"retinas" poems
Filter the perfect shade of the forenoon sun,
Not too bright, not too dull.
For with ease and carefree thoughts,
You let the sunbeam-drizzling fairies play
As the beauty reflected in your retinas.
Capture this scenic view:
Where the burnt chestnut colored oaks
And mudstained sweetheart sundress of yours
Dance in three-four beats of waltz.
The Crayola strokes of the skies
And the watercolor streaks of daydreams and nightmares
Paint the canvas of your disquited thoughts.
This is the peripheral view from your suncrashed irises and corners,
This is your world.
Let your knees down to your sore feet
Be engulfed by the chasms of the bewildered grass,
As the smile makes it way to your plump spring lips;
Callused fingers from guitar strings
Twirl and twist the blades,
Cutting through flesh
And green and red and blue and yellow,
All sorts of color came spilling from your playful bruise.
From this panoramic view of yours
Of a wonder wonderland,
Where the ticks of clock
Follow the sunflower throughout time and forever,
This is the beauty of that stem:
A key to escapism
To a well-dreamt lovely world.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:30 AM UTC
Millions, trillions
And more and more
None of our finger prints are same
None of our retinas are same
Why do we limited to a group
All of our bloods are Red
And every heart has four chambers (arteries and ventricles)
Common oxygen to breathe
Why we are bounded to one group
Everyone has birth from womb of a mother
Every heart pumps the blood
But
Why we are confined to one group
We are humans
This was the only group
We had with us
Unity in diversity is what we want
It should not be limited only for sayings
We should follow this
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
tiny glowing squares
penetrate my retinas
and spike into my brain
quick-fix pleasure migraine
[a drug, almost]
six-inch screen turned shrine
temple television:
be my proxy
mother
father
friend
and
lover
digital aura glow
comfort and sedate me:
tell me i'm beautiful
tell me i'm right
tell me you love me
tell me you'll never leave my side
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
Paved thoughts
They lay
In naivity
Youth
Born into homogeny
Told
"Different is beautiful"
But taught
To fall in line
With the swaying ways
Society's norms form
Pin-up billboard smiles
Flash magazine swagger
On surgeon made bodies
Guide retinas of wide eyed
Youth
To mirrors
With disgust
"Different is beautiful"
We'll say
Yielding our whitened smiles
"Different is beautiful"
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
I wonder if the color green releases calm and renewal energies because it is the earth's carpet, magnetizing us down to earth.
I wonder if the color red wraps around passion and chaos because the blood in our veins rush evermore when we see something we love, and it rushes to our brain when our world turmoils.
I wonder if the color blue spreads hope for the sky as a crutch for those who have nowhere else to look but up to their god or to the formation of clouds that one cannot make sense of their cotton candy essence.
I wonder what color we are. What color does the earth reflect on us? Are we chameleons, morphing into different shades by the hour or are we permanent markers, bleeding deep? Maybe we are gray and receive color by what we surround ourselves with. That's how science works, right? A reflection of light in our retinas.
I am purple. There is a cloud of mystery and romanticism that shields me like a cloak, but my emotions run like rich velvet. Maybe one day I'll find a yellow who bursts rays of warmth. I think I would like to be with a yellow one day, the golden hour of colors.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 9:19 AM UTC
Twisted reeds sway gently in the wind as black seabirds slice the sky overhead.
Waves rolling one by one crash with increasing ferocity on to the rocky beach,
And I watch the red sun set fire to the spray while the tide encircles me.
Tugging at my feet, pulling me forward, it beckons for my consent. I give in,
And all is quiet even in such chaos. All is nightmarish and beautiful all the more.
The blood red horizon seers my retinas; freshly unleashed tears take to the sea.
These waves, such enormous swells, crash in on me; an unseen war is waging.
They press me down and back, and then drag me further into the endless blue.
Over and over again, repetition loses count, my outcries die prematurely.
Only seawater and air manage to sputter from my lips, cracked and worn.
Not a whisper can be heard out here in such a true state of despair, but not all
Castaways are without faith. The past I once cherished has been lost to the depths,
Yet a knowing tingle in my gut keeps me searching for a message hidden merely
'Neath the surface. Drifting deeper into my pain, I notice a curious thing:
The force of the waves lessening as I gracelessly surrender to Sorrow and the sea.
My feet torn by jagged rocks no longer felt, my eyelids blistered by the red
Eternal sunset, a few waves push me under before the siege of the sea falters and
I learn to ride the surf, taking each afront as it comes, whether predicted or
Suddenly upon me. My pain ebbs away slowly with the passing of each episode,
And with each wave I acknowledge my loss, relinquishing my burden.
Like so many desparinging hearts before me shipwrecked in the sea of tears,
I forcefully remind myself that one day the lush, inviting green shores of the
Other side of the sea will appear in my line of vision. Yet, for now, I let myself
Drift through the grief of grieving you, often unsure of whether I'm meant to float
Or should let myself sink toward the blackest crags of my mind. Here alone.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 11:30 PM UTC
Winters can be tedious.
Sun dips into early dusk.
A dead fire refuses to ignite.
There's a quick repetition
of opening and closing blinds
over a barred window.
In need of reflection
I search a familiar face
in an unfamiliar landscape.
I have her in my grasp,
half illusion, half real,
a symbolic mask denies
her true face,
her glittering crown
divides us by its radiance.
Groping in darkness,
I stumble over objects
of wood and stone,
my unsteady tread tripping
over their contours.
I light a candle.
Bathed in amber light,
our shadows merge.
A new door opens,
stretching the perspective.
No formal borders here,
they wouldn't survive
the present climate.
In their place,
intricately carved
figureheads and totems-
a vision of the past.
My eye is a camera,
retinas branded with imagery
for the photographer's delight-
coloured pebbles, carved wooden animals,
tin cans, bones.....
....A Glass Sentinel
(though she isn't visible)
I can see right through her-
a vision of smokescreens
and subterfuge.
Past stumps of driftwood,
past the uncut grass,
a few flowers...
...to the fabricated backdrop
of a burning house, black smoke
rising
in
a
thin
stream.
At the open door -
The Guardian,
(I know her inside out)
unmoved,
(she didn't bat an eye)
defiant in a new skin,
a softer version-
The Mother protecting her children,
arms splayed, prepared
for fight or flight.
A russet flame
Licking her spine exhales
'Get out of my way!'
but she wasn't listening.
Smile fixed,
eyes of a phoenix,
a lion,
a raptor,
protector.
We all need feeding,
but not this way!
Throw me a cloth,
a napkin,
a man-size tissue
a lifeline!
She wanted this,
no, wished it-
this symbolism,
this burning of ironic portraits,
to clear the deck,
make way for new.
It shook the house,
its fate sealed behind closed doors.
I compose myself,
pull her back from the perilous edge,
gather her in my arms.
Fragments of shattered words
flutter in the ether.
What is real?
What is fiction?
A carbon copy of thousands?
A charred corner?
A forgotten candle?
WARNING:
'Eating fire' is a risky business
but can attract a large audience.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
It's such a beautiful relationship
like birds cleaning crocodile teeth
feeding on what didn't make it to the stomach
these words rely on me
A vessel
and hopefully they don't
act like hermit *****
because without them
I would just be a ***
who drinks and smokes too much
But as long as I have the ability
to manipulate the world around me
in the chaotic rush
of my infinite mental expanses
and nooks and crannies
I can give them life
like a midwife
I bring them into the world
and name them poems
or stories
so that they might live forever
burned in the retinas of strangers
or etched on the wood of my desk
I hope we will always
need each other
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
The trouble with writing a
relationship through technology
is that the bygones are never gone.
Why do I pour a drink in your absence
and settle to re-read our old fights, heartbreaks
like *********** lips parted, heart racing?
I shudder through those weeks where you petted me, darling
but could scarcely afford to feed me the same heart
being doggedly masticated in the maw of another
I trace over my retinas the lines where you didn't,
wouldn't, couldn't love me, they scan me
for my identity.
My mug shot, beside
hers.
After how little it meant, how can you possibly love me now?
I could edit these now, you know, you're able to do that.
Everything I wish I had been and said.
The pages left blank, I should've painted red.
In the spaces, hiatuses, I recall your ill-suited suitors
I can't tell whether I feel grief, jealousy, or ecstasy.
At the time, you know, it was like falling upon
The Secret Garden
unbefouled by poison nor passion
to inhale the heady scent of white rose
and discover the brim of someone else's hat beneath the foliage.
The place wasn't secret. Oh, it wasn't mine. Never ever was mine.
I'm ahead of myself. Oh, for want of technology.
We courted on Facebook and Gmail,
it was a convenient torture, given the circumstances.
Now my mate belongs where I do.
Loving, tenderly, wisely true.
I cannot start loading the page for the future
so much as delete our archive,
a prelude to love
written in diminished chords,
sung by the jilted and ghosts.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
You liked her because her cheeks were pink,
And her lips were red,
And her skin was white.
Her face was like a Valentine,
And you were ready to give her your heart.
You liked her because of the black hair,
And smokey eyes,
And dark magic.
She was a witch
And you memorized her palms,
Hoping yours would be a spell
She didn't know yet.
You liked her, even when it stung.
She was like looking at the light in the dentist's chair.
She fried your retinas.
Your fluorine-filled mouth gagging you with cherry
While she got high on laughing gas.
You loved her, with the pink light bathing her
And your red lipstick thick on her lips
And her calloused hands squeezing your heart purple.
You love her hard enough to **** Cupid.
Cupid is pink, turning white.
The blood empties
Like cherry syrup.
The sky is dark.
Her lips are purple.
Your love is a crime scene.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC
my mum used to joke
that my eyes would turn square
if i looked at pixels too long.
i remember the scare
that my pupils would bend
into inky black stamps,
and my retinas bleached
from the machinery glow.
that i would wander the streets
only for children to point
and scream
while their own mothers tutted
'you still want that playstation
for christmas?'
now i'm grown up
and that vision has died,
as the streets are all littered
with others, square-eyed.
i can imagine their
xylophone skeletons as
their fingers tap fast
on the tiny blue screens;
it's no wonder we aren't
very good with
eye contact.
so
i'm sorry mum,
we've all been entrapped
in this pixellated blur
of technological time lapse.
and i guess all these
square pegs can't fit
into the round holes
that they used to be,
in a world that we cannot
remember.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
Last weekend,
one of your friends called me your manic pixie dream girl.
So in the movie that is my life,
I'm not even the main character,
just the quirky sidekick to my male protagonist.
And it's probably my ego speaking,
but I don't think that's right.
And I don't think that I,
of all people,
should be the one showing you the beauty of a world
that I only see in kinetic blurs and swatches,
passing by me in my free fall from this life to the next.
Because I tried once to see the world without a filter,
but its stagnancy sent me in a downward spiral
and somehow I ****** you into it--
into me.
And I don't mean to be your whirlwind woman,
destined to spit you out--disoriented--
somewhere that you've never been before,
somewhere that no map ever cared to acknowledge,
somewhere stained with my essence,
my idiosyncrasies,
and your new found head trauma.
And you're a rational guy
and I'm an on again off again rational girl
who needs a little help stilling the edges of her narrative,
who longs for a tether or a buoy
to keep her from flying off or sinking down.
So maybe if you held my shoulders to stop me from spinning,
my vision would sober up,
and I'd focus solely on your curves and your angles
as they entered my retinas,
while the rest of the world behind you
faded into blurry suggestions
to be adhered to by someone who gave a **** about them
And after you wiped the puke from your shoes,
maybe you'd see me focused in your eyes
and maybe, just maybe...
...you'd just call me your dream girl.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
on the night train to Vienna I dreamt
as the soft tangerine light bled into the windows,
tumbling down infinities of Italian countryside
absorbing into my retinas in summer shades
of dusk-colored haze
entranced I was--
a nervous girl of sixteen years,
uncharted valleys sprawling ceaselessly
at the beds of my fingers,
love languages my tongue could not yet
stretch its fibers around
freedom forming its hunched silhouette
just outside of thin glass windows
cooled by the night’s apprehensive breeze
endless, it seemed
the rumbling blur of possibilities--
my hands sedated for the first time in years.
quietly existing in the jolt of a moving cab,
the subtle ricochet through the faint lamppost glow
of fragile Austrian dreams.
home-- four thousand and forever miles away
and yet here was fine, just fine
a girl with stringy hair and a steaming cup
of midnight European tea
as her mother sighed to herself in the
peak of her American afternoon,
wondering whether her baby had found sleep
in someone else’s morning.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 9:22 PM UTC
I think I'm going blind.
I'm under the impression you've disappeared.
That you're gone for good.
That you've eliminated yourself from my retinas in order to escape my mile wide stare.
That you've constructed homes under tombstones hoping I'd mistake you for
A box of under-appreciated skeletal remains
Because all you've ever wanted is to be dead to me.
Like you wanted my eyes to forget about their day job and resort to conceptualized adultery
Because God forbid I commit to an honest day's pay.
I've never intentionally visualized imaginary fabrications.
But the truth is, my eyes do everything but tell the truth.
1. My eyes write monotonous picture books with your face plastered on every single page
Just to recreate your physical beauty time and time again
So the world knows your look tops my mind's best seller list.
2. My eyes climb mountain tops and skinny dip in stormy seas
Because sometimes crazy is the only way I can get you to look at me.
3. My eyes fly hot air balloons carried by the echoes of your soft spoken sentences
As if exhaust pipes could spew such sweet nothings into the night sky.
4. My eyes invade foreign lands with every intention of burning down
Prehistoric villages and discovering your secret hideaway because I too
Want to know how it feels to savagely destroy former sacred territory.
5. My eyes struggle out of bed every morning. Not even
Three shots of espresso can perk my eyes up enough
To allow the radiation you still give off enter my pores.
I think I'm going blind.
Or maybe I just can't see straight.
Or be straight up with you and tell you how it takes every part of me
To not gauge my own eyes out for betraying the rest of my body.
It takes every part of me to admit my misjudgments spawned the downfall of it all.
Because I told you I saw the two of us trekking through unfamiliar lands
With each stride another step towards our destiny.
Because I told you I saw something in your eyes
That gave mine the ability to smile.
Because I told you I saw us redefining what infinity
Looks like to the senseless visionary.
But my eyes don't tell the truth.
I'm going blind.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
Eyes switching gazes from right to left pupil. Stories held in thin air for a moment in the space between retinas. Words acting as weapons of mass destruction, hanging in the air becoming stale with every inch as each syllable rises into the atmosphere. Forever echoing in the ears of the listener, penetrating thoughts, clouding the brain, like toxic waste. Encouraging words must be found, they must be said. Dreams, inspiration. Into the minds of the growing, the moving, the future. holding the destiny of this world in small, and innocent hands, and wide eyes. Those eyes are the windows to the next generation and the key to the next miracle the universe begs for. Opening windows, and locking front doors, let’s pretend for a second that time is stoppable, moments aren’t lost, and people live forever.
Results aren’t final unless you ask them to be. Things happen we aren’t sure of, flashbacks your days dream. Having doubts that fill our minds wading through the nerves through the brain stem to the core of the cores of the armor. I can talk to my 13 year old self, and tell him that I understand, and that we’re still the same person, I’m just the shell. I can tell him everything I want. But he’s already lived.
In the mirror, switching gazes from iris to pupil. Lungs collapse as the phrases land on the younger heart of mine. Phrases consisting of the negatives, the outcomes, the results, the roots, the stories, the endings, the beginnings, the alterations, the alternations, the provocations, the imagination. Phrases meant to tear down, not rebuild. The destiny of the world held in small hands, clutched by small fingers, as the quotations waft through rooms. The rooms where they escaped ***** angry, and ignorant mouths. The miracle stares at the reflection, not knowing the necessity of the universe. Closing windows, opening doors, wishing the hands on the clocks of life can stop.
Encouraging words must be found, they must be said.
Let’s write history with the minds of the growing, the moving,
the future.
Nurture.
vi.xxi.xi
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:24 AM UTC
When I was a girl I loved cars and Kim Possible
And green rocks I’d find in the pebble fillings of our school playgrounds,
Because they were rare and therefore special.
I read twenty books on gemstones and minerals and stared at the pictures for hours
Hoping one day I could be beautiful and solid and reflect the colours
You can’t see
If you burn your retinas looking directly at the sun.
When I was a girl I became a driveway because I thought
If I paved myself with tarmac or cement
I’d be hard enough to withstand the weight of everyone around my heart
And grounded enough to support myself,
But the construction workers forgot to check for groundwater
And I caved in when people decided
To unapologetically and unquestioningly park their ***** in the handicap spot,
Mistaking the importance of my handicaps for the importance of their egos.
When I was a girl I became an asteroid,
Seeking a gravitational pull around a star that would give me a name and meaning.
But instead I found a black hole,
And before I realised my mistake in universal direction
Her gravity obliterated me
And absorbed whatever the **** was left
Of the force I could have been.
When I was a person I became a tree,
Rooted to the earth rather than separate
And absorbing the light for sustenance.
I’ve forgotten what it means to be hardened,
But even my cells have walls around them
And now I’m as afraid of the ground as I am of the sky
And brave enough to reach into both
And just maybe find some answers in the crust or clouds.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
Our father liked to play a game.
He would count each hawk
preying, circling above veiny tree lines
graying like shadows of industry.
There’s a redtail, he would say, look
at its proud chest and talons of mastery. Our
eyes searched for the creature, noses
pressed to cool glass and 65MPH speed.
Sometimes we’d catch the bird with two eyes, one eye
or none. Meanwhile, our father never took his eyes
off the road, fixed on painted yellow lines stretching
to heartlands down New York’s I-90 West.
With age my eyes became engaged, detecting
the slightest movement peripherally. Rods
in retinas distinguished plump plumes from leaflet
tufts, razor beaks from thorny stags, white breast from
billowing plastic bags. My sideways scan
of leafy fringe is an artifact of habit
when traveling down state roads of this infra-structured
nation. I search for evidence of its natural relation,
beyond all that is manufactured by the jelly-
spine of convenience, beyond wheels spinning
at deafening speed, beyond the grubby hands of greed.
Still, our connection to place is still here and Earthly,
coexisting in delicacy, like the hawk’s nested-blend
of twig and trash. I trust there is a chance for us yet,
despite cloudy puddles of progress, despite integrity
lost in capital gain, despite a forgotten native name.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
I belong to you
whether you like it or not.
ever since that celestial night we spent together reminiscing about how broken we both are
but not the kind of broken
that people are afraid to touch,
or the kind of broken that can be seen on the surface,
the kind of broken that comes with giving your heart willingly into hands that tremble and shake whenever they hear the word 'commitment'
what was it about your touch that made me forget every dark and protruding insecurity that paid rent in my heart
Was it the way the corner of your eyes wrinkled every time you blessed this world with your forgiving smile
was it the way your laugh sounded like every one of my favourite songs perfectly in unison
was it the way I finally understood what home meant when you grabbed me by the shoulders and told me that I am a song worth being sung from rooftops
Was it the way I romanticized the idea of us, two dismantled antiques on a dusty floor, neglected and unappreciated, falling in love with each other
maybe.
I'm not sure if you're 'the one' but I am undoubtedly sure of the way I wish I could replay moments we've shared over and over and over again and maybe some how download the first time you ever uttered 'I love you' onto my retinas
I am sure of my devotion to you and how it is synonymous with how the moon will never give up on the sun, how the bees will never give up on daisies and how we will never give up on each other
I am broken
and I am mangled
and I am terribly sorry
but I am also blossoming with love and the burning urge to finally define 'forever' with you, if you'd let me.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
Please.
Avert thy gaze
lest you want me
to place my eyes
upon your very soul
********** you down
to the sparks
in your bones
Stripped bare,
your cells will unravel,
the very tectonic plates
of your being
shifting and tripping
under
the ripe dew of my lashes
Please, do not spread your
silken milky way
of treasures,
all of your precious jewels
exposed to the light
of the darkest night
in mysterious pleasures
For they will reflect
in the blues of my retinas
You will be speechless
for the lack of need
for words
I will only handle them
with utmost care
unless, of course
you want it rough
and flung out into the ether
dashed upon rocks of our
liquid beings
in the mewing
writhing wild
of the dark hours
And I
will take the delicacy
of your petalsilk
and ****** it into
planes of healing
It might hurt,
just by pure release of pain
but I will rock you
after your skin has
sloughed off
to reveal earthen wombs
and ***** and scars
that are only made of the
fibers of our stars
I will rock your
tender vibrations
until your very soul
quakes and crumbles
trembling into the bright
the exposure of darkness
mixed together with light
So let me
gather you up
into the fragile sinews
of my very layers
of flesh
of heartstrings
of broken
and holy
incantations
let me pull you to me
in a whirlwind
of sacred and
blushing
spells
that roll, like
silent thunder
into the potency
of night
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
"I can tell you that Dada was a leftist,
anti-bourgeois, non-Art birthed from WWI
and not some aleatory root to postmodernism
off-shot from a lurid acid rain.
I know that diffraction can be seen
on horizons in the early morning hours
of summer along smooth or dentate curvatures
and that it can have hues of blue, purple and
a soft-handed massage of orange that gingerly
applies pressure to your retinas with sugar-water.
If only eyes had lips that opened and closed.
"It is said that action is the birth of Manyness
and that non-action brings one's soul back to the Sage Mind,
the universe of Oneness, the cup longing to be fulfilled and how
upon brim overflow it longs to be empty once again
because of the relationship between Yin and Yang
and how one cannot Be without the other
and why perspective can change "full" to "empty"
so that the vicious cycle can never truly, truly end.
The difference between French Vanilla ice cream
and plain Vanilla is the degree of creaminess.
Fill up a bathtub and let it soak into my skin.
"There is no way for me to avoid being prolix about the things
I speak about in normal, day-to-day conversation. Science and reason
have accursed me to traverse this reality with the utmost care and precision
of language and society has forced pseudo-logic down my throat like
a bird screeching as it is forced past my pharynx and larynx.
Its sounds are amplified, beak-blared from my nostrils, and its wings are violent,
stretched against my neck skin, creating a pale-skinned, ship anchor image from my shoulders up.
I'll try to sing for you when you reach my trapdoor, I don't wish to eat you.
"I do not believe in anything because with everything comes a something,
a reason for its being. They are, 'from reason,' 'in reason,' and/or, 'for reason.'
There is no escaping this thought.
There is no escaping criticism.
I will find the Truth, mathematically calculated to infinity
from knowable circumstance and perception.
I will know everything and I will believe nothing."
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
The Cresent Moon Dancing With The Silhouette,
Of Old Silos,
In A Ballroom Of Winter Air,
Completed With Hanging Glow In The Dark Stars,
& Planets Suspended In Spaces Endless Corridor,
Human Life Scarce For The Hours Of Darkness,
Except For A Few Nocturnal Beings,
Mostly Adolescents Sipping Liquid Courage,
Drowning Their Pride With Hearty Venom,
The Creatures Of The Woods Roam Freely,
Scrambling Across Roads And Frostbitten Yards,
Awaiting The Frosty Tears Of The Heavens,
Coating The Land In A Winter White Blanket,
Drops Of Jupiter Perfectly Fall Into Place,
Upon Rich Green Eyes,
And Swim In An Eternity Of Spring,
And Kiss The Petals Of A Sturdy Rose,
The Golden Gates Of Beauty,
Open And Welcome,
In The Cold November Evening,
Mercury Glides Upon Smooth--Vanilla Skin,
Enternal Peace Just On The Tips Of Frigid Fingers,
Slipping Into The Grooves Of Skinny Extremities,
As Gardian Angels With Rustic Gold Halos,
Reach Into A Troubled Heart,
Take Me To The Light
Drops Of Jupiter Roll Down Rosy Cheeks,
Take Me With You
The Cresent Moon Glitters Off A Radiant Dress,
Come With Me Sydney
Bright Light Fills Two Worshiping Retinas,
I Will, I Will
Rays More Vivid Then The Rays Of The Sun Itself,
Then The Green Irises Open,
Sadly It Was Just A Dream,
But Drops Of Jupiter,
Still Lay On Her Pale Cold Cheeks,
And The Cresent Moon's Light Still Slips Through,
Light Resisting Blinds,
And The Trees Whisper A Secret,
Which Was Shared,
With Me
Information Injected,
From A Vile Of Destiny
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
Headlights, LED's, burning bright
Into my retinas, reflected in rear view
And side mirrors, a radiator grill just
Visible, almost the outline of a person
Behind the wheel, androgynous ghost,
Mad Max or just mad, determined
To drive to wherever, faster than
Anyone else, cocooned in black leather
Heads up display laid out across sweeping
Digital dashboard, vying to pass me;
But what of the queue plainly ahead
Stretching to far horizon, vanishing point,
Perhaps it is supernatural, absorbing traffic
Clearing the way by passing through it,
An alien craft with technology far
Advanced from our slow turning wheels
Selfishly driving alone in our home from
Home interiors, gathering subjects
For an out of this world experience
Or maybe a time machine
Like Back to the Future powered by flux
Capacitor, it will disappear and turn up
Ahead of all of us, or maybe my imagination
Has run riot and it's just another impatient
Idiot.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 6:23 AM UTC
It's when your stomach
hurts
and you dont remember why you were sad and
nothing is really super important
except yourself
and you just laugh because you can and the sky is so pretty
and you can feel sunshine's essence exuding from the holes in your skin
and your bones are filled with electricity
but it's rubber
and you can do anything
ANYTHING
anything because you're you and nobody else can be you
and the world is there to look at, so full of pretty things
and it doesn't matter if there's somebody or nobody or everybody by your side
because it's just that perfect moment when the love in you body is a droplet
it hits the ground and wrenches itself into shapes
patterns that coalesce
you are enraptured, the sight is burning
into your retinas the perfectional bliss that is
being
the will'o'the'wisp that is your soul entangles with the white light and branches
the creature that is imagination and folly
folly with soft ears and kawaii smirks
*****
patches of grass
the birds are landing in your branches now
congregational hazards
social anxiety
disillusioned, giving in
but you don't mind the flocking free-loaders
YOU'RE A STAR
stellar beings never slow down
for a moment
unless they are enjoying the view
witness the retching as
spectrum slideshow
the colors spill out, tumbling
across the sidewalk
out of her veins
she is god
we are free
be happy
lift your arms
be happy
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
Everyday I am born to gods relaying
lineage through winged messengers.
****** radiance enkindles immaculate retinas
in solar flares
and picturesque mornings' idolatry.
Tones entrancing, blue jays
or northwest mockingbirds,
their range of majestic differences
eluding attentive innocence,
elation ebbs to pain's perpetual flow,
streaming hypno-suggestive claims
finding me inexorable
to beliefs I've not died.
Impassioned voices usher me through,
by mid-day I've learned
to speak their tongues,
strange hisses
and twisting trebles
an attempted appeasement for
conforming to continued cyclical living,
instinct selection seeking final detention,
rebirth a trapped evolutionary trait.
Dreading each twilight,
coping through whichever maiden
may allow my musings
to conform to her form
for the night,
overlapping until I
am but a shadow
dominated by her presence,
her brilliance illuminating every scar
of the side perpetually left
to the dark,
enlightenment held
in the warmth of her touch
until she too
falls beneath the horizon.
Sun setting upon this silhouette
and whispering tomorrow
in stagnant sleep speak,
settling to sacrifice's sufficience.
I fear this rest.
Gleaning premise from barbaric genealogy
qualitated as residual spatial pandemic,
leaving this life cycle
reduced to just one more death.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC