"slackened" poems
AMBIGRAM VIII
Recto:
Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s tring is slackened:
Verso:
Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,
the new year‘s fledgling, stronger though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,
its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise
your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of
rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.
AMBIGRAM
Recto:
Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s tring is slackened:
Verso:
Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,
the new year‘s fledgling, stronger though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,
its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise
your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of
rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.
AMBIGRAM
Recto:
Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s tring is slackened:
Verso:
Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,
the new year‘s fledgling, stronger though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,
its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise
your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of
rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.
AMBIGRAM
Recto:
Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s tring is slackened:
Verso:
Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,
the new year‘s fledgling, stronger though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,
its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise
your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of
rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 3:26 PM UTC
<>
you pout and defer, dancing backwards,
claiming, blue is now blackened
from underuse, incapable and incapacitating revival
*saying eyes cannot see, distinctly, neither near or far,
the tremble of love, forgot & distantly absent,
but I know, a heart’s sensory muscles never die,
though weaken they might, underused, un-exercised
denying that inspiration
no longer resides with in thy sensitivities,
has fled, undercover of smoking forest fires
all the diurnal hazards that invade, occupying
my internal spaces once filled by poems
you conceived, birthed, in a pleasured haze,
came so fast, you bare recall agony accompanied,
but not the ecstasy of the end resultant!*
***you know it’s you of whom I write, but,
a note not shaming names, but messages
countless private messages have I sent
begging, beseeching, give me your gifts***
once more, you owe me not, though I
oft irritate with my deafening pleas,
yet only denials continue, my pleas ding
but dent not, the tired fear of your exposition
so speak to you plain,
feed my soul selfish
like in years gone past,
there are holes in mine
that require your elixir,
creamy softness that moistens
my face with tears of your words
originating, astound, enfold**
not later, not soon, not excusals,
write for me NOW, WRITE FOR YOURSELF,
but leave me not forsaken and thirst un-slackened,**
Answer! To whom do you owe your poems?
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 11:30 AM UTC
Sprang forth with no branches or leaves. Small roots.
Bore mangoes, papayas,guava and bananas. Hybrid, mid limb grafting.
The trunk is a figment but it stands non less. You see
my family tree never was and always will be.
A roadside shade with low hanging fruit.
Was never planted.It was a deposit from the bowels of an exotic bird
of the jungles that sampled at leisure the offerings of the rain forests.
The Hardtack and marmalade came on ships with the kings business
Mixed with the Nigerian Fu-Fu ,the Aztec maize the Mayan legumes.
and all points of the compass.
Old Joe Denegri, The Blancaneaux , The Cattouse, The Melado, The Pinks
The Flowers,The Orozco and more. And boundless from the ***** of opportunity.
Piecemeal and untethered. But it is the tree that I must cling to.
However rough the bark.
The sap runs heavy and slow in the humid Belizean heat.To meet the earth.
Cool breezes blow a haunting disharmony. A sweet unity in chaos.
The soil is rich,pungent and forgiving. Soon, A bell tolls in the distance.
The Sea mists my dreams.
A stairway of coconut fronds to azure skies.
Nighttime smells like creation.
The still slackened pace.
The small rat race.
Tempest in a teapot.
Urban-rural.
Coolie gal.
Creole boy.
New Chinese.
Old African.
Ubiquitous Espania.
Garinagu. Mosquito coast.
Children of Mennon.
Old Basque faces.
Things we call races left with small traces
of what?
My tree, her tree, histree.
I am you and you are me.
I see me in your face and you see me.
We are and will continue to be.
Blended.
a hybrid. An orchid wild.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
Twentysomething Emo
looks at teenage Emo
and laughs.
It was something purely aesthetic,
with brain chemicals churning
and wiry bodies yearning
under the guise of straightened bangs
and perched beanies,
skin tight black outfits
parading the dusty grounds of Warped Tour.
Twentysomething Emo is the real deal--
lamenting over high school salad days
because real life is so unsure,
college degrees and full-time jobs,
watching friends and lovers come and go in our lives.
After a long day of responsibility and groveling,
we drive home (or somewhere just as distant)
with our emo anthems blaring through the speakers.
We scream the songs back at them,
truly feeling the words for the first time.
I'm the same age as William Beckett, Adam Lazzara, and Pete Wentz
when they wrote these songs--
and though the bangs have receded
and the jeans have slackened,
I am perpetually Emo.
The unrequited love and the nearing distant future--
it's come too soon.
I hope thirtysomething Emo looks back
on my meandering twentysomething Emo
and laughs--
as he plays the melancholy tunes pouring out of the speakers
with some more of life fading away in his rearview mirror.
This town gets smaller every day.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
...Here a man stands accused--the pellucid jury
of his peers come to themselves in their life's arms
through him.
He wails upright...a shadow continent wedging
The Flood.
Timekeeping horseflies besmirch his chest cavity
with due kisses...par for par movements consume
time till the singular advocacy of he withstood.
The imperturbable essence captured itself, as so
at the height of its powers there's interplay.
Ease culled from tribulation...countenance slackened
by degrees...overwhelmed by awareness.
Kingdom come Kingdom--shoring space of grace
that is freedom.
As if Everything centering of itself, fawning over itself...
polar opposites in conjugal bliss.
Here a man stands accused...of being--fit for steely
juxtaposition...the murderous implement of will, or
salvation.
Envision him post-Flood, waist-deep, the living Face
of the Deep...look upon him!
Timekeeping horseflies besmirching his chest cavity
with due kisses...par for par movements consuming
time till the Singular advocacy of thee...look upon
him!
An encounter of pitless ramification: fear or love...be
it the last man upon the earth.
Look upon him--O jury of his peers boasting billions...
pellucid unto one another...look...The Hour is radiant!
Won't thee come to thine life's arms through him?
For he is Everyman.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
It might be the pungent steam from a ***
steeping herbs meant to bend its sippers'
minds to potent effect, or an unanticipated
digestive reckoning from that mawkishly flavored
brand of store-bought paste they pass as butter.
However the dough arises, their collective
recollection of storied events, lengthwise sliced
and ritually rehearsed, hops facilely on the ****
of a bucking and overtly nonsensical wind.
Tea parties with slippery perspectives
have been shown quite clinically to induce
heightened sensitivity in participants,
so it's prudent to set about tidying the facts:
The hatter, it's become clear, shifted one place
too many and disappeared with a trace -- leaving
behind his hat to nobody's great advantage.
Lacking a wearer, the headgear's reputation for
producing madness has rapidly diminished.
The march hare pulls off his change in a very
separate and seasonal way: the bunny's
bottom half somersaults its top to occupy
both his spot and the hatter's vacated seat.
The dormouse upon its latest arousal
is re-visioned to be small, but not much mouse
at all. He's plush with the long-in-the-ear habit
of a pink stuffed rabbit, which the crusading hare
furiously declares is most curious, casting
doubt on the vermin's commitment to "no room."
Alice remains foremost in tact and is given
a bonus of two spare feet complete with slackened
bootstraps. She keeps them and her other luxury
items well-sheltered behind a stout table leg.
The absentee hatter doesn't dare shame her
with a radio-show call-in decrying
the waste. She's generously agreed to
cover the medical expenses from his firm flop.
May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 2:54 PM UTC
They ask, "What's the sweetest thing that's happened to you"?
I would have to reply, "It started when I was two".
That is when I, Mother, sister and brother,
went to live with our Grandpa and Grandmother.
They both sacrificed, from that day forward,
working long, hard hours, always undeterred.
To give us a home and happy memories.
It couldn't have been better, for Mom and us three.
Mom worked evenings at the Sears and RoeBuck store.
Grandpa at the publishers, working on the printing floor.
Grandma changed jobs to the school cafeterias,
so when we were home from school, she could be near us.
Grandpa was our dad, in our hearts and minds.
Growing up with two Moms was a terrific time.
Yes, living with our Grandparents was a special world.
I grew up to be a very thankful girl.
What's the sweetest thing that has ever happened?
It started when I was two, and has never slackened.
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 3:56 PM UTC
I remember:
you, in black lace ******* and
little else, crushed close
by gravity,
weak winter afternoon sunlight
streaming in and out of your car,
HD Netflix in your backseat.
my fingers drumming insistently
upon your collar bone,
my mouth pressed against your shoulder
as I sing so softly in your ear,
a concert for one.
((only you're invited))
your hair all over your bare
back and black
lace wedged up tight against your
muscle. your lips are
cold against my skin and our feet
are ******* freezing and the heater is
all the way up but not nearly enough.
I let my fingers parse through your
vertebrae, Dr. Lecter planning
a meal; slice here,
cleave there, remove viscera, season and
cook: magnifique.
time and history are
mercury in my clenched fist;
my nails are biting into my skin, and
liquid silver moments gone by are
flowing freely from my slackened grip.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
I finger the edge on a dull knife and don't cry over white hearts of onions
as I cut them silently, and more easily than I can cut through the white fog
that has maintained permanence in my head, daily-daily (maybe-always).
in the slow tempered, pull of a dry heave and tugging
slackened lines of sail being held up by beams of brown,
a ream of paper is spread, out, like a sheet over the cities
and the needle pulls through with thread, between beats
scratching my scalp
itching my shoulder
all for the meat underneath,
covered in barbecue sauce
come to me, so sticky, sweet
my words are hollow (a promise cannot be kept). my ears are muffled (this beer is warm).
my head is dead (I abstain from meat). don't come for me strangers (quickly, pulled pork).
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
The afternoon was excessively humid
The earth seemed a seething hot furnace
Dark clouds were gathering overhead
Lightning drew florescent patterns in the sky
Thunder boomed and rumbled
A few sparse drops of water hit the window pane
The air grew dark, leaves shivered
Soon the rain pelted down in torrents
Drumming on the corrugated tin roofs
Spreading a dark curtain between the eye and the sky
It poured down in full fury for about an hour
In no time it flooded the ditches and hollows
But its might slackened and it vanished as quickly
As it had come, like a messenger on an urgent errand
The day was dying and I witnessed another rain
The rain of insects into the sequestered freedom of the night
Termites and white ants, sleeping in the hollows
Suddenly emerged from their lairs in thousands
Out of every crack and cranny, every fissure and hole
From under every boulder and brick
Winged termites emerged, fluttering about dreamily
Never knowing they were on their first and last flight
They all flew towards the bright light in the porch
But striking against the concrete ceiling
They fell down one by one, some losing their wings
And creeping on the floor, like wounded warriors
A quivering swarm of insects, a clumsily moving mass
This was the harvesting time for the geckos
In one and two, the lizards emerged from their hide
Flicking their tail, they stood ready for the catch
With their darting sticky tongue, they began
Devouring the insects, hastily cramming their stomachs
Until they could hold no more
When the insects began invading the inner space
I switched off all the lights and went to bed
The cool air and the sonorous but rhythmic chants of the frogs
Put my sleepy eyes into sound slumber
Early morning as I woke up
I saw the porch strewn with filmy wings of the termites
They lay like scattered chaff after the corn has been stored
Also some weak survivors, staggering to their end
I thought, to what bleak fate, the exodus of insects
Had taken off on their wings for their maiden flight!
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 7:51 AM UTC
Our thoughts of time travel
burnt-up when Junior
sang The Blues.
Foreign creature.
***** voodoo muppet.
His spaniel’s moan,
a call to mud,
digging deep like
“woo-woo-woo”
Smacking the past in the chin,
he dipped a laden lead melon
in a barrel of black molasses.
A slow lowering,
tender sinew slackened.
Unclawed-
the orb traversed his finger tips
nicking his nails on the way earthward.
The black drink parts then
floods back where it once was,
coating the cold round load
as it sank down below
the Mason-Dixon line.
Junior gurgled in slow-mo
dipped his Gibson
and stirred the stew,
made the black brew dribble over
the barrel’s shoulders
and puddle in the thick sticky
corners and cracks of
the Juke’s oak planks.
He fished it out then
-bladaplowplow-
-WHAP!!-
split that melon in half,
no knife, they used the trap,
then Junior took his break
to take a nap
in Baton Rouge.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC
To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde,
The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade.
The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound,
With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound.
He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vein,
And towards his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein;
Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third,
From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard.
"Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor,
"Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door.
Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood,
That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood!
Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight,
But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight.
Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see
How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree.
Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife
Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife.
Say not my voice is magic--thy pleasure is to hear
The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.
Well, follow thou thy choice--to the battle-field away,
To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.
****** thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand,
And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.
Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead,
On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed.
Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks,
From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks.
Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long,
And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost wrong.
These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own,
Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone."
She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek,
Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.
1.2k
I Dreamed of Peace
I dreamed of peace
where games cannot touch my saddened heart;
where the winters spray of discontent cannot
make my blood cold, cannot make my marrow
ache and my inner force limp wounded to the gray
and weeping bank.
I dreamed of peace
where fire words shot to take me down
miss their target and fall harmlessly in joyous fields
of ripened corn, standing strong, smiling, repelling
all the pointed barbs; whose yellow husks cannot be pierced
but in reflecting provide a nourishment so replete
the archers arm is wearied by the load.
I dreamed of peace
where no longer do I wake at night
seeking reassurance from apparitions that their calling
means no harm;
where the raven sitting on the drooping branch
is not waiting for my soul’s ascent;
where the soot covered face peering from the bracken
is not the axe man arrived to take me home.
I dreamed of peace
where the fire in my brain is quelled
by knowledge, accomplished thoughts of reason and
not prone to dissatisfaction;
where thirst is quenched in rivers so deep
my dive can never touch or scrape the sides and
in whose fear I need not fear;
where my essence is left untouched , my spirit not assaulted
by ego and forced appraisal.
I dreamed of peace
where false disinterest lies split and gaping
and hypocrisy oozes its puerile bile across cracked and
concrete stagnant floors;
where beggars no longer assault my passing
with arms outstretched and hope etched into canyon
city faces;
where the malcontent is driven to the slackened shallows
and forced to face their own reflection.
I dreamed of peace
where lightening skipped and danced across the waves
and thunder played the most delicate of notes;
where wind swirled not in anger but caressed
the sparse sand dune grass and the stilt legged
petrel bobbed in anticipation;
where the fuss of self induced stress is placed inside the trench
and covered by the dirt of self awareness.
I dreamed of peace
where only peace may step and no intrusion
may be entered;
where neither the able nor the vacuous may encroach;
where neither the sun drenched and rich may acquire that which
others have stooped to learn;
where the essence of time is encased and made bare
and does not beat to a false clock;
where all I have been and all I am to be is in the one,
and there is no need to climb a further set of stairs.
I dreamed of peace.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
Presto,
with haste,
bring forth the measure,
striking sound to create.
Allegro,
with grace,
flow forth like a river,
beauty in God's eternal round.
Moderato,
with taste,
medium to the greats,
note upon note,
slowly mounting.
Andante,
with slackened pace,
venerable vineyard of sound,
sing forth,
no appeasement for the proud.
Adagio,
with measured blow,
The Hammer on anvil,
ring out your chord,
the tonic repeats below.
Presto,
cantabile,
homunculus,
the human voice,
Stradivari sings to us.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
Walking on stone pavement, rainy, swift
some parts smooth, some parts eroded
pebbles at the feet of sandaled soles
umbrellas swipe the view, fogging you
Cars, bikes, children, zooming against
time, and the rush of voices, tones heard
and I lose myself in this wave of
foreign yet such familiar interference
And I find, curled like newborn babes
But wizened, people, like in prayer
head down, on red, white, blue bags
with hands dangling in peace, towards earth
Their hands, aged like leaves in a distant land
cracks down the back, underneath rough cotton
and skin touches skin as I pry yours open
only to find a single coin, crumpled with pressure
My feet falls behind yours, slackened
Your face is filled of golden sand, ready to
burst, and I know that your veins know
no mercy, as they course hopes through labor
At the ground, pitter patter, are the
sounds of your breath and gaze
And I know we are alike, only
difference, decision, the coordinates
Pitter Patter
Raindrops calling out your feelings, louder
than the commotion around us, drenching
the ground, drizzling the man-made
louder
and
Louder
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 2:44 AM UTC
The rosin still clings
To my slackened strings
And my shine is all but gone.
Yet you found me;
There lying still and silent,
In my funerary garments
Of tattered velvet
and darkened oak.
You called to me,
Coaxing me back into being.
For yours is a labor of love;
I need you nearly as much
As you need me; Musician.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
oh so youre the self-righteous
eyelid that closed overtop my iris
and blackened out my background
til my slackened eye was blinded?
well i've got news for you i truthfully decided
i'm not just gonna lie down where this virus has resided
i'm not the pitiful parasite you thought you were fightin
but i'm probably the person you partially have pride in
and i wont stop the slaughter til the waters are divided
til you're ******* up the sand on your own deserted island
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:08 PM UTC
I loved you more that day
When I said,
"I love you",
After it, day by day,
Moment by moment,
love slackened in scale.
Apr 18, 2022
Apr 18, 2022 at 3:16 PM UTC
"Would it **** you to get to know them?"
Honestly?
Yes.
The disorganized, fumbling army of we
Their shared, glazed eyes
That look the same
The clothes that are all stitched together
So they stumble as one
Their one slackened mouth.
They speak as one.
When one gets too close it becomes contagious
A disease that spreads on their one breath
It spreads like mint scented wildfire.
It floods your soul and like acid
Dissolves what is there
To replace it with them
And what they pretend to be
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
I notice that flies circle my movement,
They rest on my hands, my arms, the extensions of my legs
They swarm around the cavities of my chest
Where my lungs lay blackened, and my sickened heart beats slackened
And the occasional fly lies on the flesh that
Surrounds my ladened heart
I wonder whether they realise that my soul
Has decayed, that my heart chips down each day
And breaks, festering beneath the weight of my sins
I wonder whether they sense that I am rotting within
That I am a corpse standing still
Awaiting judgment
Jul 13, 2021
Jul 13, 2021 at 9:26 PM UTC
Fashion: a route for evil through peer pressure,
Capitalism survives,
But to the poor’s detriment.
Shallow fascias causing positive fallacies among the young,
Not yet wise to see the lies in disrespect of life’s worth.
Actions; the result of Misguidance.
Misguidance serving as a detraction.
From the original intention,
Being a blissful destination,
Curtailed by selfish manifestation.
Imbued by he; the wicked one,
Unable to see his own futility,
For all his destruction will be undone.
The attraction of fame all among the young,
A shortcut in the name of the wicked one,
To hear personal virtues, in a repetitive melody, sung.
But is, in actual fact, a bypass to facile wealth,
With virtues slackened to result in unrighteous health.
The most vicious attack but done so in stealth.
Infiltrate minds to manipulate thought;
Pulling the strings, of you puppets, taut.
Puppets we may be, but with minds of our own.
Misguided we’ve been but we’ll never lose tone.
We push on and on and achieve greatness on the way.
Perpetually, we strive to find our way.
To the original destination,
Of love’s manifestation,
Of a blissful intention,
After Satan’s annihilation.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
he made her chest fill with air.
tight, constricting air that made her feel like she was suffocating.
tight, heavy, constricting air that suffocated her with sadness.
heavy, suffocating, uncomfortable sadness
that makes her feel spinny and her mind loose.
a slackened heart,
a tensed intestine
a clenched grin
while people drone on about nothing
she is a cavern.
she spirals into a thread of insecurity.
she lunges for shiny objects.
she is made of broken bones and glass.
she is everyone that has been pushed aside.
and she kept her promise not to cry.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
The bones of my resolve
crumble porously,
muscles slackened
by stealthy Spirit-Flu
creeping into my psyche
when my guard is down,
leaving behind only
a molten mass
feverish and limp,
juicy veins squeezed
dry of life-force..
Sleep's finger-crook
beckons temptingly
offering blessed escape
temporary at best
from sickness of the soul.
Eileen Auger
March 21, 2008
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
I woke up this morning,
- well, last night, it's 4:30 AM so
where does that count - phone
on the floor where it rolled from my
sleep-slackened grip right off the bed,
sheets drowning in sweat; they smell like
me, and I am feeling nauseous.
my spine is curved around a
particular puddle of sweat, the
one I awoke in; it's still wet,
but it'll dry out; I have to
put these bedsheets in the wash,
use three times as much detergent,
maybe spray em with Lysol first.
but getting rid of the sweat-soak
won't get rid of the
nightmares of you.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 5:57 AM UTC