"prowled" poems
The line didn't move, though there were not
many people in it. In a half-hearted light
the lone agent dealt patiently, noiselessly, endlessly
with a large dazed family ranging
from twin toddlers in strollers to an old lady
in a bent wheelchair. Their baggage
was all in cardboard boxes. The plane was delayed,
the rumor went through the line. We shrugged,
in our hopeless overcoats. Aviation
had never seemed a very natural idea.
Bored children floated with faces drained of blood.
The girls in the tax-free shops stood frozen
amid promises of a beautiful life abroad.
Louis Armstrong sang in some upper corner,
a trickle of ignored joy.
Outside, in an unintelligible darkness
that stretched to include the rubies of strip malls,
winged behemoths prowled looking for the gates
where they could bury their koala-bear noses
and **** our dimming dynamos dry.
Boys in floppy sweatshirts and backward hats
slapped their feet ostentatiously
while security attendants giggled
and the voice of a misplaced angel melodiously
parroted FAA regulations. Women in saris
and kimonos dragged, as their penance, behind them
toddlers clutching Occidental teddy bears,
and chair legs screeched in the food court
while ill-paid wraiths mopped circles of night
into the motionless floor.
10.3k
The moths followed the little square
Like he was a flame
The little square wrote a book about his despair
And the moths made a proclaim
The little square didn't like us
So he told the moths to find us, "the mess"
He told them to do it without fuss
'Cause without us his garden would be flawless
The moths came out to his garden
They found me and my kind
And pulled us out with a gun
Treating us like we aren't apart of mankind
We were put on trial by them
And thrown into fire
We were shoved into a room by 'em
And gassed because it was "prior"
Occasionally the moths were bored
So they played hangman with us
This was a game that they adored
All we could do was stare at the hanging carcass
They were our friends and family
They were the only medals we had left
We were too broken to be angry
So we ignored the theft
When the moths got rid of us
They went for the most damaged weeds
That often made us anxious
Because of it some did misdeeds
Some couldn't deal with the pain and fear
So those weeds jumped to the birds
On the floor they left a smear
The smears thought jumping would send them homewards
Though we saw death so many times a day
We were still able to eat and treat people with hate
It was because from our god we have gone astray
Maybe because we were all under weight
In our stomachs prowled lions
Our hunger was so severe
If we found stray scraps we would go for the ****
If you went for the food you were a volunteer
One time we ran out of food
So we complained even more
The moths got tired of our complaining mood
So we ran to a new camp door
We were often moved
We went from camp to camp
Of course we all disapproved
On the house that was based by our stamp
On each of our wrist
Was and inky black stamp
It was on the moths checklist
It was our name in each concentration camp
When we were saved from hell
We were all broken weeds
We couldn't even sleep well
But the ones that saved us answered our needs
The ones that saved us helped end the war
And some were normal citizens
Everyday we are grateful for their loving core
Even if we had great differences
Though the Holocaust made us different
And the memories haunt us
It was kind of a movement
Because now people won't walk into war without a fuss
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 8:40 AM UTC
There's a sister who floats with hungry collarbones and a razor-edged smile. She smokes sadness when she isn't ready to exhale.
She is beauty in fine art and wrath the colour of thunderstorms; the rain comes when she smiles.
Holier than thou and quick to judge, with antiseptic perception known to bring out the things you were not aware existed.
Addictive, those imprints from her feet will stamp all over you; nimble fingers puppeteering those who fall out of her thoughts.
She is selfish and always leaves, leaves, leaves. She ran away at the first tremor; she did not stay to watch the concrete crumble.
But she picked me up when the concrete friction broke my knees, lashed tyrants with her tongue and prowled behind the boyfriends that came and always went.
This sister whom I project; the image of her I mirror. She is love and laughter and moods that taper and flare.
She is a cluster of persons, a bomb liable to a detonate on a short fuse. She is trouble ailing in the best possible way; her flames light up the shade.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
There was a time that I lived in a place not too far
didn't feel so sure in my own skin
Tangled movements and mangled fur
my voice less of a purr and more just the wind
It's not that I'm bad
so much as don't know what's good
hard not to have envy
for that little red hood
He prowled through the forest
he growled there ever near
He knew not what love was
he lived only in fear
No he knew not what love was
so quick to attack
Anything to fill the hole left
by the affection he lacked
All the warmth of a grandma
he thought he might gain
by swallowing her up
unknowing his place in her pain
All the kindness of a child
he wished for so much
certain to have once
he made her his lunch
With everyone gone
He walked on in defeat
Wearing a red hood into shadows
With no love left to eat
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
Against the perimeter of my childhood backyard
cluttered rows of privet hedges produced
tiny ruby berries, easily crushed if stepped on.
They always fell from the branches
in the slightest trail of wind.
Cougars prowled my playground.
My parents, hesitant to let me out alone,
planted the bushes
in the hopes the cougars would
eat the Ligustrum ovalifolium and never return.
I knew the berries were toxic
and could make me ***** more than what I consumed,
a time bomb in my stomach.
Mother said the poison could make
me shiver harder than a winter day.
When, once, I raised a berry to my lips
Mother plunged forward
and slapped it out of my fingers,
a strange mixture of anger and concern in her eyes.
I was never to pick one again.
I didn’t understand the problem
until I saw two cougars laying behind a privet—
a mama and her cub
no longer breathing in sync.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
New-mown hay smell and wind of the plain made her
a woman whose ribs had the power of the hills in
them and her hands were tough for work and there
was passion for life in her womb.
She and her man crossed the ocean and the years that
marked their faces saw them haggling with landlords
and grocers while six children played on the stones
and prowled in the garbage cans.
One child coughed its lungs away, two more have adenoids
and can neither talk nor run like their mother,
one is in jail, two have jobs in a box factory
And as they fold the pasteboard, they wonder what the
wishing is and the wistful glory in them that flutters
faintly when the glimmer of spring comes on
the air or the green of summer turns brown:
They do not know it is the new-mown hay smell calling
and the wind of the plain praying for them to come
back and take hold of life again with tough hands
and with passion.
2.2k
She ran a boarding house in Boston,
But they used her size to terrorize men
And lead them to the lock-holes.
Or was she a lady clad in black ruffles,
Presented to the Queen in 1844?
Perhaps she was a racehorse
Foaled in Harlem and won a prize.
She had peddled drugs and run a gang
In the chaos of Civil War,
Black Mariah escaped from the darkness
Of Edison’s studio to roam the world,
But in it found herself re-imagined.
They named police wagons after her
It’s said, but no one knows the truth.
Did she cross the battle lines again,
To tread on civil rights?
Or swing the batons in Chicago
And fire rifles at Kent State?
She seems to take time out to charm
Gruff-voiced men who sing her praise.
She prowled the streets of Brixton,
In 1983, with truncheons at her side.
Through gas clouds, dragging men to jail.
Black Mariah is with us still,
Helping to create tyrants and traitors,
To stop the mouths of those who defy
She’s an accessory to the killing.
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 7:09 PM UTC
Therein lies the fur, filled with running wind,
Milkweed in the scruff, the scent of wild-wood,
Some mystery-hearted forest where pulse begins.
Therein lies the Centaur, satyr, and god-disguised swan,
Ageless wonders prowled upon by an age-old Parthenon.
You broke your wolf’s tooth through those haunches of lore.
Therein lies the fur, filled with barking dust and dandelion war,
With a spine that stretched back to the she-wolf and city-birth,
The peeled nerve of a howl once tremored your Aurelian lips.
Therein lies the serf, hunter, fairer hand, and lord,
From wattles and daub, the wandering-sands of Saracen, or Crusader’s moor.
You kept the path beside to remind that instinct shines as the holiest earth.
Therein lies the fur, the warm, ungovernable peasant of sleep,
Ever prophetic in your skies by eyeshut-trace of the hunting moon,
Twitching at the day’s thousand faces, all asleep in themselves.
Therein lies the soldier, nurse, chaplain, and fell-prayer,
Mange-like war is the whimpering season with its flea-bitten welts of stars.
You struck blind but true at the throat of gas-hissing war.
Therein lies the fur, outracing the rain and the spout,
Nested with more birds and Autumn song than rain,
Your sleeping ear pooled like cool eaves of the barn.
I sing once more like a boy into your unfolded ear.
Listen always for my ancient, choral voice and your chores of play,
And race earback to the sun in the belly-grass of your free-eyed fields.
Leave your last paw mark, torn on the red clay of my hand.
You are forever wrapped in human touch, ageless and aged,
And if ever the dark in madder darkness encroaches,
Leave black eternity to my faithful eyes.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 1:23 PM UTC
Have you heard of the great Klapi?
Who's wings magnificent help him fly,
Who stalked the village and made that his feat,
With a loathing heart that contained his heat.
Every day he prowled the trees
And waited for the King's decrees
Then he'd take flight and soar overhead
And force the villagers to flee in dread.
Until one day, he felt quite off
And feared he was becoming soft.
His fear was confirmed when in the wild,
The beast, the monster, met a child.
"Come play with me" the child invited
And upon the dragon, the child alighted.
Somehow the beast felt happy, at last!
And took off flying very fast.
The child gripped to the dragon's mane.
The monster finally felt humane.
And every day they'd play 'til night,
And the Klapi was filled with sheer delight.
The beast gave up his violent ways
And lived for love throughout his days.
The child grew throughout the years
And never had any fears.
Then one day the child so tan,
Suddenly found he was a man!
And as all men were to do their best
To **** a beast, that was the quest.
The test of manhood, his calling hour.
The rise or fall of his life's tower.
Upon this task, his future rested.
His way of life would soon be tested.
The man approached his friend, the Klapi,
A look of grief deep in his eye.
The beast felt his friend's heavy heart
For he knew now, that they must part.
With many tears and moments shared
Between the two who deeply cared
More for the other than pleasing men,
Sharing the bond that goes far beyond our ken.
A man grew old and racked his mind
For a glimpse of the friend he could not find.
So he imagined a story, an adventure, a lie…
Of youth, of fun, and of the great Klapi.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
Threatening demons prowled in hoards
in the mysterious outback of her psyche;
knowing this,she decided not to be perturbed,
tamed them, one by one with poetic mantras.
Now, they recite the chants of forces she invokes
as soon as she feels like going in to a cosmic trance.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Through the masks and obscured within the lies, lays the truth unsaid in which all despise
Too much had been appraised, and much was fitfully un-right, so vastly dark within folded light
He was King, and she forever his Queen, still they hold each others hands, a thrilling vice in which they teamed
Their faces lit with withering sight, flightless eyes instead of cocky fulfilled and streaming plight
They tangoed to flooded phantom operas and darkly lit scenes, set with bloodset roses and heartfelt keys
Bowing inside the night they longfully romanced, ballerined on fruitless olden toes that would soon become cramped
Whispering together, they flee against the mournless sounds, that crept and prowled outside the bounds'
Deciding a long time ago to dance their lives away, to live within the fleeting joy and feel their heartbeats sway
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
She prowled into my territory
looking for my hidden things.
She was quiet like a panther
thinking I could not see.
I knew my things had been touched
I could feel her energy in my space.
Little did she know
I was a fox
just looking for my bait.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
The car in the handicapped space
of the parking lot with the
Iraq Veteran bumper stickers breaks
my heart. I wonder if the sand in his boots
can hold the pedals down. I wonder if the
visions in his head can grip
the steering wheel. I bet some nights
he remembers that a hospital bed can be
a prison cell.
That hospital bed was not
my prison cell. It was a welcoming back
to the life I thought I had before, it was my anthem
careening through the dark. I heard it in the spaces
between their words. Their words were holes
drilling themselves into my muscles, I felt them
spinning toward the grenade that was my heart.
Once, my muscles were strong enough
to cover me like a blanket. I remember how
they sheltered me. I remember feeling proud
to wear the covering of my skin. I was a tiger
when he touched me. I prowled in darkness,
I slept during the day, some nights I remember
that a bedroom door can lock me up, my parents
locked me in a tower, they told me I'd be safe there.
Maybe I should have stayed inside. Maybe
it would have kept me from the car, the hospital,
it would have kept him from the war, maybe I'd be there
still. Maybe he knows how it feels to hold
an animal inside your chest, maybe he knows
what it's like to feel it shaking in your bones.
Maybe this man in the parking lot
can tell me what a gunshot sounds like
between the windows of your ears. I think
it would sound better than my own voice
singing me to sleep. Some nights, the lights
outside my window are too bright. I bet
he could tell me what that means.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 11:49 PM UTC
I stared out into the slums of a ruined society
Where the rich and the poor drew great disparity
I walked the streets that divided the city
On my left, the rich and to my right, those in poverty
The further I walk more sleeping eyes loomed upon me
A great unease befell with each shifting steps
The privileged stared down from their thrones
While the poor watched from below in envy
Politicians and conglomerates drew blood from the city's vein
While its citizens struggle to live through its pain
The rebels prowled the streets for their voices to be heard
Their cries silenced by temptations of ***** money
It reminded me of scenes from dystopian movies
Only this time I was living in its reality
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 6:38 AM UTC
Once upon a time....
When the darkness came to greet me at my door,
I would simply answer "She doesn't live here anymore".
And when the darkness prowled around my house to spy,
Why, I would simply walk right up and spit into it's eye.
Should the darkness have followed me from store to restaurant,
I'd have engaged it in conversation and asked it want it wants.
If that pesky darkness had sneaked up while I was eating chocolate,
Well, then it had to run, before I kicked it in the nuts.
But now in present day....
Should the darkness come and descend at times like these,
I am sorely tempted to embrace it, beg on my knees,
Don't wait until I sleep and dream to steal me away.
I am at times willing, even in the bright of day.
Send out your tendrils, envelop me as a blanket would,
and I will snuggle deeper still, If only I could.
But yet a spark of Once upon a time, stubbornly remains,
Just enough, on days like these, to keep me this side of sane.
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 7:00 PM UTC
My heart hammered in my chest,
Petrified, my vision was blurry
My body was shaking
From the reality before me.
His sharp teeth and pale lips
Pulled back into a hideous smirk,
His hollowed eyes
Filled to the brim with hunger
And his breath
Foul with every death
He had devoured.
My throat, constricted with
Anxiety
And my stomach
Screamed with uneasiness.
My living nightmare
Worse than I had ever imagined,
Feeding off of any hope left inside of me.
I could taste the bitter flavor of dread
Replacing any bit of courage inside of me.
I struggled to find air,
Terror gnawed at my heart
As he prowled closer.
I closed my eyes
Praying to whoever was out there
For a second chance.
Then cursing them
For letting this monster
Haunt me.
Everything I lived for
Would be gone within the next few moments
Tears of anxiety drenched my face
From the thoughts of losing everyone I cared for.
What did I do to deserve this?
Why have I wronged fate?
Why does fate bring this sinister creature to punish me?
Why? Why? Why?
I do not deserve this.
I will not be punished.
I will not let it end here.
I will not accept my fate.
I took in a deep breath
1…2…3
His distorted face so close to mine,
Leering at me.
My heart pounding against my chest
My mind screaming to run
But my eyes,
Stared dead straight into his vacant sockets.
With all the courage I could fathom,
I roared
**“You are not me.
You’ll never be”**
His stance faltered
My nerves no longer chained around me.
**“You can’t control me,
You are not stronger than me.”**
My bravery radiated
As he started to saunter back
Fear in his voided eyes.
His figure shrunk with every step.
**“You are nothing but a monster,
A beast.
I will not let you define me.”**
He fell back and squirmed under my gaze.
**“I may fear you,
But that doesn’t mean I won’t fight you.
I will, and I have.
And** I won."
With that, he crawled into the shadows
Where he belonged.
But he always lurked,
Inside my own shadow, attached to me
He was always an unwanted guest.
But he never hurt me.
He knew if I could conquer the beast inside of me
I could conquer anything.
I can. And I will.
Nothing in this entire world can stop me.
Nothing at all.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
My mind is as deep as the sea,
wave after wave they prowled me into the deepest corner of my mind.
The Demons are raging like those tides,
eats away my thoughts,
poisoned me with perpetual negativity.
Drowned me alone in misery.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat went the rain on the panes.
And the oh so grey sky was just trails of countless planes.
And those planes brought people past cities, past tiny lanes,
people happier than those on my street.
On the red postbox, was the peeling paint.
And the numbers on the doors were never straight.
And on many houses was a rusty gate,
that's a reality on my street.
Cats prowled the street like lions, a sweet thing I guess,
But even sweet things end in sorrow and distress:
A bird with no guts, a dead kitten, nothing less:
even good things end sadly on my street.
A pile of ******* all mouldy and rank,
An Amazon bill, one side tea-stained, one side blank,
An old can, crumpled, pierced, already drunk,
that's what it looks like on my street.
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 5:46 AM UTC
Frozen in thought . . .
the silver gray moon bends
the sun's will toward an earthly
gravel grave in the Walker County
strip pit .
It was only yesterday . . .
when the Cougar Eliminator
prowled the highways of disappearing
white stripes seeking a crescent city moon that lays naked in the bending arms of it's river lover
"Drive !" , he said . . .
so I hit the pedal hard spinning tires
and burning up the moments in haste
that I would someday regret throwing
to the stars
Like a wolf howls at the moon . . .
we howled at our youth . . .
so far from home unaware we were truly all alone in bent light of folly
The horizon cradled the moon . . .
slipping beyond the bridges of our possibilities and I am thinking of Macbeth blowing out his candles
"Drive !" , he said . . .
life is a stage , a highway going forward measured by our distance divided by time we are so defined
I have driven to the moon . . .
collected sunbeams and bent the light
and drove back howling with a midnight's voice warm in the south by southwest winds
So I will drive on . . .
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 3:16 AM UTC
*What did your face look like
before your parents were born?*
-zen koan
When I was a seven I wore a mask for the first time,
the head of a lion, hand-painted,
whiskered and grinning.
That night I prowled my childhood
neighborhood, clawed at doors,
took candy from strangers.
The world was small then, my face
encased in cardboard, thin slits for eyes,
and still I remember, even at seven,
sailing inwards, watching the dance of a candle
flickering in the belly of a gourd.
I watched it shift shape, twitch
to reinvent itself again and again,
capable in that green dim night
of blooming into anything--
cliff birds rising on warm
volcanic swells,
a fox in the forest, cackling
on its back in the ferns.
I grew light,
knew that I too was ember,
flickering mystery,
neither boy nor lion.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
*Inside, the cave claimed them as hers,
a silence strangely suspicious of itself
holding back the urge to explode, whispered:
"Love at your age is dangerous, handle with care,
see its blade gleaming with desires
make sure, you don't hurt each other"
A wing moved, a swishing sound heard
they held breath for a moment,
felt the nostrils fill the strong stench
of droppings of colonies of bats.
But the love pair going higher on the rungs
found it nothing, but an olfactory diversion pleasant
a trigger to get closer, snuggle, deeply inhale
each other's many secret scents, little known before.
Outside the cave light prowled
like a jealous lover jilted by the beloved,
resenting darkness that dances with silence
inflaming the atmosphere, dense in desire,
--a love intoxicant discovered by him and his girl,
Standing on tip toe, she rubbed her lips to his
match stick and matchbox spoke in tones of hiss
fire emits in maiden's first kiss, he remembered
what was said, on his way to a narcotic stupor
he forgot all the rest, the bats, liquid darkness
the trouble they had sneaking out of houses,
duping the thousand eyes of an Indian village,
in vigil to keep a virgin's maidenhead intact.*
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 6:43 AM UTC
I’m placed between your thumb and forefinger,
like a delicate specimen;
you would howl to see me
lost
to you.
All I can feel,
is that I’m one bad-arse narcotic
that
everyone
wants
to use as the
temporary
replacement.
Leaving earth to greet heavenly fantasy,
return to earth and greet reality.
Fantasy can never meet realty.
When you need a buzz, quick fix, roll-over-and-fuck-me,
craze, escape, high, exhilaration,
thrill, choice joint to smoke
choice dope to taste.
You get to feel high off my body,
hallucinate to my laughter,
get comfortable with my movements.
I get to be the substance locked in snap-lock bags,
passed around in secret amongst ***** hands,
thick hands;
fingered and rolled and breathed in, licked and tasted like precious escape.
I’ll become the gift, forgotten to be given over,
because it’s a dangerous cocktail of not being enough,
and being the exact thing you want to keep for yourself.
Kept in secret, kept as a prize,
kept as an ego boost, a rationed sweet,
the very thing always denied.
I get to wait for you,
to come back to me.
Crawl on your knees and hide the words you
clearly say;
and it’s a little disappointing.
For you, of all and everyone,
to admit you need my drug.
And I get to wait for you,
biting lips and drawing blood,
mental fog and drowned heartbeats in shakes and quakes,
time lost dedicated to shouting your name in my head,
time lost getting clothed to be unclothed,
in the dark,
on clandestine dates,
dark rooms, silent phones,
standstill and empty pants.
I can’t find safety hiding.
I can’t find safety in the open, being prowled upon,
dusted and polished and robbed
of my body
of my deserving commitment
of my feelings traded to be your
low key
replacement
until your other lover
comes back
walks in on me naked
with you.
It’s ok.
My work here is done.
I’m disappointed you would ask such a thing of me.
I’m disappointed so many of you have.
I learn to find a home in the most vacant of places.
Lost between the naked form of you,
legs sprawled for each other,
and the naked ghost you sleep with on the opposite side of the bed,
with me there.
To hide with people that hurt me the most;
to hide for the sake of people that hurt me the most;
to learn to be the escape you crave the most;
to learn to be the temporary fix, the temporary her you need the most.
I can only see it crashing down when she walks back in,
and you see me as the empty husk you like to stroke
and I see you as the man I hoped wasn’t so empty.
But you’re empty, scooped out like an empty ice cream tub.
You’re cold and melted too.
Any addiction can be solved with discipline.
It’s time for me to train you out of me, off me.
I don’t have to be insecure, because you seem to be.
Bye Bye Grenade.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 8:08 AM UTC
The night they shot Dr King, Stokely Carmichael pulled the pin out from the grenade in his heart and made ******* sure the world knew he and his brothers would never be weak again,
The night they shot Malcolm X, the liberals shook their heads, clicking tongues about how "violence begets violence", and sometime later they put his face on a stamp, taught his corpse to dance, taught their children that this is the fate of a man who never gives up trying to change the world
The night that Missouri burned down they sent in the tanks, steel goliaths prowled small town streets looking for anybody black, or angry, or conscious, or any combination of the three, and every time their guns went off a new revolutionary was born in rage and desperation
Who are your comrades gonna be when the cops kick down the door?
Who are your comrades gonna be when the drug raids come?
Who are your comrades gonna be when the crowd control rounds turn to live ammunition?
Who are your comrades gonna be when the talking heads condemn the martyrs to hell on a twenty four hour newsreel?
Who are your comrades gonna be when the streets split open and the riot swallows everything in its wake?
Who are your comrades gonna be when the prisons crumble brick by brick?
Who are your comrades gonna be when it all burns down?
Who are your comrades gonna be when we rebuild this world from the ground up into something beautiful?
When they tell you, "Do not resist"
Resist
When they tell you, "Your methods are too extreme"
Tell them, "By any means necessary"
When they tell you, "This is the way things are"
Change. Everything.
When they tell you, "You can't change the world alone"
Tell them, "Solidarity, forever"
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 3:29 AM UTC
He drenched himself in Ronsonol
lighter fluid, the irrepressible sting of it
stained my nasal glands
Flick, flick, flick---it started with the
puddle that filled the spaces beside
his body and it all happened so
rapidly; by the time I could smell the
pungent odor of his sneakers melting, his
jean-covered kneecaps were already ablaze
Something in his body turned the flames
blue-and-so licking him like an ocean's
stay in Hell had leaked through a crack in the pavement
Skin boiled now, blood and epidermis colliding
morphing into globules-bursting and bubbling volcanic masses-God, it's all
so much more horrific than those gore movies I used to
swear I understood -- the face of a male whom I had just seen
now blending into blacks, blues, oranges, and gooey-oozing blobs of tarred scarlet
Blackened muscle slobbering from bone, loose orange furls of hair that existed
mere minutes before were turned into particles of matter sparking
from the gluttonous fire devouring the whole of a human
I wondered what his last thoughts were, I wondered if the inferno
tickled his brain bits as it prowled about the vessel,
I wondered if the flame latched sizzling silk fingers around his
soul -and the colors such an act would produce-
If one is consumed
by all his hate
does it burn up the soul, too?
DDD
(2/26/2013)
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
I dreamed of a world where pussywilllows flew
And their soft bodies filled the air around me
The whirring of their evolutionary winged flight
Sent vibrations coursing
Causing every tiny hair on my body
To stand
***** ~ Alive ~ Eager
To reach
In surprise and awe
I dreamed of a world where Mother cats prowled
Nomads moving freely with kittens in mouths
Nurturing their young in the ways of the feral psyche
The air I breathed came alive
Charging against the boundaries of my lungs
Pressing, infusing
Ocean ~ Wind ~ Animal
The wild
Fruitful and untamed
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC