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Sleepy Sigh Sep 2010
He knows what lies below.
This is where it all began: here
Beneath the bubbling sludge and ******* mud.
This is the home brew, the cocooning grounds.
His sturdy boots trudge through,
Hefting questions and glasses askew.
Somewhere to the side a fat swamp prince
Composes bog rhymes in ribbit meter.
Each squelching step sets a buzzing bunch
Of crystal dragons zipping away to
Slick peridot pontoons. A loon swoons
The expeditioner with a sobbing cry. He
Has said goodbye to reservations, to the
Long-dead preservation rights. He slogs through
The buzzing night. Yellow daggers clench
Between scaly steeltrap snappers and stones
With eyes blink in languid surprise, unnoticed.
He is lost, dying, unsure of his quest. He needs a
Cure. He knows it lies here, in the beginning place.
Their faces haunt his deathly guts and crush
His straining heart with need - need for the solution.
Need to survive, to prolong his life - alone!
So alone: the last. If only he could rest.
His nostrils quiver with the homesick stench
Of tails becoming legs and nipping lips sprouting
Sticky tongues. The answer, he is here for the
Only answer. Something below, below, down
In the dredges of history - in the slime of
Centuries, rotless and preserved. He will find it:
Some link, some closer thing he can revive
And test and rest as bedrock for his life.
A foot sticks in the overfriendly tar. No,
He will not pause. He has come too far.
In the birthing grime, some hungry memory wakes.
It knows what lies above, it thirsts to cease it.
It reaches, roils, pulls, rips with smelly squish-fingers -
Thirsting and thirsting to slake. It longs to reveal
To show, to make known to the traveler.
(All he has searched for is found here, it knows,
Organized and close. Held and safe below)
It reaches, grabs - thirsty - presses him into
A false step. A slip. A skritching clipboard
Of statistics curses in rustling indignance
As it flutters to the mud above a splattered head.
Science-frozen lungs fill with dread -
With life-giving peat. (It will show him) He ***** in
And burbles out a scream. (what he wants, show him)
This is where it begins, (this is his dream!) where it ends.
Now he knows what lies below. He lies - curled -
Quenched from growth. The eyes of unnoticed
Stones blink in surprise. Soaring swamp lyrics
Rise, a loon swoons with a sobbing cry.
He curls in peace and drifts alone
Now he knows what lies below.
Share, don't steal, blah blah

I like this one. It's been percolating for a while.
Renee Aug 2011
Mess with me?
Yeah right, you wish.
I love it when you call me *****
I love that sudden high pitch
It reminds me of what I can be.

It lets me know I'm inside your head
poking prying in your soul
that those tears are my toll
to reach my wonderfully horrid goal.
Watch out tonight, I'm the monster under your bed.

I'm the one whose skeleton lies in your closet
Skritching scratching on your door
tell tale heart beating under your floor
victim of your never ending war
whose soul you never did deposit.

Death still waits for that poor soul of mine
wandering the world, now cold and dark
Faking living and breathing, hark!
You hear no beating from this poor soul, no spark
No life to live just death to come, so divine.
Yet still, for you, dead souls do pine.
Sy Roth May 2015
Boo rustles the lace curtains.  
They sometimes move to the slightest¬¬ dance of the wind.
The white shade slides them gently some nights
A moonlit soft skritching of plastic O-rings
On the brass bar as he peeks out.
The outside drowns his words.
A blank eye longs for the day while his
Shuttered windows whisper a breathy wail.
A hail of silent words secreted in trained night-clown smiles.
The streets deny it.

He hears the truth tap at his walls,
It drives a pince-nez melody in his darkened cell,
A rhythm wailing in noon darkness.
His darkling thoughts push the delete button,
Push them away like buzzing flies
Where she lies famished in her casket
Sere, sullen creature drained.
Yet another shallow shade of existence.
Emily’s world where did, did not happen—

Behind the nailed-shut doors
Truths pranced once in verdant forests.

Deny them exit, they screamed.
Keep them safe in their hidey-holes.
Wrap them in the black ink of dashed hopes.
With unspoken words –


Not here,
Where spirits, their spirits whimper.


Not here,

Secreted behind the drapes, Boo moans
Caresses his chalky skin,
Behind the windows
And behind the sealed doors
Wrapped in an airless tomb with Emily,
In a secret- secured world beyond their grasp.

— The End —