"purpled" poems
when god lets my body be
from each brave eye shall sprout a tree
fruit that dangles therefrom
the purpled world will dance upon
between my lips which did sing
a rose shall beget the spring
that maidens whom passion wastes
will lay between their little *******
my strong fingers beneath the snow
into strenuous birds shall go
my love walking in the grass
their wings will touch with her face
and all the while shall my heart be
with the bulge and nuzzle of the sea
50k
The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
It was good for twenty years, that wintering --
As if you never existed, as if I came
God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly:
Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity.
I had nothing to do with guilt or anything
When I wormed back under my mother's heart.
Small as a doll in my dress of innocence
I lay dreaming your epic, image by image.
Nobody died or withered on that stage.
Everything took place in a durable whiteness.
The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill.
I found your name, I found your bones and all
Enlisted in a cramped necropolis
your speckled stone skewed by an iron fence.
In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead
Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower
Breaks the soil. This is Azalea path.
A field of burdock opens to the south.
Six feet of yellow gravel cover you.
The artificial red sage does not stir
In the basket of plastic evergreens they put
At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot,
Although the rains dissolve a ****** dye:
The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red.
Another kind of redness bothers me:
The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath
The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth
My mother unrolled at your last homecoming.
I borrow the silts of an old tragedy.
The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry
A scorpion stung its head, an ill-starred thing;
My mother dreamed you face down in the sea.
The stony actors poise and pause for breath.
I brought my love to bear, and then you died.
It was the gangrene ate you to the bone
My mother said: you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide,
My own blue razor rusting at my throat.
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at
Your gate, father -- your hound-bitch, daughter, friend.
It was my love that did us both to death.
6.6k
Dinner is done
everyone's settled
the evening.....like the moon.....is full...
the weight of the night has itself eased into mine,
my expected moment of slumber...now distraught...
the Heavens are purpled
twilight drapes have fallen,
winds of March...bellow
.........my pillows
..............are hollowed
.......................by my elbows
......as a distant rooster crows........
i lie on my abdomen...legs swing back and forth,
catching inspiration, a word, a daydream...a thought,
i grab a pen falling, i grasp a journal, a book,
...............everything is within reach
but, not...the....long..................stretch
of hours....of a sleepless night...whence
....spiced...spiked...and sugared memories...
..........accompany me...and sail with me
.......as i cruise along this lethargic sea
'neath a silent dark, where aches are loudest
.........domed, by an unworded loneliness,
i am wearied by a flow, that is endless,
.....this minute...imagination is ceaseless
........i reach for my mug....but, it's empty
.........................i hear no liquid seething
this moment, a dark sea, should be brewing....
this hour, verses must be a river, overflowing,
...enfolding, this cool and starry, starry evening...
.......i am caffeinated....even without coffee....
Sally
Copyright March 23, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 1:49 AM UTC
The sprouting buttercup
dangles into the purpled,
doting sky. It's waxy spangles
nuzzle the moist,
crisply dewed, fluff
whilst billowing across merry air.
The yellow buttercup
dozes in spiced, lean dapples,
setting its soul ablaze in sumptuous echoes at the sheer
drape of dawn.
The teacup buttercup
outspreads it's wings
amongst tall spiked grasses
and wild flowers.
Shifting shafts and shards
of grass and glass
and forever awaiting the larks cry
which means its time to die.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
I am he
who blistered and
purpled his aching
fingers, upon playing
the saddest, dissonant
melodies out of
his old, untuned
guitar, whose strings
of somber used-to-be's
he ceaselessly strummed
and plucked under
the dullest starless
night sky; and
sing of his
weeping heart the
poetry of melancholy
notes half-composed.
It is me--
the lone guitarist
on broken avenue
who never stopped
playing his love
song of rue
since you left--
whose only lyrics
is your name
and your words
he dearly kept.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 3:45 AM UTC
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deny’st me is;
It ****** me first, and now ***** thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou know’st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than we would do.
Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w’are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to **** me,
Let not to that, self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it ****** from thee?
Yet thou triumph’st and say’st that thou
Find’st not thyself, nor me the weaker now;
’Tis true, then learn how false fears be:
Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me,
Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.
2.7k
Everything thing you are about to read is the whole truth, and nothing but...
she flew
via jet blue,
da coop
decamped urban lands,
leaving poet producing this
piece de (at-the-door poem-de crap) resistance:
Sad mad bad
where I asked?
a mountain in Mexico,
where purpled pink wild flowers decorate,
and the yoga mat is never rolled up
and post pampering included!
harrumph,
and worse,
exclaimed
**NYC got florists
and yogi masters
for hire**
with my sisters,
will commune,
hike by dawn light,
eat veggies day and night
and bone my body
with exercise
**Manhattan got veggies, central parks,
and occasionally a pretty dawn,
bone doctors extraordinaire,
don't you know the best veggies,
grown in Whole Foods in the
Time Warner Center?
go then, leaving poet,
sad mad bad
to salve my soul,
know this!
I am eating
a tuna Swiss melt,
French Fries and ketchup,
Danish made with Danish cheese,
drinking my fatte latte.
This my stress,
so well expressed,
but baby, be advised,
I am doing it,
in our bed!
all day tv watching,
crushed neath an inconsolable need
to do all those spiritual things
of which you disapprove!**
you went down the long hallway
at 6am,
you thot you heard me say,
Leila, you got me on my knees!
what was said but this:
*Save me babe,
from doing as I please!*
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
Come home from eagle-throated distance,
The canoe-tip of the crescent moon scuds
Into the silted, mud-bed of heaven.
Her face-dream beside the pine trees
The mollusc of purpled wampum beads shining.
Bury my hands, ninidji, in the eagle’s nest,
Carry my feeling words to her on wings.
Let her mix roots, berries, clay
and the feather of my hands
To paint her face with my words and these trees.
Or let my hands ripple like flat-fish
Above the silt-bed of her slim stomach,
Held there in radiant scaled warmth.
Lappihanne, the rapid water of our river heart,
Like an arrow that glides from the bow,
My people where the tide ebbs and flows.
To us both, the dark, golden edge of woods whispers, kuwumaras…
And the water arrow will never land,
But carried in my eagle’s hands,
I say kuwumaras, my love, and pierce through all darkness
To the empty path made full with the ripples of all who have passed.
My nika, swan of the woods, let us dive into the dark, golden sea
Of forever in the hills.
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 12:15 PM UTC
You say you love, and yet your eye
No symptom of that love conveys,
You say you love, yet know not why,
Your cheek no sign of love betrays.
Ah! did that breast with ardour glow,
With me alone it joy could know,
Or feel with me the listless woe,
Which racks my heart when far from thee.
Whene’er we meet my blushes rise,
And mantle through my purpled cheek,
But yet no blush to mine replies,
Nor e’en your eyes your love bespeak.
Your voice alone declares your flame,
And though so sweet it breathes my name,
Our passions still are not the same;
Alas! you cannot love like me.
For e’en your lip seems steep’d in snow,
And though so oft it meets my kiss,
It burns with no responsive glow,
Nor melts like mine in dewy bliss.
Ah! what are words to love like mine,
Though uttered by a voice like thine,
I still in murmurs must repine,
And think that love can ne’er be true,
Which meets me with no joyous sign,
Without a sigh which bids adieu;
How different is my love from thine,
How keen my grief when leaving you.
Your image fills my anxious breast,
Till day declines adown the West,
And when at night, I sink to rest,
In dreams your fancied form I view.
’Tis then your breast, no longer cold,
With equal ardour seems to burn,
While close your arms around me fold,
Your lips my kiss with warmth return.
Ah! would these joyous moments last;
Vain HOPE! the gay delusion’s past,
That voice!—ah! no, ’tis but the blast,
Which echoes through the neighbouring grove.
But when awake, your lips I seek,
And clasp enraptur’d all your charms,
So chill’s the pressure of your cheek,
I fold a statue in my arms.
If thus, when to my heart embrac’d,
No pleasure in your eyes is trac’d,
You may be prudent, fair, and chaste,
But ah! my girl, you do not love.
1.4k
Lonely time the silent partner my shroud of light untouched ? Stone horse caravan in flight beckons to your claw , to sail the truth of force untold beyond the gaping maw .
The trees a mountainous mirage , the
well of life , the soldier’s strife . Their patterns form a
vast collage , oming beckoning call of life .
Like the drips concentric circles they sing a
mighty tune , of the force that has survived the tide
to look upon the moon .
A camel’s **** with head and trail the
universal drone . We track across the sea of time
like unicorns we hone . Only to become ourselves
as we forge into our home .
Tomorrow is only yesterday beyond the here
and now . We all must strive within ourselves to
make the tortoise paw . To stand beside the endless
river and be what we can be , until we finally
become what we all need to be . Introspect the
bottomless key , to stand an island in the sea .
Pieces of jade in a sun bowl , the purpled
crystal queen . The fragments of forever continue
with the dream . Islands in the sun , speaking just
for fun , of what it is that out survives the truth
that hasn’t come .
God bless the child that has it’s own , gladiator
that .
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC
The policeman strides the concrete,
some poisoned daffodil
in his stage boots of tread and leather
and fear of authority.
Troll-like he emerges over the sound
of the head-dressed busker,
her simple song, her trio of chords
singing under the shops,
who despise her art.
And I, against the tide of footfalls
and ‘aww’s’ at the latest range
of lipsticks and daily distractions,
I stop to watch as her will falls limp.
Her squeezebox is strangled of sound,
and the music dies at the order
of an order, the noise pollution
of the High Street’s mating call.
Chair folded, she evacuates through
the traffic fumes, ‘cross the road,
and with hope, with fingers crossed
and eyes wet, I hope this is a retreat
and not a surrender.
Once more he strides the concrete,
his fluorescent jaundice coat
a warning, a reminder, and I see
his eyes mouth the words:
‘Your license please,’ he says to her,
‘your paper proof of your right to play.
What profit plan do you have in place
and who approved your name?’
‘You can’t call yourself a busker’, he says,
‘much less an artist or work of art,
which talent show do you hope to enter,
to validate your part?’
‘Your part in this wholesome land,’ he says,
‘how you do your bit, your profits large,
because our economy is going asunder,
and so we have no time for art.’
‘So it’s with no due regret,’ he says,
‘that I’ll send you on your way.
And if with you goes the death of music,
well that’s just progress made.’
And so I walked away from this scene of
deflowered and purpled hope,
my stomach wrought with injustice
and no nicotine in tow.
And it is to this table I am sat,
with just one vocation upon my mind;
to reclaim her song, now sung in silence,
and steel her memory in time.
And it is to this table I am sat,
with everything on my mind,
to tell of what I’ve seen,
to indulge another rhyme:
Sing to me your sorrow,
sing unto the skies,
play to me your pleasantries
and please purge me of my lies.
Pay us with your sorry tune,
pay us with your life,
all your forsaken childhood dreams,
your faded hopes and strife.
And please,
bathe me in this sunlight,
and bathe me in time,
scour me with city streets
and allow me what is mine.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
out in the mountains,
when my feet are pressed and purpled
from pushing the world to roll her callused breast,
then each breath, deservingly,
funnels the friction into fire.
but here our milk flesh thumbs
flick the ridges of the flint
and through trees we **** a Bic
just to exhale flame again.
oh-two deprived at altitude
or getting high with all the dudes
you’d count them as two trails that lead to the same place
but that’s just what the map says.
neurotransmitter math has
sold, by weight, the dopamine
wrapped like gods great gift
in threads of nervous lace
and you forget that different paths
never summit the same
if steep, or shallow, the peak can be
epiphany pleasure or just good ****
in green pill bottles, they trap the trees
and plastic cages hang on me
when the weight of our minds
bends our necks towards the asbestos sky
where porous plains of ceiling tile
have us counting holes in the light
so you see my disappointment,
when you were too ****** or drunk or cold
and said it would be better
if we just went inside
as we circled up the stairwell
you stepped easily on plaster pieces
of white ceiling that had fallen to concrete
perhaps it is from fear
that some can find a comfort
having heavens built so brittle
that they crumble within reach
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:38 AM UTC
Purple
All my thoughts of you are purple.
You will ever be inky,
Regal,
The last colour of the rainbow.
Lush berry stain
And a famous rain.
Pools, purpled with the heart of the moon
through thunderclouds,
Viscous and inviting.
Amethyst lover.
A rose dappled with dew.
As if it wept
Like my bruised and aching heart.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC
A barren home,
but not of things,
where silence wanders
curiously
down the empty halls.
"Who's there?"
She stands to peek
through door ajar
at the dust ::BOOM::
on the floor. ::BOOM::
Nothing's stirred
and all's in place
and all is still
but subject’s face:
fieldstone hues
and wrinkles too.
A desol't eve
in fickle blue,
she’s marching dusk
with throated heart.
Purpled cirri
and pinholes white
high above her
stalwart ceiling.
Shunted thought.
Listless thunder.
Turn on heel
to pinioned sleep;
a reeling sanct,
an effete lover.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
With nine iron rods
We held the gods
Balanced over jam jars
Then with nine iron bars
We broke those jars
And kissed the gleaming
Crystal knives left behind
Later we spead
Their essences on pumpernickel bread
We were glad when their folly
At last rested in our bellies
In the confusion
Of our purpled splintered mouths
We smiled
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC
He washed his hands in the Caño Cristales.
Five colours of healing bruises put to pasture
Within his purpled veins. There was blood again;
He was now a resident of Earth.
****** hair had grown wildly into a half-beard.
He scratched at it in the Columbian sun,
Sweating in the lack of British rain
And thinking of all the miles he had
Put between the two.
He’d spent all his life combing the mirror.
Combing the mirror and expecting change;
An escape from vanity publishers and
Celebrity snapshots. Combing the mirror,
And so always ending up in the same place.
Searching his memories of Peruvian plains,
There were diagrams set by the former residents.
He took out his folded notebook and started on
The Brand New Testament; before throwing
Its ashes into the liquid rainbow.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
When sleeping poets do dream
Do they dream at certain times
the same dreams as us, you, or I
Long love dreams without an end
Spiders winding and toads weaving
Tiny cockle shells or huge daffodils
Cold hearts melted or fried ones too
Loves not gone the other way again
Falling off, falling in, falling down
Purpled eyed women and wiggly men
Nightmares arriving never in time
Time speeding up to stand still again
Summer nights in dripping red clouds
Rain falling up or tasting sour winds
Chased once around the world twice
Losing anyway the long way back in
Winning big green coins for jumping
slow trains to nowhere, now there anywhere,
and everywhere not here,
running on tilted electrified blue time
Inhaling the soft touch of perfect love
including all the ugly ingrown warts
Coughing up butterflies into the pool
with the squishy muddy zombie eyes
Echoes heard louder with both eyes
Coloring skies without knowing why
Flights to there with wings of flame
Swallowing rainbows to taste the gold
Colors amongst us walking, talking
Phantasmal fast riding beasts
sinuously moaning oh white *******
drifting with silver temptation winds
Tripping over sounds under tall feet
blowing them in retort not too,
but three, five and one dime more
Fantastical things, ordinary for all
Then perhaps, they maybe dream
Mostly all the same as us, you or I
Of course, that may mean, we,
Could someday be real poets, three
Yet we know the biggest difference
Between a real poet or not, must be
not so much in sleeping dreams
but in those precious awakening dreams
© 2017 Jim Davis
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
Where, oh Heart, is the answer?
In man’s olive iris that pines
capsule of soulish vines stretching
by the water in that memory…
First pink touch: the long name,
Which you say is so
easy on the eye
In catching dim fair soft lights
blown in gloom’s silver odds
between two old pages or
News soaked in a gray ink drop bath:
The blending of war broken out on earth’s cheek
With the gossiping red margins and
Something eerie on the last page…
I step on it, walking straight.
In still mindfully begging
Oval windows on the church ramparts:
Is it in the epoch
Womanhood?
In the sore ****** in the sore slits
Dribbling pollen of wounds of
Nickings, gyps, slights, losses
Is it in a stasis
Forested with chocolate and sisters
Purpled bedtime music boxes
Dreaming or in the moment I
Stir my bland corners with song
Not in victories banners cheering
Hunched labor in running
Something we get when winning
Is it in a process
That wrinkles like skin, then spots
Or hangs over the path
A great moss and changing
the wintery company of foliage and twig to
fire and blossom,
in the birth of death and growing?
is it in kissing or eating before praying
like guilt yellow as bruised pear hips
that melt to brown in your fingers
Should I see or hear or feel it
in the man himself, meat of his fine muscles,
his heart's voice, the buried hunger pang,
it speaks
or in his prayer's slow sadness,
black as the tomb's passage and
can you answer?
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
you don’t face me when we sleep
and I lie awake, composing couplets of it
then you palm at my lips and mumble
secrets I wish I would have kissed you
that night in the rain I wish you would have
kissed my toes when I pulled them
from their dripping socks and laid in your bed.
we come up with a hundred excuses not
to touch but I see lost love everywhere and resent
not bringing it to my breast
the lonely hate the fulfilled because they
are kind of dead we pile our emotions into
the bathtub until water dilutes them to fine
powder we build concoctions of
not knowing what the opposite ***
feels like even they’ve purpled my heart with
a bruise and cannot sleep in bed with you
he whispers I wish we would have kissed
so you were not lonely I wish you were my toes.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
'Dutch Bakery' in purpled-neon, lights of the cross-street behind slink outward vis reflection projected unto Liquor Plus, Empire Theatre. Kind and married-typical common law couple with a fellow looking feel-low sits with pack atop his lap, tapping bottom, fidgeting leg. His partner whispers 'shall we go for coffee?' and he seems a little fizzled to respond with 'yes, ha ha, yes!'
They all look tired on the bus and I'm wired on the bus, a psychoactive passion for coffee in all forms the general complicit in my make-up brazier. The fuzzy-muffled image in the dark beyond the moving windows are like ground-level star-scapes hopping from eye-to-eye. No one here can see they're part of the greatest story ever told. Part Ten I etch unto a sketch upon a smartphone, I won't forget this moment and neither will the world. All of them I love, they love me back in some corrupted way. Won't admit the night is bright with kisses and arms up past the hemisphere.
Noting every quick fix is a way of ****** Brooklyn ****** 'MOI-da,' counting ways to be defunct. It's a long day every day, some days are handfuls and others vast oceans wherever. Spliced and shared between the masses, each mass correct of parts who think the masses are a giant individual with a fluctuating waistline depending on the era.
You can't help but come and ask yourself, 'whatever became of me? whatever began in hoping? whoever saw land in site?' before the histories rot in landfills, nothin more than sun-drenched wood-sheets, sketched-out symbols on a saw. and this, and this, and this
and this, my friends, is how the story told itself again
again
again
again
again.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
how don’t know to get the you in: a dis(miss)ing of anchorage, akin to ungrabable, purpled sky, and blackvelvet’s talks to morning sand. to get the you in: a table top of no greed. legs of giveness. to haiku the hell out of.
we are in the process of stunned voices praying to pregnant earth: word fruit meets wet tongue. prophet with no pockets up sand up. in a world that is to know what your sun exuding sounds like.
sweet loathing, singing cell. undernourished, remembering only two tons of. bites down boldly onto wear. ritualistic sweating betrothed to thecosmos. shake loose my skin. legs of giveness, and something that wouldn’t be about you.
or something about you that wouldn’t be. hiding in the corners of language that mask gaping unrelatables. Unrelenting maybeoneday. i’ll decide to hear you (sh)out. the italics of Monday evenings.
Black tea, bumps head into mosquito bites on your thighs. oops, sorry, can i hug you? sorry. So from here we can deduce thetruth that oops, can i hug you? sorry its obvious, tied. eyed our lives in one swoop and now i’ll never possess of a series of creeks,
primordial. Like when the earth’s virginity was lost to the last respiris of a first dying. you as a plethora of suntan lotion3. but lotion is lotion, like the sea, it cant be quantified or split up into in order to be a “plethora,”
and still there’s no one to rub down my back places my black places I can’t reach or see and so can’t mimic like a leglessness, a series of syllables.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
Beginning in the evergreens,
Where the waters run sweet as wine,
The skies sing out shattering,
The ground spins down below
His marching feet.
One thousand and one years
Left him in the earth,
And raised up Typhon,
Come lightning staff,
Come thunder breath.
Moving through the mountains,
Purpled by the sun,
Floods cutting through the rock,
Come traveling through the caverns,
Through the cloud's rain that tear down.
Eagles eating gods,
And green, green trees stretching hands,
He stumbles through the paths,
Going all martyr in the shades.
Eventually, his progression meets the sun,
That scorches shadows from their place,
Plumes of fire preaching,
Here he finds the meadows,
Melting all gone in the red and stubborn sand.
Oh and there he fights the priests,
Oh and there he summons hell,
From the sun that never dies,
And the seasons never change.
There go I,
Through the paradises of elephants,
(White and rouge)
Palaces of sultans in the sultan shade.
Armageddon heavens twisting,
Where the spindle-bound spires raise.
There go I,
Vagrant feet forging,
The miles in meter
And the deserts in their damnation.
Eventually, the vagrant finds the rivers.
Eventually, there he claims all Moses,
Running wild through these waters,
Cutting heel into valleys pale and pink.
Golden Hordes, and god-kings,
And paisley patterns branded in the eye;
There are the journeys going unhindered,
Where the snow meets the soul.
The vagrant with his body,
Naked in the mind,
Storm by boat in the dead of winter,
Warmed by sails in the dead of spring.
The vagrant going east,
Then around again and west,
There shores of silver,
Horns of plenty fallen found.
One thousand and one years
Gilded in the green,
Fluorescent accents smiling,
Sounds smelting in the foreign forests.
The vagrant meets the sea
After his trials in their numbers,
Blankets thrown up,
White sheets waving,
Clairvoyance in antiquity.
The sea is blue and washing,
The vagrant's eyes are marbled,
As the notes progression goes
The water kisses the air.
Pillars taller than the stars
Stretch to heaven forgetting,
There oceans rising,
And the tranquil music dancing.
Tripped out not wanting,
Rise and risen,
The scavenger surface
And the molten mound.
Poor traveler,
In his vision where all eyes meet,
The savage and sacred nature,
The hurricanes and blissful storms.
Poor traveler,
Not meet your end,
One foot in the grave,
Where a million, million angels
Carry you down.
And poor traveler,
King in concert,
There hills and crevasses crawl to him,
Call to him,
Leave all their pasts searching.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
I sat on the square of carpet and screamed
very quietly to myself.
I, the boy who
cried
melancholy.
I, the man who
watches his life
through his eyes.
I, the cruel ship that
glazes the waters of
a harsh music.
I, the silly hair that
obscures the face of
a murderess.
I, fit only for sleep
in the white palm
of an arthritic hand.
I, the child counting
backward on an abandoned
island.
I, glass-colored
and triangular like
the start of space.
I, the single ******
that begs for
a just spark.
I, the skin of glue
in a sweating
photograph.
I, the man selling
VHS players for
mega-discounts.
I, who clasped your
hand when you were
so very small.
I, an errant breath
in the postbox before
the empty Jones house.
I, keen on eating the
brick and mortar
beneath me.
I, who shall never
touch his face,
not even the one time.
I, in the midst of heat
and silence without
a single syllable of wet.
I, with a hatred for
your searching fingers
sticky-sweet.
I, sitting behind
long after the film
dies of exhaustion.
I, crayon and
8.5 by 11 inch paper
Valentines for violent boys.
I, second man,
forgotten man,
to my own movie.
I, grinning through
the lame as the
stitching wears.
I, strategic misery
on a tempest moon:
contemplating contemplating.
I, the laughing door
with a struggling ****
and no keyhole.
I, who commits
suicide every Tuesday,
Thursday, and Sunday.
I, with cigar boxes
filled with all the tiny,
grandmotherish pieces of ****
I, the knot that slips
off the head of a lonely
purpled finger.
I, and my
cloverfields,
and my rust.
I, with my dreams
about Japanese furniture
and magic, geometric roads.
I, dancing to a song
I cannot hear that issues
from a nonexistent room.
I stood and walked outside.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC