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a May 2015
the double-glaze and blackout curtains shield me
from the world's uncertainty.
the panes of glass so sure not to allow its overside to retreat and
seep its liquid coldness to reach me. it's neither
cold nor warm at the touch, unlike me.
i am protected by the double gaze and blackout curtains but
some force that differs from the one that is currently causing
the tree outside sway dangerously close to my perch is
causing my mind and body to be insulated
by a layer of ice.
goosebumps prickle and my arm and leg stubble
raise themselves.
but my mind does not provide for itself thermoregulatory
reflexes, i
must withstand the shiver of my memories.
Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember,
Me, sitting here bored as a loepard
In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps,
Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding
And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers
Sipping their liquids from assorted pots,
Pitchers and Coronation goblets
Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries
Bow down, a local constellation,
Toward their admirers in the tabletop:
Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them ---
Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue?
The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends. They stink of armpits
And the invovled maladies of autumn,
Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.

The roses in the Toby jug
Gave up the ghost last night. High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch,
Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid
Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at
By chrysanthemums the size
Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same
Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice
Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour
Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic?
You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing
With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood,
Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?
Alexandra Dakota Sep 2011
Ouch what a prickle!
Of which I’ve been pricked!
I wobble my way
From grass to brick
Lean down to examine
Some dirt-stained toe
And I find this *****
Embedded in skin
And pluck it out
Let relief flood in
softcomponent May 2014
Find the lighter, use it as a lighthouse on a walk below the wall you watch along the wave-formations. Who Wants a Cold One? a Coors Light ad corrects.. When it comes to your home, the little things matter.. an insurance ad blares.. my computer is infected with 3rd party applications unremovable to my meagre tech-ability.. there is a hero as Joseph Campbell once theorized.. in myself like a sick bastardly virus waiting for moments to prove to me "I AM THE SAVIOR, I AM THE CHRIST, I AM THE WARLORD, MICE, MAN, AND VICE".. the windows of opportunity close, I am left waiting the door

& the elevator.

Thirty-thousand years ago, there was nothing but a breeze.. a viscous breeze across chill-spined pterodactyls.. warm-under-the-jungle-brush tyrannosaurus rex, and to think one day I will be just a legend in bone..
Charlotte said she thinks of death and so did Jen. They sat next to the all-you-can-eat and discussed the inevitable. I was sour and playful with no-will-to-understand, just reminding my hair of breezy summer days of 10, thinking of strangeness, of place I was in.

When it's quiet sometimes, I think of old dreams.. dreams I sunk below drown-level as a child in bed and belief. Both mommy and daddy were arguing in the kitchen, this was 7 or 8.. they argued so often one could hear mom begin to cry sometimes, and dad I could see in minds-eye with a grimace so closed and so creased he was hurt and yet honest.. I did not understand so I hid under-stood-silhouettes, oh adulthood..

once in dream I was in pulsing green graveyard like crayon realism strobe lights, tombstones all-round and faint-buzz of outside and one of those strange balded henchmen of badguy Jafar from Disney's Aladdin came peaking outta nowhere with curled eyebrow and baggy one-thousand-one Arabian nightlives parachute pants, curled toes brown-beige moccasins to.. he let out conniving 'HEUHEE!' and slapped me right-side cheek and I JOLTED up bedwise in real time to feel actual physical sting for a few lingered seconds then the sobs of poor mother outside.. I never remembered a dream so clearly again.. they all come, Pro-Found, and dizzy away after hour or two for rest of eternity or perhaps to Place I Can Visit at Death to Review Every Vision and I wonder... when your life flashes before your eyes and the light is encroaching, scenes of mother, brother, father, son, daughter, best-friend, party, break-up, heartbreak, slip-fall, first-sip, first-drag, last-leg, first-kiss, first-hit, first-game, fear, love,  HATE, wait.. do the Dreams come to? Are they all flesh-ed before your eyes as you pass into Light? Are they brought to direct remembrance as you cross the border with Passport of Gods and a Goddess (and which Picture appears on the Page)..?

I remember the old eczema taking bits of skin to carpets round-town and round-lower-mainland to disgust of friends old and new-- this was era where confidence ate itself in mirrors, the sober reality of ugly-ness chiseling away at my Goodness Attempts.. All That Pointless Pain was no Exception nor a Rule, it just **** Happens every once-and-again to the sound of life farting. I used to miss school for feet so impossible to walk on, pussing and bleeding and staining the sheets, shoe soles, carpets, and soul.. limp thru the hallways of Brooks Secondary feeling like bad flavor additive to multicultural Planet Earth-- sleeping 'til the bell rang drinking coffee singing songs I said '**** the ******* educational system and **** me I'm so flatlined..' someday I felt things would really get better and lucky young me I was right.

A half-decade later, I am 21 and hoping, floating, free in the breeze as the wings I have grown keep on wishing the subsistence down. The girl, whoever-she-might-as-well-be, sits immediately vertical chatting frantically to boy with a bit of a cowlick slouching on-up over a bundle of colored paperwork. It seems late in the season for homework, and assume they may have some affiliation with a crazy-hep computer design group in the tradition of Nouevau Silicon Valley.... I sit at my laptop, inching a word a million cubic millimeters closer to God or Divinity or Crescendo or A Bunch More ******* You'll End Up Ignoring---

It's a sunny day, the rain having slathered-off into obscurity somewhere with the Monsoons when the Sun gave the Moon a Soft Slap and the poor purity white-kid went off whimpering, bleeding nose-- I sat, the other night, playing another Grand Strategy game as Tom divided his time between a vaulted and damaged lover, his labor, and his life (friends, food, video-games, vice)... Chai, old Chai the Thai Guy mentioned past his nose in previous iterations of Depictions sat and described his pins-and-needles upset at his bosses at one his three many jobs.. desperately firing text-messages into receiving-space-panel and reflect and back unto Tom's smartphone dash asking him to order a six-pack from a local delivery service cuz his adrenal was giving him heartpain with hurt, and Tom being Busy as All-Ways Tom Is wasn't able to decipher the scramble in-time to make contact before closure of the liquor stores.. poor not-so-poor Chai at first felt castrated at realization he would miss the 11 PM dot-time, but didn't mind as he rendezvoused with Tom and I at Willows Beach where Tom reminded him of a whiskey he'd bought sitting counter-wise at his place.. we kissed a few Mary Janes rightsideup, dragging our butts in the sand to discuss what was wrong (each of us had a problem that night, save for perhaps a less-vocal Tom, I describing my annoyance that a lazy consensus had erupted in my sorry-hometown between my sorta-friends and friends-of-friends that my writing and sharing my writing was arrogant and I an arrogant *** for sharing and I just confounded that they would find my passions so trivial-- perhaps jealousy, perhaps complacency and judgement-for-lack-of-anything-better-to-do and ah **** em all if they think like that, I'll write and be the arrogant me they think I am and share 'til I'm blue in the face and dead perhaps for outspoken intellectualism in their autocratic pointless-waste worldviews.. sad that I dislike them only on the basis they disliked me first..)

I had planned to stay late and leave early-morn (5 or 6 AM) to catch a first-off morning bus back home and sleep, hoping for most part to avoid the shattered-***-mess of a home I was living in.
About 2 days ago, give or take, a water-line for the laundry machine had erupted to soak our entirely-carpeted basement suite, forcing the poor new landlord (a sweetheart of a man named Ron having just taken possession of the house from previous owner on May 1st and, it seems, left 'holding the bag' as they'd call it in day-trading-investment-lingo) to tear out the entirely-soaked carpet and replace it with sensible laminate flooring and rendering the entire suite virtually unlivable for indefinite-few-days and so for me work and friends and especially writing become a welcome reprieve to I, a first world Refu-Jeez.. us, so terribly-off I sip a latte near sunny panorama windows-so-clear-they're-not-there overlooking the crosses of Yates and Blanshard with European church of Gothic architectural style poking heedlessly into empty-open blue.. ironically and strangely there is a liquor store quite literally right next door, and's one I shop at often for its decent prices (God is Dead or Just Drinking to Cope with Sartre and Kierkegaard's Ultimate Thesis) (Kierkegaard especially '*** Kierkegaard seems a good and long friend of God the Almighty) (...I talk with such Judaeo-Christian Catholic rhetoric it never ceases to amaze myself as it bleeds to page..) (stranger thing is, tho, there is no beginning, no middle, no end.. you read or you are bored and either/or is just fine..)

There is some hypothesized crescendo-bliss Tech Singularity on the way in the try-dition of Ray Kurzweil and William Burroughs.. Oscar Wilde to.. (see The Soul of Man Under Socialism in essay-collect book De Profundis).. one day we will all be eternal happiness expressed in song and dance and LED erected-projections of Imperfect Universe (Our Imperfect Earth) with lives stuck on infinite repeat.. our idea of Paradise.. and for those with ability to remain rushed to cortisol (stress-the-best hormone) it will be Hell on Earth, so DRAB and THE SAME all the TIME and it's READ and it's WRITE and it's RIGHT.. the world runs faster with every passing day so desperate to discover the Globe is Flat so we can Hop Off the Other Side into what one might assume to be The Better Place.. elusively picking-up speed thinking 'closer now definitely closer now' unaware (or, secretly aware and unwilling to admit for what will one do when one cannot run?) they are Running in Circles Over and Over and Over and Over and Over Again... cannot take the hint in the fact the Pacific (same Pacific) has been crossed a hugeillion times, nor the same McDonald's in the Azores of Atlantic Portugal is the Same ******* McDonald's stopped-thru on the then-trillionth time last year... and all whilst the International Space Station remains muted up-above crossing 'round and 'round 'til the Jehovah'n Day of Judgement (Chris Hadfield now below with advice for how to run a little faster even blinded in one eye..) then there are the dying Prophets Predicting Industrial Collapse who preach upon the Mount of Internet Sinai Eternal and state "the world is now unsalvageable and we are all about to die.. if ever you wished to find Buddhistic Nirvanic Peace, now is the time so start meditating and imagine Death as New Life and Geopolitics as Game".. forever and ever and ever and ever.

It is only natural to find existence to be 'weird..' layered with Who's That's and giant What The ***** everywhichway you turn.. did it start in a Big Bang, will it end in a Big Crunch, Big Freeze, Big Bang.. ? all questions once ignored for certain ignorance and resurrected as questions concerning the Nature of the What The ***** (also known as 'Science').. and if it did start in a Big Bang, did I start in a Big Bang..? and if it does end in a Big Crunch, will I end in a Big Crunch..? am I a sudden flash of REAL in a Universe that isn't me..? or am I an entire Universe.. perhaps even more than that...? the questions pulse in youth like bad words or bullets. I once stayed up all-night thinking of infinity with my head soaring space-wise forever and ever and ever and I stopped in sudden panic thinking: I could lie here up all night and all day 'til the towered age of 37 (I was 14 at the time) and still be no further on the Universal Map than from thumb-tip-middle to thumb-nail so I wrapped up the attempt with a mix of fear and incredulity, went to school next-day exhausted and tried to explain it all to friends.. they got it, I suppose, but we were all 14 and played basketball instead (I imagined infinite-spinning-basketball on thumb of Michael Jordan).

It's always best describing life in form of Disembodied Poetics.. sure some Philistines won't understand '*** their minds are made of Clockwork, Digits, and Blockthought.. but the general psychic underly implied in all with human faculty will ring-a-ding-ding! and remember all such ancient thoughts and feels as forgotten as a child, locked away until the Spirit rose-up from a rosey thorn prickle to flower straight-up into a Rose! or so I hope as a one-of-many writers-- all of which will write so-as to speak on your behalf.. all floaty and marking a purpose.
a Jun 2015
i'm unable to understand.
goosebumps prickle methodically up and down my arms, and i
look at the wall opposite me, eyes small and watery,
and smile.

my face mocks me.
Sarah Jury Sep 2010
It's the little things in life that can change the way you feel,
like a kiss on the cheek, a flower in your hair or going for a meal
They say money makes the world go round, and money can buy you some amazing things
but it only takes a smile to wake me up in the winter mornings
Like a ladybird cautious to land,
eventually it will flutter down and reach for your hand
Let it guide you through the woods,
stone and prickle and wolves in hoods.
Till at last you taste the sun,
you need not worry about what's to come.
Its the simple things in life that matter the most,
sugar in your tea, jam and butter on your toast
Don't be afraid to take a chance,
Show yourself to me, laugh and dance
Be free to dream, love and kiss
There isn't a single part of you that I would want to miss.
My work is subject to copyright laws.

Sarah Tamasyn Jury (C) 2010
Dannie Marie Nov 2012
One of the Reasons
As day turns to night
My feelings get stronger
I can't get away
When the wind blows gently
Your smooth voice can almost be heard
Music to my ears
My arms prickle at the chill
Waiting for the arms
To wrap around to warm me and hold me close
Shivers go down my spine
Like the sensation I get
From your soft, smooth touch
Just your simple
Yet vibrant presence near me
Makes you irresistible
And that
Is one of the many reasons
Why I love you
igc May 2015
Remember me as a Letter
Carefully written in order to best explain
Everything it is I couldn't seem to say
               write me easy
               write me deeply
               write me only once.

Remember me as a Love Song
Structurally crafted lyrics filled with melodies
Sweeter than the first time we met
               sing me to your mother
               sing me to your lover
               sing me to your children

Remember me as a Poem
Metaphor coloured emotions
Putting together moments amidst events
That never really happened
But we would swear over and over
That actually did
               colour me purple
               colour me blue
               colour me Red

Remember me in your Nightmares
Think of me on those nights that simply closing your eyes
Causes fear to prickle on your skin
And adrenaline to race through your veins
               close your eyes anyway
               embrace the feeling of helplessness
               let it help you remember

Remember me when you Don't Want To
Promise to think of me in those moments when
Remembering numbs you more than feeling nothing at all
               love me easy
               love me deeply
               love me only once
crimson mistress
(crimson flower
in the swooning gloom)
tell me
why against thy sharp
prickle
(eyes of lynx)
my heart I’m pressing
(æt the nihtegale)
and don’t understand that
freedom
(like the archetype of Moon)
of the kiss
with laughter devoted
in the broad gardens

---------------
(with the nightingale)

The original:

*(тъмночервена господарке)
тъмночервена господарке
(тъмночервено цвете
във припадащия мрак)
кажи ми
защо във острия ти
шип
(очи на рис)
сърцето си притискам
(със славея)
и не разбирам тази
свобода
(както и архетипа на луната)
на целувката
със смях отдадена
в широките градини


*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
Deb Jones Apr 2019
If animals were mobsters....

A ****** of Crows.
An Unkindness of Ravens
A Shrewdness of Apes
A Sleuth of Bears
A Glowering of Cats
A Destruction of Wild Cats
A Quiver of Cobras
A Stand of Flamingos
A Parade of Elephants
A Charm of Foxes
An Army of Frogs
A Mob of Kangaroos
A Business of Ferrets
A Tower of Giraffes
A Crash of Rhinoceroses
A Bloat of Hippopotami
A Smack of Jellyfish
A Shadow of Jaguars
A Cackle of Hyenas
A Conspiracy of Lemurs
A Drift of Pigs
A Herd of Rabbits
A Barrel of Monkeys
A Parliament of Owls
A Shiver of Sharks
A Stench of Skunks
A Band of Gorillas
A Knot of Toads
A Pandemonium of Parrots
A Leap of Leopards
A Pride of Lions
A Prickle of Porcupines
A Scurry of Squirrels
An Obstinacy of Buffalo
A Labor Of Moles
A Bale of Turtles
A Zeal of Zebras
An Ambush of Tigers
These are the actual names of the groups. How great is this?
Erik Ervin Oct 2012
For Sam Cook and Michael Lee*

While standing at Marshall and 140th
the lightning over the horizon begs me to come to it
it's like the flickering streetlights, seeming like silent firefights,
simply asking to be looked for.

When I still elementary,
I used to watch the sky as the bolts shocked the earth
and I'd count:
one
two
three
Until I heard the boom and crack of thunder
three miles away, at least, the fourth graders said each second was a mile
it could have been true, it could have not, yet still I watch the light.

The flickering of the fading streetlamp tells me that this moment is not going to last forever
that it will not be heavenly or touchable, but it is there
and it wants you to touch the light as it flickers like a strobe light
like kids playing with the tabs of flashlights
and like the first discovery of light switches

and I'm reaching out so far.
Trying to grab hold of a piece of simplicity,
of normal,
of what I can always find:
Mistakes and wounds
and trying to hold on

Because lately, it seems like the only places we want to flicker are in the clubs.
Standing on a planet where illness and difference are cause enough to torch cities.
We like to light the fires and we like to watch them burn,
but we could care less about what their burning
and it seems like the dark ages came and stayed,
But like tributes to Guy Fawkes say:
A man can be killed and forgotten,
but four hundred years later an idea can still change the world

So I think as I stand at that intersection
watching the streetlights and the night's light bulbs flicker on and off like the light in my head
I can feel my fingertips prickle and I seize that moment to reach for the lamppost and final destination

those kids are flipping tabs faster and faster
my hair is at attention
and I can feel the race.
For a second,
everything slows down.
The streetlight stops flickering as my fingertips come upon it
and the lightning illuminates the sky
I can feel the breeze push my hair to this minutes path
and for a second,
I have something.

I pull my fingers away from the light and it returns to its flicker
the lightning fades away
and the boom comes in.

And here, standing at what once for me was Marshall and 140th
I realize,
that all I have
is all
I'll ever claim to know
Pickled on quixotic tonics
he strives for a polyglot's poise,
balancing plaster peas
at the end of his tippler's tongue.

But the rough-surfaced pearls prickle
his too-ticklish bed of pink,
and gulped down, he administers
only a lessoned indigestion.

Flipping the flop, he prevaricates
himself into the tight-fit corners
of a parallelogram traced
by unsolemn processionals

bedecked in platitudinous finery.
Their porous smirks drip sticky
reminders of a plethora
of previously pernicious exercises

and dampen his fluffy ambition,
prodding procrastinations until
his drunken promise dries out
to become a posthumous wish.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Olivia Walters May 2015
Kisses
His lips
Stained red from cherry lip-gloss and his skin still damp from midnight lust.
Our arms and legs lay tangled beneath the stars.
These are the good nights
The, Nightmare, Night terror
Free nights.
Filled with burnt out cigarettes and hushed tones.
These are the nights
That push the cortisol from my mind to be replaced by a
Cheap serotonin fix.
These nights are my lullabies and goodnight
Kisses
His lips
Push their way against my squirming flesh, my tongue too tied to protest.
His hands caress,
My arms and legs. twisted behind locked doors.
These are the restless nights
Tossed and turned like mildewed clothes
Filled with empty cups and muffled moans.
These are the nights-- I’m sorry
The nights I pray for sunrise
Kisses.
Her lips
Find their way to my worried ear, stroking, Hushing.
“It’s okay baby girl mama’s here.”
Shhhhh.
These nights are long nights
When my legs are restless from running through my head,
Monsters,
Hiding underneath my bed.
These nights are filled with screams, they
Strangle my throat, and Chills prickle my spine but
These nights are saved
By her forehead
Kisses
Hey, I'm writing this spoken word poem for my poetry class and would love some feedback if I can receive any, there is going to be a fourth stanza but I would like some advice first to try and get rid of my writers block.
Victoria Rose Mar 2014
self destruction like burning bridges you know full well you'll drown without
being reckless with your rafts and your lifesavers
and feeling the heat of the fire prickle your forehead,
beads of sweat teasing your skin
and making it impossible to ignore the deep water already lapping at your feet,
clearly prepared to completely engulf you in liquid darkness.

self destruction like inhaling the fumes of a hundred toxic promises,
made to you by old would-be lovers;
sugarcoated words and lies roughly covered in white,
feeling the poison seizing up your struggling lungs,
fingertips flicking through dictionaries with cracked spines:
desperate to find a word that isn't even there.

self destruction like breaking hearts that aren't yours for once,
just to hold the power of corruption and allow it to make you bloodthirsty,
much like slaughtering ants beneath magnifying glasses,
watching them struggle and turn to unrecognisable ashes,
whimpering half hearted apologies whilst trying to convince yourself
that you are not a bad person, but simply a broken soul.
Jon Tobias Mar 2012
Dear poet,

Dear ***** talker of some unrequited nasty,

Dear slow admirer,
Noticing my detail like a detective

Twist this halo into handcuffs
And love me already

Or don’t

I’m not real

And if I were

I’d hate to be her

You perfect pitch psalm sayer
Waxing generic

Quit the verbal dance

And dance with me

I am glad you know I’m not perfect

I am as faulty
As a topographical map of California

This body is chills

Is goosebumps

Is legs that were soft yesterday

Kiss them

Prickle your cheeks

Does your beard know the difference?

Do you?

Do I feel like scented sandpaper love notes
Still stained with a kiss?

I know I might just be squid ink to everyone else

But you dear poet

Dear detective
Black lighting my flaws into glowing beauty

Put your lips to my stains

They still taste like stains

You made them

You made me

You made me Dear Poet

Stop talking

And take me
It was suggested to me today that I wirte a poem from the perspective of the person who is recieving all the love poetry I write. What would she say?
Christine R Jul 2014
I feel it starting, like a prickle down my spine.
My rubbery lungs expand and push
against my ribs.
Organs start crawling
up my throat
leaving a hollow cavity
which I must seal.

My heart is pumping faster
but the only thing to get my blood moving
is to fill my emptiness.
Hands shaking I scrawl a haphazard
paper chain to keep me from floating away
as my love looks on concerned.

“Can I fill it with a kiss?
A caress? If I whisper to you
will my words fall through your ears and
weigh you down?”

But anxiety
is not like drowning
and a life preserver won’t reign me in.
The only thing to do is wait
for me to compress my lungs
and talk my insides off the ledge.

Let me close my eyes and breathe,
give me room to reassemble.
I promise I will come down soon.

When I can concentrate enough,
the Earth starts shrinking
until its mass rests on my pen tip
and I can write the blood back through my veins.
Because sometimes people don't understand what it's like to get this anxious. And it might help if they did.
Daniello Mar 2012
I Inhaled so many silent forgotten gasps today.
They passed over my pulsating skin
like jeweled kings in pauper’s clothes.

Morning blue sheets sticking
like sparkling pool water as I twirled
my Georgia love, one Georgia summer.
Stuck like the dew of her legs,
like the brushing warmth of her breath that once
swept me into the blessing of her closeness.

This afternoon, talked to a friendly blonde
and wondered how her curls would wet
from Mediterranean water. Whether her breath
would brush or prickle my ambivalent cheek,
move my ambivalent heart.

Befriended a young musician on the bus ride
to the airport, heard in his slight lisp
his artistic dreaming, imagined what music
compels his eyelids to shut and shield him
from the carnivorous spoon-feeding.
He seemed to be wondering that, too.
Knew I was writing in my head.

A flight to home, delayed among fog
and a President’s presence.
A quiet meal, a chicken sandwich.
A golden ale and a sit at the bar
to rest my arms on the counter
like heavy soldiers, returning home.
Listening to the businessman yell
at the player who should have scored,
won the game.

Late at night, arrive home,
when nothing beautifully happens.
Can you believe? Tornados are sweeping
North Georgia. I can only see in my mind
empty pool water swirling.
RIKKI Jan 2013
I stretch forward, elongating my neck, making the hairs that grow down onto my nape prickle,
envisioning
my true horse-nature.

I’m hooves clopping on river rocks. My mane combed to one side, my angular muzzle huffing.

I’m strong and sturdy – muscle and a soft steel kind of strength. And yet at the
whistle of a windblown reed,

I’m gone,
scattered and spooked.

I trace the angles that connect weakly on my rawboned face. Strong lines
never broken never snapped,
just shifted and sifted easily.

I stand before others, pulled loosely together, unsettled in my people-clothes.
Loyal – love me.
Wild – but not too tightly.

I sit for sketches  
sometimes hours sometimes minutes sometimes seconds sometimes months.

I look like a human,
solid to the fingertips of others pressing in – but  

I’m a ghost.

I’m burned by the red clay of a canyon wall, shiny from the sun. My sweat reflects ribbons of
wet diamonds
at the bottom of a cold, fast river.
Hands Feb 2011
We can escape, now,
it's smoky with a chance of curtain drawn,
our minds won't tramsit light
from our empty, covered windo- the train is here.
I'm ready to go.
And though I'm leaving on a train
with room for only one,
I'm hoping you can catch a cheap ride
hidden in my pocket.
Nobody checks your person, anymore,
Nobody cares;
Homeland Security lovingly fed
us fattened falsities
As the fat cats in suburban alleyways
tore off the thickest
pieces of marrow from the national animal
of our Fiction States of America.
I have known this
because I have seen it from my seat
in coach,
thank god, too, because the train is packed.
So fill up
if you aren't going to hop in,
wishing to distort
your mind with all of their public drugs,
community opiates
transmitting across electrical wires hidden
in the ground,
the trees,
the air itself,
stitched into the layers of
dark matter and cosmic foam insulating
our fragile and overdone Universe.
I hear their static,
that pantomimed reality,
caught inside carbon fibers running through everything,
running through me,
running through you,
running into and out of your brain like
a thief without pause or moral.
We could run, too,
the heavy bass notes of the
nurturing ocean could shield the screech
of the battered train's wheels;
the wheels need a rest from screeching, anyway.
Quick!
While the conductor isn't looking!
The wires will tell him you're here
until you're gone,
hidden in my coat pocket
inside a layer of my inner smoke.
Well, if you insist,
I suppose you may leave,
but once the wound of knowledge opens,
just know it never closes.
It will fester and
prickle
with the fetid odor
of truths turned into lies.
I know I'm talking
to myself, now, but I don't
want to let you go,
though I'll stay here,
safe,
in the train carriage,
hidden in smoke.
Smoke,
smoke,
smoke,
the train heats up,
breaths out smoke from its burning
and throbbing pipe.
The engine has built up
an overdose of heat,
trying to throw off the weeds trying
to grow inside.
They tried to enter me,
and they will soon enter you,
now,
without my smoke to shroud you,
to leave your naked wound
easily hidden in
paranoid dreams.
Screeeeee,
screeeeeee,
screeeeeeee,
the wheels screech out,
ready to go,
ready to run,
to run down the track,
to run through all obstacles,
to run through everything,
to run through me,
to run through you,
to run in and out of your brain,
blown away in a puff of smoke,
my memory has burned away
and blows off as ash
and smoke.
Erosion Jul 2014
you never cared

they say you never stutter to the things you call home, and i was never one to flinch to the sound of broken promises and holocaust

but then i met you

they warn us about the drugs in the streets and dangers of heights but I’ve never been warned that a drug can be a person, and that danger can be in your smile

i took inside me all your pains and we watched them burn within me together, and until today i still cough up ashes of the fire that lived under my skin

so why did we ever bleed the only love we had and covered the wounds in sheets of apathy

i saw even angels getting lost in the seams of your devilish smile

and now all i have left is my torrid burning throat and the walls that never listened

I’ve learned that everything i touch i shatter, too bad I’ve never touched your heart

and you never cared

oh if only i had more say to who my heart decides to love

but no, I’m always left a helpless slave to the pulsing inside my chest

and like athe voices in my head that cant stop screaming your name, i never slept or had enough of you

i craved the blood in your lips and the veins on your arms

i kissed you like i was drowning and you were air

i saw the light in you no matter what

like the dusk of the morning or an after storm

but you never cared

you never cared that i stock around

even when i realized you were more of poison than medicine to me

and i was so addicted to the way you made the hair on my arm prickle and the beat of my heart race

that i loved the toxic that was you

the toxic was killing me

you were killing me

but i never cared
Sally Morton Dec 2012
Before it became a crush,
we were family friends.
You slipped in and out of my parent's parties.
I saw you only in passing.
We were never introduced...

...formally, that is.
The first time I saw you out of my house
was that night.
The night we first spoke.
You comforted me and
cradled me in your arms.
I was with all my best friends,
but you and I seemed to fit so perfectly.
Some say we took those first steps too quickly.
It wasn't love right away, but I was
intrigued by you and your
sense of warmth.

After nights similar to the first,
I began to think of you a lot.
If a weekend would pass without you in it,
in me,
it was incomplete.
I yearned for your touch
and the way you made my skin prickle.
My lips tingle in the thought of you now.

At the beginning, it was simply fun with you.
Innocent fun with no repercussions.
That is when I learned to love you.
I loved how you didn't have a plan or sense of direction.
You were spontaneous.
I was insecure and fragile, looking for someone,
something,
just like you.
At first, you brought out the best in me,
showed me that when we were together,
I meant something,
and I will always thank you for that.

There were times when I questioned your worth.
Some nights you would engulf me,
take everything of me,
chew me up
and spit me back out.
You never threatened me, or hurt me.
I just loved you so much that I would do anything you said.
Maybe I was angry with you in the morning,
but I always forgave you the next time we were together.
Run up to you and hug you, and you would kiss me twice on each cheek.
Like you always had.
As if nothing had happened.
Somehow promising that tonight would be better.

From that first night to now,
our love affair has been consistent.
I always want you
and your smooth touch.
And even after every time you put me down.
You're always the one to pull me back up.
I've shared so many memories with you,
dark and messy nights,
poetic and spiritual ones too.
Every time I hear your name or
know that you are near,
my eyes widen.
I bite my lip and smile.
I get shaky and anticipate your arrival.

Some people love you superficially.
They are the ones who don't easily forgive.
But you know that I will always love you.
Some will try to tear us apart,
saying that you don't love me back.
That you can't.
They've tried and lost.
Even if I don't directly receive love in return,
the way you make me feel, and act, and cry,
lets me know that you do love me.
You are the only one who can hurt me
as much as you have,
and know that I will always run back into your arms.
Alan McClure Oct 2012
A certain quiet glinting in the corner of my eye
a prickle-necked foreboding in a sullen winter sky
An ultrasonic wavelength tuned to sorrow and to fear
comes manifest, projected through my wish to bring it near
A pressure change, a slamming door, a thought of things undone
comes seeping through the paintwork for a bit of spectral fun

And I can sit complacently and watch the show unfold
My perfect explanations make me curious and bold
I wonder how my brain will paint this misty-coloured scene
What face will fly from memory where no face should have been
I have no need for magic or for spirits of the dead
But seek the secret passages that twine within my head

And here it comes, as if on cue, parading through the wall
(A weaker man than me would think his wisdom rather small)
The wraith is clothed in folklore, stepping past without a glance
And I would laugh it off but for one ghastly circumstance:
For all my knowledge, nothing helps the second that I see
That solid as I feel, this ghost
                                                     does not
                                                                ­       believe
                                                                ­                      in me.
you see as i lay down to sleep

i feel the methane on my leg and arns

you seek have athena giving me methane to heal my karma

and i look like dai leu lama

you see i get this strange prickle in my leg and hands

reminding me, i need to be healed

i feel pretty crazy but i look calm and normal

back in the 90s i looked big and tough, but that ain’t for me

you see u am letting medication heal me and calm me down

so i can do what i want to do with my life

the prickle is allowing the methane  work through mu body

you see it’s because i upset athena with my crime i did

and every night athena gives me a dose of methane

so my mind and body can be normal

ya see i tried coke, but it didn’t work for me

but it is refreshing drink and in a way got athena to explain my brain and not be shy about what you say

you see the only way to completely heal, is to calm down and

not worry about people who hate me

athena is saying, calm calm calm

and i feel the methane really working, as i am sleeping on my chair

saying to athena to calm my aura
Tyler Loeslein Feb 2013
Goosebumps prickle my skin,
covering me like a comforter,
the first layer of a pile of heavy blankets
weighing me down into the couch cushions,
but no matter how high I turn the thermostat
or encourage the fire by stoking it,
nothing I do can keep me warm,
the chill of loneliness prevails,
biting through my defenses,
freezing my bones.
PK Wakefield Sep 2011
**** so little tremble(littletremblingthing)
you rough prickle, 'gainst my lips prickle
your day old stubble(idon'tcareifithurts
abit)and deeper digging mouth does
and those tiny splinters(asyousprout
yourentirelyquakingbody)get so
snugly piercing my skin i (but i didn't
care a bit even if they rip it clean from
my cheeks; those minute spears of yours
)pressing steeply even further i do
to get your fiercely pleasant muscles
up 2 1 startled splendor
(when you open sharply and cave out
one stifled ROAR,
Coconut Skins Feb 2015
Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You're off to Great Places!
You're off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You're on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who'll decide where to go.

You'll look up and down streets. Look 'em over with care.
About some you will say, "I don't choose to go there."
With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,
you're too smart to go down any not-so-good street.

And you may not find any
you'll want to go down.
In that case, of course,
you'll head straight out of town.

It's opener there
in the wide open air.

Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen,
don't worry. Don't stew.
Just go right along.
You'll start happening too.

OH!
THE PLACES YOU'LL GO!

You'll be on your way up!
You'll be seeing great sights!
You'll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights.

You won't lag behind, because you'll have the speed.
You'll pass the whole gang and you'll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you'll be the best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don' t
Because, sometimes, you won't.

I'm sorry to say so
but, sadly, it's true
and Hang-ups
can happen to you.

You can get all hung up
in a prickle-ly perch.
And your gang will fly on.
You'll be left in a Lurch.

You'll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you'll be in a Slump.

And when you're in a Slump,
you're not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself
is not easily done.

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked.
A place you could sprain both you elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?

And IF you go in, should you turn left or right...
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

You can get so confused
that you'll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place...

...for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a *** to boil, or a Better Break
or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

NO!
That's not for you!

Somehow you'll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You'll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

With banner flip-flapping,
once more you'll ride high!
Ready for anything under the sky.
Ready because you're that kind of a guy!

Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. there are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame! You'll be famous as famous can be,
with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don't.
Because, sometimes, they won't.

I'm afraid that some times
you'll play lonely games too.
Games you can't win
'cause you'll play against you.

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you'll be quite a lot.

And when you're alone, there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won't want to go on.

But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike
and I know you'll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.

You'll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You'll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life's
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and 3 / 4 percent guaranteed.)

KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!

So...
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea,
you're off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So...get on your way!
Everyone needs some Dr. Seuss in their lives.
Mary Gay Kearns Dec 2018
A ball of prickles sheared close
A sculpture in a park
Yellow segmented flower
With opening bud
A harsh world as
Hard as any prickle
A phone call to a newspaper
Editor
A cry for help
Lies in the light
Organisation
No trust
May this world
Treat you all
Much better
Stars in the night.

Love Mary ***
In my New Day I arose from my
screen-tent-squirrel-hole-flimsy-bomb-shelter-for-my-soul
and walked down to the banks of the Missinabi River
at the Mattice Landing
with dog’s leash in one hand and my right hand
leading lady’s in the other, hearing and feeling tall grass
swishing against my pant legs
and the crunch of course sand under my feet
that once trod fields of green tall grasses swishing
against my pant legs in the meadows and rocky woods of
my childhood and youth where I spent summers working

at my Aunt and Uncle's farm in
New Liskeard, Ontario and in the woods and along the banks
of the Lackawanna River just over the **** behind
the house of my childhood and youth in the Anthracite coal
country of Northeastern Pennsylvania, which is light years away from the land of my birth where I now live in this Northern Ontario port in the middle of a deep
                                     cold sea of countless
                                     converging
                                     never-ending
rivers
lakes
trees
swamps
bogs
muskeg
and mountains of snow
where snow white and black flies freely fly.

I am always trying to go deeper into the trees and bush
burning deep inside my heart of hearts to follow the Moses
that is in all of us. This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching
under foot and tall grasses swishing and canoe parting
water that flows deep in my mind and spirit once only
winding past burning villages where man rapes and pillages
but now also following a more
pastoral             idyllic             and super-natural course.?

A vagabond never quite understands the working-class
woman and man living their small dream with their offspring and slice of land. I thought they were all ostrich with head in sand. But I now see that we can't all afford to brood as I often do over the daily news. They must rise early the next morning, alarm clocks not set on snooze.                                             
Work ethic
Family hearth and home?
Days of scent
of freshly mown grass  ?
barbeques                                          
camp­fires  ?
coffee brewing  ?
children playing  ?
TV and music blaring ?
dishes rattling
in sink or
swim in the lake.?

Loosen the watertight mind drum and just dive into the
crunch of pebbles under foot treading fields of green tall
grasses swishing against pant legs. Not only wishing
but going deeper into the trees and bush burning
speaking to our primeval consciousness.
This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching and tall grasses
swishing . . . ??
The whooshing sound of wading in a stream streams
through my soul as I savour the body taste of wet gritty sand ?
between my fingers and toes, crouched down wet-crotch deep waiting long enough for minnows to tickle fingers and toes as mosquito’s pin-prickle skin.
Watching creatures much smaller than I gliding,
even walking on calm still water that we humans can only dream of doing in our motorised  sleep.??

I think I now understand . . . to not be constantly mourning the plight of man isn't being ostrich with head in sand.
I must keep gunning-off addictions alluring stare.

I must taste life
    Smell and feel life
        Enjoy life outside of my troubled mind

against the backdrop of the latest holy war
and the imploding creations of our kind.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
Sometimes, writing is just
Ink on a page, splashes
Of black
On white, shadows cast
On light, something that tripped
And fell
Just happening
To form patterns
We recognize.
Sometimes, writing is
Different,
The ink - which never changes -
Mind you -
Seems to shine,
To leap beyond
Its page,
Like the sempiternal clouds
At the root of
The waterfall,
Tactile
Everywhere at once,
Obscuring your vision,
Causing your skin to
Bump,
And Prickle,
All the while
Filling your ears
With the white noise
Of water.
It's when writing is like that,
When it seems to breathe,
Where you might read it once,
Twice,
And between readings,
The meaning changes,
Somehow.
The writer's pen
Has been left behind,
Still the story lives on,
Like it should,
Like it deserves,
And sometimes it's a vast novel,
Sometimes
It's a poem,
With three lines,
Five
Seven
Five
And yet, for all their differences,
They are the same: Two
Living, breathing, scintilla
Sharing
Ink-and-paper
Heritage.
Chris Apr 2015
.

A fog this night has settled in
Among the chiseled stones
With dates now carved of ending years
and places so alone

Shadows weave in dense display
Each noise our skin it crawls
The squeaking of the rusty gate
Like footsteps in the halls

Shaded in its own dark beauty
Garden glows 'neath half hidden moon
A rose's thorns prickle the night
Trembling winds carry somber tune

Voices loom behind the walls
Whispers of secrets rushed
Cries of anguish simmering ready
Betrayals are quickly hushed

And still we walk with eyes so wide
Shivering our hands we hold
Bound by fear this wicked night
Lost among the gravesites cold

It's my fault this nightmare eve
A shortcut sought, a new way home
And now we wander, careful steps
Deeper than the eerie roam

Finger nails against blackboard scrape
The whistle of a boiling kettle
Sounds that make me shiver and cringe
Maddening and unsettled

I imagine a band of ghostly beasts
Play upon our organs this night
Stealing our hearts, tortured minds
Now I'm clinging to you in fright

Hold me tight I’ll find an exit
Somewhere down this crooked path
Lined of shrubs with broken branches
Beating hearts the aftermath

Not much further, there’s a clearing
Just a few more steps to go
I’ll let nothing come and harm you
Because I do love you so
A collaboration with my amazing and beautiful girlfriend. Her verses are in italics
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
that you may read poetry without a tongue, with a plight
of sore eyes, of eager eyes, only eyes,
and shelter yourself from the rain
with a hand agreeing to greet it falling extended:
plucking mushrooms as you
might be reasonable meeting it with
umbrellas - but umbrellas
far beyond the flowery gutter of scent
and decaying ambition where the frugal
fungal arise like lechery of goblin ****
celebrated - some might add
a dice throw of Macadamia nuts -
eyed i too you the death-stinker;
this is the English revision of Zulu -
primitive tongue extended into abstract,
by those speaking English as foreign,
my English is an English reversed on
the colonialists - its a robbing tongue when
effectively used, with this in mind
i'm starting to think the Irish are bigger *****
than the Welsh even with the middle exported
as V into France and the longbow-men -
remember the antonym of German compounding
is the hyphen in English - optic talk -
failed rubrics of arithmetic for one,
failed rubrics of spelling the other -
i wish you knew English as well as you once
you knew Swahili - i actually wish you knew
Swahili ably talking to you grandparents...
i'm not your grandfather, even though
i wish he wishes he was -
you became gluttonous in tongue as they in body,
fat overdose from mono-linguistic apartheid -
you let them undermine the bilingualism
inherent in you... the Prussians
and the Russian and the Austrians never stole our
tongue... of course we devolved it borrowing
too many words, but loan nouns are never able to evolve
into slang, into urban talk that deconstructs nations,
where once was France now there's only Paris,
the same with England and London;
that you may read poetry without a tongue,
and make tongue read unto mind a Braille -
goosebump fidgety prickle - sour palette without
saying Thai in York - for the eyes to see the deformity
at hand, for the tongue to turn silent for one evening
alone, Venetian snares of the omni- eyed fake
entrusted with Cerberus' oath (only howl a wake
when your master Hades passes into the Styx for
voice of democratically reprimanding judgement over all
souls to arise from droplet into their own content
river form); for i too would have taken to resurrecting
the tongue, but the tongue was forgotten for a purpose
of agility in sports and un-thought poetics of excessive
rhyme, hardly the jazz, hardly the blues,
and hardly poetry - jazz i agree beyond measure a mint
cloud among the down-pouring heavy-clad-grey-clouds
of Mozart - i admit the blues the invigoration -
but rap? rap i just don't get.
me and this homeless man just laughed it off:
and i'm a Brazilian (blue tracksuit bottoms,
yellow t-shirt, green hoodie) - Eminem nemo Emo?
get the beach bleach out... we're going to stain those
starfish as coordinates' worth of horoscope... twirling
twirling twirling... cartwheels a'hoo a'hoo a'hoo ha hey.
i mean, sorry, i don't get the "hood" -
i don't get post-grunge either... i think i'm getting old -
and it's true what they say... the only black friend
was a drug dealer - wanted me to teach his daughter
to play the guitar... i said i listened to Bob Marley's sons
and he said i listened to culture -
racial stereotypes can be fun, i guess, if you're honest
about them... keen on the Illuminati,
so i said: anything better than Kubrick's eyes wide shut ******?
n'ah? hell, if it can't beat that, what's the interesting part?
or as i itemise the rewards the Koran states...
those 72 virgins... is that a metaphor for gym membership?
if you're a lazy drunk like me... the last thing
you want is 72 eager beavers.
Kelly McCarthy Jan 2014
A swift
gust
the edge
of the cliff
a prickle
of dust
and pine.
Soft guitar
thrums.
Drums steady
and
deep
a beckoning call
Of nature’s
divide
the loss
of technology
the freedom
of the world.
I
hear
on golden
wings
she’ll carry me
to a land
not
touched.
The wild
a soft
rain upon
my gritty skin.
With
eyes
bared
closed
you’re
flannel
touch
will waken
the lulling
loons
and
the
haunting
questions
of big eyed
souls
listening
to
constellations.
A
soft
papery birch
kiss.
Forever
will
be
remembered
beneath the wild
yawning
beasts
in a flurry
of cabin
logs
and
smoky lungs.
Inspired by the music created by Danny Schmidt.
Dhaye Margaux May 2014
BLOSSOM


