"slipknots" poems
crimson flutters down in
beads in rhythmic hymns
tangling themselves like slipknots
or messy hair on Sunday afternoons
when sunlight floods living rooms and porches and drips off shingles
it continues down a pale forearm
in patterns
neat straight lines like lines on asphalt;
uncrossable.
when the hymns cease -
silent psalms begin and bathe in cold streams.
streams turn to lakes,
still, and warm as death.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
Dogs chained to a fence gather blood-lust to rip out your throat
Foaming at the mouth saliva dripping down the jowls of slit-wrist tension
Quaking carpal tunnel to quivering finger bones
slipknots cut off air the deeper we dig
But!
Our overpowering righteousness sinks the shovel down
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
confliction is the only line I've ever known to tread upon.
the place where resolution sits ive never found.
I guess its at the end of this not so taught string beneath my feet
and as I look down the at the chasms below the line
secured God knows where,
the scene of my possible death changes.
but the fall is inconsequential.
death happened years ago.
this is a fight for absolution.
only Im too afraid to fall into the often rushing waters below
and too afraid to stop tredding the line
for fear of being swallowed up on hallowed ground.
I am a prisoner of my own love
a consideration long expired.
and in my one young and foolish deed I destroyed myself
and my hopes for a new and fulfilled future.
the emptyness can never be filled.
that part of hell can not be washed from me
and niether can the fool who follows my love
in fallen crumbs,
do anything but **** me further.
such is the nature of my life,
a short burst of hope and large dose of consternation.
I am afraid.
afraid of the end.
when my string runs out,
or is cut,
it is the end
and I must face
the inevitable wrath,
the karmic sin.
and the sadness of it all is that I have passed it all on
to those I have loved the most
before I even knew them
and I have just noticed the twine
wrapped around my neck.
its too tangled a knot to release
and all I can do is keep it loosened
oh if only I knew what I would be
running from and where I was running to
and the significance of the string.
I would have chosen so differently
now I choose nothing whole heartedly at all.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC