is what the eye sees and the mind believes
It is simply a game of hidden lies and pretty eyes.
It is a disguise for the guilty
A shield for the weak
Something rather oblique
A reason to deny
Innocence is nothing but a pure flawless lie
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
Fading Sun...
I was looking at the graying sky.
Trying to chase a fading sun
I peeped above the pointed leaves of the Yucca tree
My eyes were met by little bursts of orange stars
And oblique sunbeams... emitting fading brightness
Through the bushy leaves of the Sampaguita plant.
I was waiting for the moths to appear
Near my lighted candle,
But a gusty wind blew, and made the shell chimes
Sway back and forth...left and right
Round their base and through,
Until all five chimes made pleasant music
With the cool, whirring wind.
I was waiting for the late afternoon sky
To turn to elephant gray
To highlight the yellow glow from the street lamp
So I could test some newly hung Christmas lights
And the capiz lantern outside the french windows
But the rainshowers came all at once
And i found myself wet, from the pouring rain.
I was waiting...and saw a changing sky
The rain, just tip-tapping on the roof
A much cooler air blowing...
Bringing sprays of mist on my face...
Suddenly emerging...the shape of a bat or two,
Flying, crashing, through the dripping red palm tree.
On the horizon, sun was now a dipping balloon
If there's any, i would wait for any kind of moon.
On the garden chair, i sat
And just above me, came a regular stray cat
I heard its paws lightly scratching
The wet surface of the fiberglass roofing.
I still wait...and contemplate on hopes and prayers
I wait...for a lot of dreams to come true
i wait, for this long day to be over
While the night creatures,
In their own tones and tunes
Have started to croon...
Sally
Copyright October 16, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
From freedom and serenity - forced back,
Within a heavy frame, I twist and turn.
Surrounded by darkness - sunlight lacks
Through peaceful ears, an alarm clock burns.
Feeling like someone once deceased,
I ****** myself from my tranquil sleep...
Stumbling to the kitchen, eyes half open,
I prepare my meal in a weary daze.
I will not dread today - I'm hoping,
As I race through traffic in my malaise.
Drinking in my last few moments,
I do what I must, but never condone it...
My interior seething from stress filled meetings,
These rules defeating - my lifeblood fleeting,
A blunt insanity from this calamity,
Through censored profanity, I scream "barbarity!"
Beneath the boots of automatic overlords,
We're trapped together - anxious and bored...
Our heads hang, our eyes bleed
Their talking styles belie their greed.
Our mouths move - connection we seek,
But we find our language strange and oblique.
Back home, on my couch, lethargic and pale,
Hypnotized by TV, my dreams turning stale…
A once free spirit, now a mindless drone -
My sense of identity is what they dethrone.
I assure myself, my soul will endure,
Friday at five, I’m told is the cure.
But, revolution’s muscle beats in my chest!
So, a simple existence, I imagine, my best.
This is my strife - I hate this way of life!
Words can’t explain the disdain in my veins.
So, I have no choice, but to use my voice,
To tell you all to your face, there’s no time to waste!
Everyday, I pickup my pen and face the end -
To light the fire, that from ashes, we’ll ascend...
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:58 PM UTC
For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times, Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for a “Best of the Net”), The Contributor (a Nashville homeless newspaper), Siasat (Pakistan), and set to music as a part of the song cycle “The Children of Gaza” which has been performed in various European venues by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab. Keywords/Tags: butterfly, children, storm, lightning, thunder, hailstones, snow, frost, night, shelter, comfort, safety, rose, fire, warmth, Holocaust, Nakba, Gaza, Trail of Tears, slavery, injustice, abuse, ethnic cleansing, genocide
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 4:39 AM UTC
Come, my darling, let us dance
To the moon that beckons us
To dissolve our love in trance
Heedless of the hideous
Heat & hate of Sirius-
Shun his baneful brilliance!
Let us dance beneath the palm
Moving in the moonlight, frond
Wooing frond above the calm
Of the ocean diamond
Sparkling to the sky beyond
The enchantment of our psalm.
Let us dance, my mirror of
Perfect passion won to peace,
Let us dance, my treasure trove,
On the marble terraces
Carved in pallid embroeideries
For the vestal veil of Love.
Heaven awakes to encompass us,
Hell awakes its jubilance
In our hearts mysterious
Marriage of the azure expanse,
With the scarlet brilliance
Of the Moon with Sirius.
Velvet swatches our lissome limbs
Languid lapped by sky & sea
Soul through sense & spirit swims
Through the pregnant porphyry
Dome of lapiz-lazuli:-
Heart of silence, hush our hymns.
Come my darling; let us dance
Through the golden galaxies
Rhythmic swell of circumstance
Beaming passion’s argosies:
Ecstacy entwined with ease,
Terrene joy transcending trance!
Thou my scarlet concubine
Draining heart’s blood to the lees
To empurple those divine
Lips with living luxuries
Life importunate to appease
Drought insatiable of wine!
Tunis in the tremendous trance
Rests from day’s incestuous
Traffic with the radiance
Of her sire-& over us
Gleams the intoxicating glance
Of the Moon & Sirius.
Take the ardour of my impearled
Essence that my shoulders seek
To intensify the curled
Candour of the eyes oblique,
Eyes that see the seraphic sleek
Lust bewitch the wanton world.
Come, my love, my dove, & pour
From thy cup the serpent wine
Brimmed & breathless -secret store
Of my crimson concubine
Surfeit spirit in the shrine-
Devil -Goddess ****** *****
Afric sands ensorcel us,
Afric seas & skies entrance
Velvet, lewd & luminous
Night surveys our soul askance!
Come my love, & let us dance
To the Moon and Sirius!
2.9k
An oblique path cutting in two a blue hill,
bathed in a cobalt ocean of morning glories.
On the blue hill there were also a red mill,
Crickets, ants, bees, and many-hued damselflies.
A haven was the fresh upside-down coquille
For long stories untold and movements still
Of difference and dragonflies of fluttering
Over a bluesky ground of mute uttering.
On a dry log pitched not too far from the mill,
Rose an artless sign in the hushed sound of the hill;
Each of whose letters was written in blueberry -
Surely placed there by a traveler in a hurry:
“No matter how often a road is traveled by,
It never tells twice the selfsame story.”
(c) LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, August 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
Old women sit around in smokey rooms
Pulling on Stinking cigars. Lights turned low
The red ends glow like big bloodshot eyes.
They wink in and out.
Murmuring chants and singing in low oblique tones.
Your soul is in question your will directed.
Have a cure with your man's cheating ways
Obeah.
You been having a bad streak of luck. One thing then the next.
Obeah on you. Go see lady cross town. Bring money.Obeah
You strongly believe someone Put Hudu on You. You been sick
for some time now and the pills just wont do.Obeah
Somebody put bad eye on you too. Obeah
If you believe then all things are possible Not true? Obeah Chicken blood
and the root to suit your condition. Now sit still and listen to her( premonition)
Obeah.
Let the spirit have his way.Draw the cancer from your bones
But you have to give yourself to the spirits of the dead. Obeah
The Zombie walks around at night snatching souls from the sleeper.Leaving the empty husk as witness.
Sleep light my friend and keep. Keep your poultice near.Do not abandon fear.Obeah.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 3:32 AM UTC
She is as lines to Bauhaus, oblique
In category yet commanding in form;
Her mind a pool of wealth and Grace,
Allusions to illusions, omega to
Alpha’s strongest gaze. I stand
Failed, distraught, lacking the
Dexterity of voice to call her name,
The temerity of will to regain her fair
Charms and affirmed charisma.
Lost I am within a cascade of
Superlatives and tribulation.
Were only she to have conquered
My mind, I would be of sound spirit to
Elicit some tempered comprehension;
Yet alas, I have been taken in soul
And I can do naught but wait
To see if she will one day return.
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 3:39 AM UTC
in this other side air took other color forms
emphasizing details, scanning asymptotes, like hearts
burning on pristine snow, of winter coming
in october already, even in the sun, in the sun above all, almost
red, like the air that took your form, hiding
walls and faces, of concealed rooms you make insomniac
and abruptly clear away, as you pour them in sealess salt
——————————————
Italian version from “Chieti, Scalo”, 2014:
asintoti obliqui
in quest’altra parte l’aria prese altre forme di colore,
insistendo sui dettagli, scandendo asintoti, come cuori
bruciati sulla precocissima neve, dell’inverno che viene
già di ottobre, anche nel sole, soprattutto nel sole, quasi
rosso, come l’aria che ha preso forma di te, celando
volti e pareti, di segrete stanze che componi insonne
e sparecchi di colpo, versandole in un sale senza mari
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
We stopped in the
whispy city,
the hippy boy and me.
We thought of the
good times and bad,
and encouraged our minds
to be free.
We came upon a drifter
a ***** old man and
his wife.
We never felt the distance,
though imagined their life
without strife.
But where can we be
today
alone in our world
side by side.
We thought about
loving good times
so great and yet
we cried.
Reenter the crispy-
like city,
snow covered,
serene & oblique.
We wandered around
with no purpose,
an oasis that just
sprung a leak.
And who never fought
the war,
the angular, meaningless
scourge.
We found all the cities
amuck,
and all we could sing
was good luck.
So who never sang
the song,
that glorious, soulful
olio.
Just me and that young
hippy boy,
while nobody else
really cared.
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 6:51 PM UTC
Withered through these relinquished lips,
softly lays an embellished, embroidered, carcass.
Torn across flesh-like soil
caressing gently into this impermeable being,
you're only human.
So allowing in the presence of indigenous, oblique thoughts
slanting into the belly
never feeling so bare
the hunger deprives.
The nails of your eyes piercing into the forefront of mush you call a brain,
feeling the earth distinctively tremble with each step you chase closer to the ledge
Clutching onto the white knuckle breast
your hands pounding at your fingertips
its electric running through your veins
feeling it at the core
so helplessly, lost.
Your throat knots into one-thousand splinters
splicing relentlessly between your core
the wedge of your mortal body becomes noticeable to your soul
detaching,
jumping.
Slithering one step closer,
pull the rope
you leap
you rot
one more inch closer,
you can feel it
separating your surroundings from comfort ability
picking up between each breath
shaking at your own wake.
there you have it
at the brim of the edge
you've push yourself this close
whats one last jump out of this skin?
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 6:20 PM UTC
Treacherously torrid torrential tempestuous
The warrior on the mountain confessed to us
Sordid sully suborn salacious
Only the worst will ever keep pace with us
In extremis extremity exigence exodus
Is the answer clear to all of us
Intuitional intrepid impetus intrigue
Spontaneity's tortoise trauma fatigue
Heuristic horizon hornswoggle huckster
Or just another cauldron muck stir
Mystical magical manumission mandate
That only the good would ever relate date
Fornicating fecund finite's fate
I can only hope it will be I rate
Tirade treatise's transpicuous treachery
Adjunct juxtaposition may get the best of me
Estranged ensemble's ethereal expletive
Won't be contained, like water in a sieve
Wanton wayward warrantee wrangled
And all of that surreal newfangled
Omnipresent omnificent omniscient omnipotence
How I wish I could float its boat sense
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 5:54 AM UTC