Flower
Beauty under the sun
It dances with the wind and rain
And brings feeling of serenity
Blossom



****


SPINE




Prickle
It makes deep cuts
That make one cry in vain
Protected  beauty in its own
Spine
Cinquain
Cinquain is a short, usually unrhymed poem consisting of twenty-two syllables distributed as 2, 4, 6, 8, 2, in five lines. It was developed by the Imagist poet, Adelaide Crapsey.
Another form, sometimes used by school teachers to teach grammar, is as follows:

Line 1: Noun
Line 2: Description of Noun
Line 3: Action
Line 4: Feeling or Effect
Line 5: Synonym of the initial noun.
Mahesh Hegde Sep 2013
Stairs were moving up and he was treading down,
Audience were clapping their hands with laughter for this old clown.
Eyes weary, smile his companion, his moustache and the beard were brown.
Humiliating bullets manyatimes fired at him, he would take it without a frown.

In his room went he and locked himself inside,
Sat on the floor and opened a book that was beside.
Some pics of shattered houses while some of people on a roller-coaster ride,
His face which was used for creating expressions comic, tragic and at sometimes pride,
Now was so expressionless like the beach at high tide.

His heart bore too much to take more in it,
But vague just another friend of his helped to take in bit by bit.
Passion of his used as a sample for experiments taken on a slit,
Happiness was like somthing which didnt arive even in discreet.
And the tests of life, still he undertook, with full grit.

So the book contained nothing but his family memories,
In those was living his soul where he loosened all his worries,
Remembering the days when his daughter in her tiny hands offered him some berries,
But then these memories so silently he burries,
And these surreal moments he drinks off with perries.

Closing the book, finally he got up filled with sustain,
Cause fate was decided, and now, didnt matter, even a prickle of pain,
Opened the **** he passed through that smoky corridor again,
Going to the people to be a clown for them all that wid him which remains,
To spread smiles and laughters on faces of people hiding his own pain..
MH..
Amanda Evett Oct 2010
I saw you in the mirror today.
I washed away your sleep and saw your eyes opening with the light of day.
I touched the sorrow in your cheekbones and felt the blood
in your brow.
What the hell happened last night?
Your eyes- for once, I can’t read them. Can I see what you have seen?
I reach out and,ouch, all I feel is your hurt…
No, no, don’t look away, don’t look away, chin up-
I’m sending you my love.
Remember the summer?
Remember the rain and the tickle, prickle, vivid, candid sensation?
Remember your first kiss? And how he missed?
No, no, return to the sunny day.
Yes, I feel the split skin now, too.
It’s a web of truths I don’t understand.
I see the darkness.
Come on, snap to- I’m losing you, I’m losing you
I’m losing who you are come on show me who you are
WAKE UP

Yes, yes, when I close my eyes, I can’t believe the sight.
I don’t know how to calculate the escape velocity from Earth’s orbit-
I fall asleep in astronomy, too.
Your eyes are pools of passion and I see them fragmenting.
You aren’t allowed to curl up and die, remember?
Not when friends still visit and mothers still call and strangers still say hello and I LOVE YOU still exists even if it sometimes feels like an alternate universe and yeah life ***** and waking up and being the one in pain hurts but you
are a butterfly
Beautiful, agile, free-
Flight, yeah, it exists!
Look, I’m wiping away your tears,
Remember that there is no true fear.
Dawn still comes.

Dawn still comes.

And I love  you.
MoMo Nov 2012
After making love we hear footsteps,
Quiet patter of bare feet on the finished oak floor makes us freeze.
No more after-the-act pillow talk.
I feel her skin prickle with fearful goosebumps, her breath catch in her chest.
Her husband doesn’t know.
As the slow beat of our hearts becomes erratic,
They stop.
Silence.
The door creaks as its pushed open
Ever. So. Slowly,
Making me think of a bad horror movie.
The greyblue sheets whisper
Over our sweat damp skin as she clutches them to her *******;
Her impenetrable shield, leaving me cold and exposed.
I want to hide.
Every atom in my body screams at me to do so.
But I lay here, waiting for the creeping door to reveal the intruder.
I listen to her whimper as he looks over us, sprawled across the bed.
His eyes, her husband’s eyes,
Are pinned on me and his face is flushed
I assume with anger as he stalks towards me,
Reaches for me.
The bed sinks as he leans over me,
Not saying a word.
Paul M Chafer Dec 2013
Sauntering casually,
jostled by shoppers,
teatime bargain hunters;
curses of common folk
ringing in my ears,
out of tune with
the cries of the traders.
Two for one here!
I say, two for one here!

Embattled in the
throng of a slow
moving crowd, shoulders
heaving, swaying to an
inaudible beat.  Tired
faces marking time,
quelling inner frustration.
Get a move on!
Please, just get a move on.

Now it’s raining,
incessant needles
prickle my face.
Suspended water droplets
dangle from striped
awnings, reflecting
trapped, busy, images.
Caught in a moment.
Spattered, in a moment.

Then I see her,
the fruit-stall girl,
her words and gestures
touch me like music
rippling over my skin.
Secret caressing fingers,
bringing me to life.
She doesn’t see me.
No: she doesn’t ever see me.

I’m almost mesmerised,
by the light catching
the white curve of
her neck.  Her hair,
like spun gold, dancing
on her ruffled collar as
she serves with a smile.
Your change sir.
Don’t forget your change sir!

I turned for home,
head bowed, shoulders
stooped; no crowded bus
for me with standing
room only.  A slow
solitary walk, past
dark, dripping gardens.
Her face for company, how
strange: her face, for company.

© Paul Chafer 2014
For a ******* Doncaster market. Name unknown.
K Fitzgerald Aug 2014
there are bullets from told centuries
in my bones but this year has
ensnared them with flowers
so that i have crumbled in prickle
and thorn; i am too feeble for
the battlefield now, i have lost
my luster, have been scrubbed down to
sullied brass and **** without
purpose.

i want to bleed
the rose petals out of me
and make myself
a target again.

— The End —