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Kiernan Norman Jul 2014
We didn’t bloom together the way we should have. We never eyed each other across neat soil; both self-conscious and self-righteous as we sipped the sun and, in quiet bursts, raced to touch the sky.  

We weren't planted by gentle hands in soft plots with room to stretch our limbs and shield our eyes, nor to bud in peace and thrive and find identity in both our own bold blossoms and as a pulsing piece of the whole lavish garden.

We didn't bloom because we erupted.
We running-start-swan-dived into stale dirt and were too close from the very beginning.
We didn’t sprout up straight; we snaked and lurked and left no bit of earth untouched by our vibrant, stencil **** fingers declaring ourselves alive.

By harvest we were tangled beyond repair.
By harvest I didn't know me from you and I liked it.

To be so entwined is lovely but depends on a balance
we could only begin to grasp.
To expand but not uproot requires perfect synchronicity maybe not beyond our years but certainly beyond our maturity. We spread out our emotions like tarot cards on a towel in the grass and reflected in your sunglasses I met the silent pieces of me.
In colorful, grim drawings those quiet, ugly bits floated up veins and settled under ribs.
They stayed silent. Until they began to scream.

And you and I- we didn't have the words;
not our own words that we earned and burned while stumbling across months and plains,
tripping over potholes and finding our feet quicker each time.
We had place-holders words we sang back and forth and splashed around and bathed in.
The words we spoke were profound and cardboard.
We were just reading lines, sharing identical scripts and an ache to be seen
so deep and desperate it was sinful.

We maybe shared the humid cling of regret; which hung heavy in stuck-air auditoriums,
it beaded sweat echoed, rolling down spines and turning blood to sticky wax as we whispered in the corner about the things we could say aloud while our minds never left the things we wouldn't dare.

We were mostly ill-equipped.
We joked about hurricanes
We didn't survive the first storm.

I want you to know you really hurt my feelings.
I want you to know you're the first guy I've given my feelings to hurt.
I want you to know I was terrible towards the end.
And I know that. But you gave up on me

You gave up on me at the exact moment I was giving up on myself.
Even as my tongue stung metallic and veins pulsed so hot and loud
through my eardrum that I felt I would explode- it was clean.
It was all remarkably clean.
and sterile.
There were no explosions.
No shattered plates, ****** knuckles or blown out voices
that scratched and rose in time with the sun.

Just a quick slash of rope-
an anchor cut loose and left to sink;
our secrets were set free to
rust over and collect algae.
We were suddenly off the hook
for any vulnerability we might have spilled
on each other in our fits of laughter
and hours of sleep.
A deep sigh of relief.
A deeper sigh of desolation.


The moment exists in sad yellow lighting that must have been added in restrospect.
I tweaked the floor of my memory too:
at that moment I was not wearing flipflops on linoleum- but sinking, slowly and barefoot, into chilly riverbed mud as it turned to ice.

I opened the door and there you stood.
You knew I had been crying and I didn’t try to hide it
it was too exhausting- running on fumes.

And I did expect something from you,
anything from you, that might dull the singed-dagger plunging
stab to my chest with each breath I gulped and spat .
I wanted anything that might reel me in from the cliffs edge
where my thoughts had carried me on horseback.

But you had nothing.
I watched your eyes glaze over my swollen lips and pinced, glassy eyes.
You threw back the melted, Picasso-esque mask where my face once was,
like a quick, sharp shot of warm whiskey.
Careful to avoid eye contact you slipped ‘**** this,’
under your breath and started to reach for my hand.

You started to, but then after a second suspended
you let your arm fall back to your body.
Head lowered, jaw clenched and you turned and fled with a new heaviness pushing down on your posture.
It looked painful and adult.
It looked like you finally felt the weight of our season.
And watching you go I shrank in lighter and thicker because I felt it too.

We are not going to get a happy ending-
not with each other and not right now.
Maybe not ever.
And that will have to do.
(Though I will miss your hand in mine.
I hope one day you'll remember being tangled with me and it will make you laugh before you cringe because I didn't like to be alone.)

If I wanted to be alone I would just go home.
I remember our garden,
Wild and beautiful.
Flowers snaked out over cracked paths,
Overgrown orchids and unruly dahlias
Crossed calla lilies,
As they protruded through the jungle
Of luscious foliage.


I remember the smell of jasmine.
It hung heavy in the thick summer air,
Heady and delicious. It was the sweetest
Intoxication and my Mother basked in it.


She would sit for hours under
The old mango tree, cigarette
Smoke coiling around her
As she watched the sun steadily
Disappear behind grey islands.


I longed to reach out to her.
To break her trance,
And infiltrate her thoughts.
I wanted to her to take me with her
Into those private moments.
I didn’t understand it then.


I remember the tune she would hum.
Those long, low notes, penetrating
From her soul.
As I put the silverware away, I hum it.
I hum it in memory of my indigo life,
Turned magnolia.


How I long for that mango tree now,
A hundred years old. His strong
Arms stretched around me,
And my own private moments.


Through the double-glazed windows,
I watch my husband gardening
And wonder. Should I bring him a glass of
Ice-cold lemonade, like
The wives on American TV?
Aaron McDaniel Nov 2012
It was 2 a.m. The moons rays shone brighter than a diamond in it's showcase. The 'thump-thump' of my heartbeat seemed to echo through my body. The forest was quiet that night. Quieter than it should have been. Not even a crickets back and forth harmony. Drops of sweat began to carve their way down my face. One thought repeatedly resonated  in my mind.
'Where is he?'
I started to question if the fallen tree I had taken shelter under, was hiding me well enough in this lightest of darks. I could see the moonlight dance on the keys of my cab, but if I could see it, so could he.
Snap!
I felt my heart stop beating. The sound was so close. A lot closer than I would have liked.
'Should I make a run for it?'
As I gained the courage to flee, I felt a cold leather glove on my shoulder. The glove yanked me towards him. Fear sank deep within me as I tried to shake free. His strength much mightier than mine, there was no fighting him.
He placed a cloth bag over my head with two mismatched holes cut out of them. They were meant for my eyes, but only my left managed to see through it's designated hole.
I saw my assailant.
He was not alone.
There were three others accompanying him.
All three were disguising their faces with white robes from their head to their toes.
It all came to a point at the top.
I noticed another white cloaked person, a lot shorter, hiding behind the leather gloved man.
That's when I felt it.
It snaked around my neck, it's threaded components piercing the cloth bag over my head, and jutting into my skin. It irritated and itched, but they arrested my hands together with a zip tie, so itching was impossible.
I felt one of the men grab me fiercely by the waist, and lift me onto what felt like my own cab.
I confirmed it by the yellow chipped paint out of the bottom left of my vision from when I backed into one of my clients mailboxes.
They said nothing the entire time.
Neither did I.
My tears were telling them everything that I wish I could scream.
One of the men nodded, followed by the approval nod of the leather gloved man.
He slowly raised his leather glove high into the air, confident of himself.
My stomach dropped.
I heard the cabs horn flare, and the tires squeal.
Gravity made an appearance.
I felt the snap of my neck, yet no pain followed.
The flaring horn silenced.
I opened my eyes. My vision was blurred.
The smell of my mothers pancakes, told me exactly where I was.
This was a prompt in my English class. I decided to take it a step further.
Bryce Aug 2018
To have them shipped across the sea,
sitting like ornamental drops
tinsel strung around your eyes
pocketed the tree

walking down sunset avenue
reeking of bamboo stalks and water chestnuts
looking for a place to submerge your treasure
with a rattling breath do you deflate

And the Oak trunk that grows unimpeded
hanging her branches
caressing the Spaniard shingles
the clay missionary tabs
touching the stucco with a golden blade
of sunlight
cutting a thousand little strips
to hang about the face
moving a thousand miles a second
stopped in place with the quiet repose
of a yoga state

humming and shimmering
yet let me be sweet oak tree.

And I wander through the canyon boulevard
between the rocky cliffs and the endless riff
of surf-rock echoed off skate parks
and riding the PC
highway hair bedraggled and snaked into next week
lingering bonfire on the cotton shirt
plant for plant
*** for tat
seed to breed
Now dance, you and me.

Insinuation
drooling salivary tongue full
bacon
pigging out on burgers
getting red-eyes from vegans
smoking plants
murderers

We squirt,
relish on the act of dying
all things dying
choking life second by second
dying to live.
Staring at neon fins lining the gravel lot
Koi flickering beneath the celestial night
Suspended pondwater
pondering
In surfce tension
the deep mysteries of life

Tracing the snake through the winding streams
we watch atop the rooftop
Gaia
Taking in the burgeoning
Ocean of incandescent tangerine
and Peyote-light
Cacti hidden somewhere between
the quiet slumber of mindless streets
aligned by formless hands
Drinking the mescaline
air

Twisting the nightly moments
as locks of hair
I curled them, slipping, within my fingertips
tracing the long winding road of Tao
along her shoulders
Enraptured by her sensual bliss

When I finally drifted along the clouded memories
of divine rumbling eyes
she disappeared into the sky
blinking along the Jet turbines
Never meant to be mine
for more than a night
Dada Olowo Eyo May 2013
Then snaked her hand,
Between the mountains,
Pleasures like delicious rains,
Caressing ***** grains of sand.
Mike Bergeron Oct 2012
We sat,
******* the shreds
Of chicken
From our teeth,
In a cloud of smoke
From tempers flared
That burned to the quick.
The record spun,
The needle stuck
In the endless
Circle groove
At the disc's
Center, but
Neither of us
Moved.
We didn't change
The record,
We didn't
Shut the
Player off.
We sat,
And watched our
Fingers and toes
Evaporate.
We looked on
As the
Room dissolved,
We made no pleas,
Or any noise at all
As our world
Was erased.
In the eggshell light
Of our rebirth
The seasons passed,
With no attention
Paid, like
Sudanese children,
Left to collect sunlight
In the pores of their flesh,
Are ignored
By their God.
The air was a sea
Of vibrations,
Writhing and alive
In the periphery
Of our perceptions.
Do you remember
How it felt to
Be reconstructed?
Cell by cell
We came together,
Our blood vessels
And lymphatic tunnels
Wove through
Tendrils of bone
And wisps of
***** tissue,
Our nerves snaked
Their way through
The jungle of our
New-found existence,
A supercomputer
Materialized within
Each of us,
And they began
Discovering themselves
And each other.
We had arrived prematurely,
And our flames
Were snuffed out
In the claustrophobic
Incubators.
Here we now sit,
White noise
Filling the void,
Waiting for
Something we'll
Never see
Come to be,
But can't avoid.
Mitchell Duran Jun 2012
The night rested in a humid Spring night as the cable cars
And taxi cabs lazily made their way around the
Soft and silent streets of the city. Stray cats and dogs
Picked away at half-eaten lunch meat and
three day old bread as the moon slowly began to rise.
The restaurants that lined the alley ways and
Side streets were filled with the Saturday evening crowd. The
Clinking echoes of wine glasses and dinner plates spilled
Out onto the sidewalk and into the street. The passerby's would
Occasionally turn their heads to look inside, some envious that they
Were not smiling and drinking and eating that night. Across the
Street and throughout the town, lonely men drank from half empty
Beer mugs, wondering where their passion had gone.

On the corner of Barry and 3rd stood a man alone with
A suitcase in his hand. He wore tattered brown dress
Shoes - two years too old - a black neck tie with a half
Button-up T-shirt and a pair of dark brown slacks he had
Bought from Goodwill for $3. His free hand hung open,
Letting the night breeze snake around his fingers. There
Were the stars above him that shone down onto the street
And the sidewalk and a few spotted puddles that had
Built up from an earlier rain. On the corner of Barry and 3rd
There was only one thing to do with one's time, and that
Was to stand around and think of where to go to next.

Up on 17th, there was a bar the man had heard of
From a woman who had tried to pick him up at the bus
Station, some kind of ******* that was really only looking
For a couple of free drinks and a packet of cigarettes. The man
Thought of this place, and weighed back and forth if it would
Be advantageous to wander up there and see if he couldn't
Find someone to shack up with for the night.
He decided it would be.

As he passed the busy restaurants, listening to the insides
Of the building and its occupants churn like silverware
In a blender, he remembered he had placed a half-loaf
Of bread inside of his suitcase.
He stopped on a rough concrete stoop of a Catholic
Church, where above him, stood a large wooden cross.
Around the cross were plaster sculptures of baby angels and
Gargoyles and a snaking vine made of black stone that made
Its way around the cross, tying itself around the center
Where the horizontal met the vertical, and continued
To spin around and around until it reached the top.
At first, the man thought it was some
Kind of snake signifying Adam and Eve, which was all
He really knew about religion, the basic kid stories, but
When looking closer, realized that it was only an innocent
Plant seeking a spot of sun.

The man placed his suitcase on the 3rd step of 8, where he
Then sat on the 4th. He leaned his weathered, bent back against
The hard stone concrete and listened to the faint cracks
Of his spine inside his body. He realized that he hadn't sat d
Down and relaxed since he had gotten off the train. He threw
His head back in a exaggerated and child-like yawn, and felt the warm tears
Of bashful exhaustion fill the sockets of his heavy eyes. The night was
Warm and he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt
To let the air blow over his sweat drenched chest.

"There are certain times to be alone in life," He mused
To himself, "And I do believe that I have
Found one of them."

In a room above him the window was wide open
And the curtains danced outside with the wind. A head
Poked out from the window sill and peered down to
Look at the man musing, but did not say anything. The man
knew nothing of the stranger's eyes above him and felt
No other presence around him, other than the passing taxi
Cabs and street walker's and - if you counted the one's inside
The church - the saints and the angel's and God that lived
In holy silence enshrined behind him.

"There are things in life that are never meant to be
Solved," he philosophized, "And maybe I am
One of those things. When I think of my life, my entire
Life here on Earth, I don't think I ever found
A straight line to follow that I was ever comfortable
With...not one straight line I could follow that would
Bring me true happiness or a sense of accomplishment.
Now, am I bad in feeling this way? Am I no good
For never feeling that the good ain't ever good enough?
I do my laundry like everybody else and I walk the
Street just the same, but, there is something else that
Smells and feels and can taste the eternity in all things
That makes me restless so I can't sleep sometimes, forces
Me to stare into black infinity with only a mind I feel
That I will never truly meet. There has got to be a word
For whatever feeling this is, but I can't seem to think of it now."

The head above that had poked out before ******
A dark object out the window. It wavered for a moment
In the still warm air of the night, then, whooshing and
Splashing down, a full bucket of water cascaded down
on the man's head and suitcase. The man sat frozen, unsure
Whether it was from the Heaven's itself and paused before
He began to swear and curse at the tenant above him.

"You rat **** eating vanilla ice cream eating convict!" he
Screamed up towards the apartment complex, "I'm going
To come back with a gallon of gasoline, 10,000 tooth-picks, and
Find out your favorite magazine subscription and bring 1,000
Those by, and burn this place down - gifts and all!"

His voice
Echoed in the street
And down the darkened alley-way,
Where the bums of the city
Slumbered, not hearing a sound
Of the rant the man in the now wet
Two year old dress shoes rambled
On with; for bums sleep with
Absolute peace with their lack of
Care or fear of time.

"At last," he muttered underneath his dripping hair,
"I am released unto the Earth for what I truly am: A hung
Sheet - fresh out of the washer - meant only to be
Basking in the moonlight so to be dried by
Morning for the house-guests in the evening."

The man snapped his fingers,
Clicked his tongue, and looked up,
Once more trying to spot the culprit, until
Another bucket of water came crashing
Down upon him.

"QUIET DOWN THERE,"
The voice from above hollered,
"THERE AIN'T A SINGLE WORD ANYONE
IN THIS BUILDING WANTS TO HEAR
RIGHT NOW! CHILDREN ARE SLEEPING AND
THE OLD ONE'S ARE WATCHING THIER PROGRAMS!"

The man ran his hands through his dripping wet hair
And flicked the droplets of water out onto the street. His
Suitcase, which sat to the right of him, was soaked as well and
The man worried about the single baguette he had stored
In there in case he had gotten hungry. He knew it was ruined
Now, but was happy that there was only an extra pair
Of 50 cent socks and an undershirt he had found underneath
A bridge on the way into the city. He cocked his head up to the open window.

"You speak for everyone here in this building?" He
Asked the black and blotchy figure above him.

"I speak for everyone that doesn't have the nerve or
The cajones or the energy to holler down at you at
This Un-Godly hour, if that's what your asking."

"They vote you into that position?" He asked, prodding them.

"No vote. I'm a volunteer," they defended.

"Ha. Always going to be some kind of
Volunteer when there's power involved."

"Isn't power, it's responsibility."

"Responsibility," the man repeated, chewing the
Word in his mouth, seeing it spelled out in his mind.
"Responsibility is quite a subjective thing: some people
Take a liking to it and never want to stop being responsible and
In charge, and some just don't want none of it and
Would rather lay back in the sun and act
Like their in charge, while whoever believes
Their power works under'em and for'em; which one are you?"

"Neither. I'm just here trying to ward off some
Rambling *** with what looks like nothing but a
Suitcase and some old clothes and shoes."

"Well," he said, "You must have some pretty good
Eye-sight in this setting dark, because that's
All I got at the moment."

"Where you hail from?" the voice asked.

"Originally I hail from here, but where I was
Before I hailed from as well. To tell you the truth, I don't
Truly know - that's a good question."

The man tilted his chin up slightly and
Rolled over his response. The question had
Dropped an icy fire into the pit of his stomach and filled it
With hundreds of gnawing, fluttering butterflies; he
Hadn't thought about home in a long time and
Had forgotten why he had even chose to show-up in the first place.

"I'm here for reasons I can't seem to remember at the moment,"
The man admitted to the voice above and to himself.

"Can't remember?" the voice laughed, "How
You gonna' forget why you came home?"

"Don't know," he said, shaking his head," Just
Can't seem to recollect it."

"Scary thing."

"Yes, indeed."

They both paused as a taxi cab passed slowly by. It stopped
And honked its horn trying to signal the man to see
If he needed a ride. The man waved his hand to send the
Cabby off and looked down at his wet clothes and suitcase. The
Chill of the night had gotten its way into his skin and
He noticed that his teeth were chattering and his feet were
Beginning to shake. He worried about getting sick because he
Wouldn't be able to buy any medicine if he did. He looked up
To see the figure still looking down at him in silence. Suddenly,
An object fell, back and forth in the air like a feather,
Down towards the man and onto the stoop where he stood.
It was a blanket and wrapped inside was a tattered pillow.

"Bring it back if you want," the voice called out to him, "Don't
Even care if you sleep on the stoop, but, it's a little wet, as you know."

"There a park around here?"

"Down two blocks and a left. You'll see it."

"Thanks for your kindness," he said looking up at the window.

"Thanks for your silence," the voice said stubbornly.

The man brushed off the remaining water on his clothes
And suitcase and tried to squeeze the water out his hair.
He picked up his suitcase and wrapped the blanket around
His body and fitted the pillow underneath his arm. He walked
Two blocks up from where the figure had told him and took a
Left, illuminated by the stark orange and white street lights. He looked
Around after he took the left and spotted a small children's park
With a few benches spotted along the sidewalk that snaked through it.
He picked a bench near a water fountain, unbuckled his belt and took
Off his wet pants and laid down, wrapping the thick wool blanket
Around his body. He placed his suitcase underneath the bench and
Positioned the pillow so it fitted gently under his head. After he
Closed his eyes and rested for five minutes, he reached down to
Touch his suitcase. He felt the cool, damp leather of it, and
Quickly wrapped himself back up into the blanket,
Eagerly awaiting for dawn to rise and bring warmth back to his body.

At dawn, the sun painted the man's body with dark yellow streaks
of sunlight, heating his body up so much that when he woke, his
Clothes were close to dry again. The small patch of grass and
Weeds underneath him rustled with the wind and the sounds
Of the street a few blocks away drifted into his ear. He stirred
Inside of his blanket but did not rise. The pillow had fallen
To the ground throughout the night, but the man was too tired
To reach for it and kept his head on the hard wooden surface of the bench.
While lying there, half awake, the man thought of the figure that
Had been speaking to him from their window the night before. He
Knew he must return the blanket and pillow, but he was unsure
Whether he should bring something else. He had no money -
No money to spare at least - so he chose to bring only the
The things that were leant to him back, hoping that would suffice.

He shifted his position on the bench and saw through a crack of
The bench, that there were children already playing on the playground
Behind him, their parents leaning over their porches watching them; they
Didn't even seem to notice or care about the man sleeping on the bench.
The man felt embarrassed about this and rolled over to avoid the
Gaze of the parents and any of the children that may have spotted him. He
Laid on his back, his head atop the worn but comfortable pillow, and
Gazed up into the blue sky that was clear save a few passing milky
White clouds, that hovered above him like colossal globs of marshmallows.
He hoped in his mind that he remembered where the house the was that
Had been kind enough to give him the blanket and pillow and he wished
That he had paid more attention to the street signs and physical objects
Surrounding the building. All the man could recall were the bright neon
Orange light posts, a long line of thinly pruned circular bushes, a few
Mailboxes that stood as if attention on the sidewalk of the street, and
Numerous houses that all looked the same when he passed them in the night.
He knew he needed to find the house but was too comfortable to rise and
Too scared of the failure of ever finding the house and the thought
Of carrying around the blanket and pillow made his face flush a deep red.

The man rose cooly, as if rising from a nap spent on a couch in his
Summer cottage that rested on the bank of some far off river somewhere.
He looked over to the children and the parents up on their porches, but
Still, none of them paid him any mind. This relieved him. He was allowed
To be a shadow and embraced the idea of being anonymous rather
Than feeling the helplessness one feels when no one sees you. He folded
The blanket neatly like his mother had taught him to do ever since
He was a little boy, and instinctively fluffed the ***** pillow, even though
It was far beyond repair already. The sun was just peaking over the tops of
The ramshackle apartment buildings and he noticed that he had been
Sleeping in what looked like a very poor part of town; in the night, it
Looked like every other park corner where the elderly would to
Think about their past and the children would play with their present.

"Night and day are two different worlds," the man muttered
To himself, "Some people belong in one and some
The other; I wonder...which one am I?"

He looked up towards the sun and squinted, feeling a
Small droplet of sweat make its way down his right cheek. He
Wiped it away with his fingertip and brought it to his mouth -
He was terribly thirsty and his stomach rumbled within him. He
Had noticed the night before on the way to the park, a sign
For a bakery, but was not sure whether it was open or not because
The night was too dark to reveal any signs of it. The man had 10 dollars to
His name and knew he could buy two loaves of bread for at least 50 cents
If he haggled with whoever was running the place. They would be sure
To see his condition and help him if he showed them a little of the money he had.
There was also a childish charm to the man that he would bring out whenever
He truly was in need - he never liked abusing this gift, if one could call it that -
But in times of desperation and starvation and dehydration, he was
Forced to use it and mustered as much courage up to do so.

He walked through the path that had brought him to the park and
Made a right down the street towards the bakery and possibly the
House where he had been given the blanket and pillow. There was
No one on the street save a few alley cats and dogs and all the window
Blinds were down to block out the intense shining sun rising in the sky. There
Was a light breeze passing through the trees that cooled the man off. He
Had begun to sweat from holding the pillow and blanket so close
To his body, and wished he could have the nerve just to throw it in a
Garbage can and make his way to the neighborhood where he had been told
About the bar, but his conscious weighed him down, so he carried on.

He walked a block down the street and found the bakery on the other side
Of the street. He crossed and saw there was an old woman inside.
He checked his pockets for any spare change and opened his wallet
To make sure the 10 dollars was still there. He needed water and something
To put in his belly and he whispered a prayer before he went inside of the bakery.
When he pushed the door to enter though, it wouldn't budge - it was locked. The
Woman behind the counter turned her head and looked at the man, who
shook her head and waved him off. The man knocked gently on the glass
Door, but the old woman just kept waving and shooing him off like an animal. The
Man checked the clock inside and saw that
A B Perales Oct 2013
I navigated my
way along the
narrow path
ways  that had been
forever inbedded
by the
footsteps of the
young who've
cut
their path
throughout their
years,venturing as I
once did throughout
these ruins.
The narrow trails
from brave riders
who pedal their way
through the past
and in between all that
has been ruined
snaked all around
and in between
this broken
part of the
city.

I approached the
edge of the world with
caution even though
I feared not death.
I listened to the sound
of the Grand Pacifics anger
as it pounded away
at the end of the earth
a deaths
flight  below me.
Visions of the past
when I was that
braver soul
than I am now
crept up on me.
I took them in
then
put them away
in that dark
corner of my
mind where the
good times
are kept.
I laughed it
all off
and continued on.

I made my way
past the remnants
of all that was
once here before
the sea decided to
take it away.
The only signs left
now are just pieces
of crumbling
asphalt and
graffiti covered
ruins.
These cliffs and
these remnants
of a long ago
sunken part of
this city served
as the untamed
and mostly
unsupervised
playground of
my youth.
I played hard
as that young
adventurous
boy who
I miss so much.
Drank even
harder as a
stubborn  young
and unsure
man along these
cliffs.

I stopped and
took in the
tainted
air.
The smell of the fuel and the city
for now wiped away by
the rolling winds
coming in from the west.
The night was alive
with smaller forms of life,
crickets,barking dogs,
spatting feral cats and
the moans of a beaten man
seeking shelter in a hole
beneath a
broken slab of asphalt.
  The sage bush filled
the nightime air
with blessings.
The salt from
the sea almost
tickled
the nose.

Somewhere
in the
distance a ship
sounded its horn.
Sea lions
barked
in time with the
uneven ringing of
the ancient bell
on the ancient
Red buoy
as it rose and chimed
along with  
the swells
somewhere
in that sea
of darkness.

I left the broken
ruins behind
and made
my way toward
the Park
that had been
brilliantly positioned
along the
rim of
the world.
The memories
of happy times
struggled with
my sadness.
The images of better
times demanded
to be remembered.

I started across the
tear soaked grass
as I walked beneath
beautiful ancient Eucalyptus
and Sycamore trees.
Pine trees that
stood slumped over
like the ancient old
men they were.
I stopped half way
to the middle
as a one eyed calico feral
crossed my path .

I've foraged many
a happy memory
with old
forgotten friends
and long departed
lovers within this park.
Drank when the drinking
was done for fun,
and laughed that
care free laugh
I'll never hear again.
Fought a good mans
fight when the
odds were all
against me.
Evened  it out with
a tool made for killing.
Just one more memory
I now live with.

Now after so
many years
and so much
of what this
life has thrown
before me.
I now come
here only
at night,
alone.
When its only me
the feral cats
and the
thieving raccoon's.
Often times,
I'm comforted
by the
old worn
coat I refuse
to replace,
a cheap bottle
dressed in a brown
paper bag and
a mind still alive
with visions
of other times
than these.

I forget
those horrors
that still force
me out into
the night.
And take a lonely
pull
beneath the
Moons silent
glow.
I toast the night
and those
who dwell
within it.
I worked on the
bottle
while staring
into the
darkness at
nothing.

A smile breaks
free across my
tired face as I
 look to the moon
and realize.
This same sacred
Moon light
that shines upon me
is the same
distant glow
that I know
shines somewhere
upon her.
(1)

This is the sea, then, this great abeyance.
How the sun's poultice draws on my inflammation.

Electrifyingly-colored sherbets, scooped from the freeze
By pale girls, travel the air in scorched hands.

Why is it so quiet, what are they hiding?
I have two legs, and I move smilingly..

A sandy damper kills the vibrations;
It stretches for miles, the shrunk voices

Waving and crutchless, half their old size.
The lines of the eye, scalded by these bald surfaces,

Boomerang like anchored elastics, hurting the owner.
Is it any wonder he puts on dark glasses?

Is it any wonder he affects a black cassock?
Here he comes now, among the mackerel gatherers

Who wall up their backs against him.
They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a body.

The sea, that crystallized these,
Creeps away, many-snaked, with a long hiss of distress.

                (2)

This black boot has no mercy for anybody.
Why should it, it is the hearse of a dad foot,

The high, dead, toeless foot of this priest
Who plumbs the well of his book,

The bent print bulging before him like scenery.
Obscene bikinis hid in the dunes,

******* and hips a confectioner's sugar
Of little crystals, titillating the light,

While a green pool opens its eye,
Sick with what it has swallowed----

Limbs, images, shrieks.  Behind the concrete bunkers
Two lovers unstick themselves.

O white sea-crockery,
What cupped sighs, what salt in the throat....

And the onlooker, trembling,
Drawn like a long material

Through a still virulence,
And a ****, hairy as privates.

                (3)

On the balconies of the hotel, things are glittering.
Things, things----

Tubular steel wheelchairs, aluminum crutches.
Such salt-sweetness.  Why should I walk

Beyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles?
I am not a nurse, white and attendant,

I am not a smile.
These children are after something, with hooks and cries,

And my heart too small to bandage their terrible faults.
This is the side of a man:  his red ribs,

The nerves bursting like trees, and this is the surgeon:
One mirrory eye----

A facet of knowledge.
On a striped mattress in one room

An old man is vanishing.
There is no help in his weeping wife.

Where are the eye-stones, yellow and valuable,
And the tongue, sapphire of ash.

                (4)

A wedding-cake face in a paper frill.
How superior he is now.

It is like possessing a saint.
The nurses in their wing-caps are no longer so beautiful;

They are browning, like touched gardenias.
The bed is rolled from the wall.

This is what it is to be complete.  It is horrible.
Is he wearing pajamas or an evening suit

Under the glued sheet from which his powdery beak
Rises so whitely unbuffeted?

They propped his jaw with a book until it stiffened
And folded his hands, that were shaking:  goodbye, goodbye.

Now the washed sheets fly in the sun,
The pillow cases are sweetening.

It is a blessing, it is a blessing:
The long coffin of soap-colored oak,

The curious bearers and the raw date
Engraving itself in silver with marvelous calm.

                (5)

The gray sky lowers, the hills like a green sea
Run fold upon fold far off, concealing their hollows,

The hollows in which rock the thoughts of the wife----
Blunt, practical boats

Full of dresses and hats and china and married daughters.
In the parlor of the stone house

One curtain is flickering from the open window,
Flickering and pouring, a pitiful candle.

This is the tongue of the dead man:  remember, remember.
How far he is now, his actions

Around him like living room furniture, like a décor.
As the pallors gather----

The pallors of hands and neighborly faces,
The elate pallors of flying iris.

They are flying off into nothing:  remember us.
The empty benches of memory look over stones,

Marble facades with blue veins, and jelly-glassfuls of daffodils.
It is so beautiful up here:  it is a stopping place.

                (6)

The natural fatness of these lime leaves!----
Pollarded green *****, the trees march to church.

The voice of the priest, in thin air,
Meets the corpse at the gate,

Addressing it, while the hills roll the notes of the dead bell;
A glittler of wheat and crude earth.

What is the name of that color?----
Old blood of caked walls the sun heals,

Old blood of limb stumps, burnt hearts.
The widow with her black pocketbook and three daughters,

Necessary among the flowers,
Enfolds her lace like fine linen,

Not to be spread again.
While a sky, wormy with put-by smiles,

Passes cloud after cloud.
And the bride flowers expend a freshness,

And the soul is a bride
In a still place, and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless.

                (7)

Behind the glass of this car
The world purrs, shut-off and gentle.

And I am dark-suited and still, a member of the party,
Gliding up in low gear behind the cart.

And the priest is a vessel,
A tarred fabric, sorry and dull,

Following the coffin on its flowery cart like a beautiful woman,
A crest of *******, eyelids and lips

Storming the hilltop.
Then, from the barred yard, the children

Smell the melt of shoe-blacking,
Their faces turning, wordless and slow,

Their eyes opening
On a wonderful thing----

Six round black hats in the grass and a lozenge of wood,
And a naked mouth, red and awkward.

For a minute the sky pours into the hole like plasma.
There is no hope, it is given up.
Squanto Jan 2014
His long fingers clenched into their palms
His dark eyes were black with intent
Every elongated pause was an intricate harmony
gracefully accompanying the words
that tumbled from his cracked lips
He heightened himself and leaned in earnestly
Feverish want spilling into his rich voice
revealing the fear that had bloomed in his ribcage over the years
Fear that snaked up his throat and caught there
restricting his temperament
Fear that rose from knowledge of failure

Failure indeed lurked sickeningly
In the frosty air
In the purple autumn shadows
In the smell of hot cement
In the satiny pearl petals of the dogwood his mother had planted

He was a single smooth stone in an endless riverbed
Shaped by
the restlessness that flooded him
the desire that washed over him
the nostalgia that swept around him

Frantic to break out of the flow that was accepted by the crowds
Desperate for the peace that surpasses understanding

And in that moment
his finite experience and crooked path
meant less to her than the last of the cigarette she proceeded to flick into the breeze
Outweighed by her faith in the lighthearted boy trapped inside this troubled man's body
Grandma's hands clapped in church on Sunday morning.
Grandma's hands played the tambourine so well.
Grandma's hands used to issue out a warning,
She'd say, “Billy don't you run so fast,
Might fall on a piece of glass,
Might be snaked there in that grass,”
Grandma's hands

Grandma's hands sooth the local ***** mother
Grandma's hands used to ache sometimes and swell
Grandma's hands used to lift her face and tell her,
She'd say, “Baby Grandma understands,
That you really loved that man,
Put yourself in Jesus' hands.”
Grandma's Hands

Grandma's hands used to hand me piece of candy.
Grandma's hands picked me up each time I fell.
Grandma's hands, boy the really came in handy
She'd say, “ Mattie don't you whip that boy.
What you want to spank him for?
He didn't drop no apple core,”
But I don't have Grandma anymore,
If I get to heaven I'll look for
Grandma's hands.
I. (The Real Poetry).

All these notions but nothing on the page.
Haven't we heard it all before?
Impetus from departed greats
wash ashore in our brains
but when confronted with an void white meadow
our hands go numb,
glued to the roof of a freezer.
This idea of mine is big, challenging,
but so far only a few thousand letters
have made ***** snow angels.
In its place, poetry.
Swifter to write, to read.
No rhymes usually,
just haphazard feelings lurching out my head
like a turquoise waterfall.
Sure I pace round the room
waiting for the next line to evolve
but who doesn't?
I write about real people,
people I speak to, people I know.
Do they know it's them when they skim my work?
Perhaps yes.
Perhaps they don't read them.
Perhaps best for all of us.
The book remains unseen, incomplete
while real poetry rushes into the world
like another superfluous boy band
playing more vapid pop.
Numb them instead.

II. (The Wind).

On a bench
in the garden
I sit with her
as she rests her frizzy Goldilocks
on my shoulder
and says I shouldn't go on Sunday.
A few years younger,
sweet and out of bounds.
Out. Of. Bounds.
So why am I holding her hand?
Doesn't mind from what I can tell.
She likes me.
No she can't.
When does 'the other side' ever like this?
I've told her about the one back home,
how she could be superseded.
I'll disclose, for a while now
I've seen photographs
and wondered what if,
what if the same way too feeling
snaked up the ladders
and throttled me?
What would her sister say?
'He's only been here four days
and look at him, cuddling
the queen of yesteryear.'
Her sister comes out, surprise, joins us.
Say no words, look at stars overhead.
The direction of the wind is altering.
Must be.
I unzip my eyes.

III. (The Sun and the Moon).

Half eight
a year or so in the distance
on a Wednesday morn.
A car.
Neither of us can drive as I write.
One of us is about to though.
London.
Why?
To meet friends.
Another reason?
A show.
A show of sun and moon.
A sporadic delight like a white Christmas.
I say to P it's one of those events
that must be attended.
I'm what, twenty-one?
She's gotta be twenty-four, five?
When will this ever come about again?
Have to acquire this chance.
He says if she'll be aware of the poem,
the one I scrawled down some time ago.
Doubt it, but you never know.
You never know.
Maybe it's true.
A young, beautiful girl
with a hat and a guitar.
There's something you don't see every day.
To the city.
*Rejsen begynder.
Written: May 2012.
Explanation: This collection of three short poems were written in my own time, taking much longer than normal to complete. The first of the three poems refers to my life at the moment; how I long to write prose but how I am finding poetry easier and quicker to come by. The second poem refers to a recent dream I had involving a friend of mine whom I have not seen in a long time. Upon awaking, I was quite startled at what the dream had been about. The third poem refers to a recent lengthy daydream in which me and a friend at some point in the future decide to go and see the Danish singer Soluna Samay, who is giving a rare performance in London for some reason. The final line translates from Danish as 'the journey begins.' I chose the title 'The Current' for this piece as the three separate poems above refer to current/recent thoughts and things in my life.
EC Pollick Jan 2015
You snaked your way into my life,
You can slither yourself out.
I'm not always this righteous, but when I am, *******.
Cori MacNaughton Jun 2015
Sky Afire

It started as a tendril snaked
And quickly caught my eye
That beckoned me to come partake
The bright majestic sky

From turquoise into indigo
And all the shades between
With molten lava spreading slow
As far as could be seen

With orange and corals juxtaposed
Against the deeper blues
And silhouetted trees in pose
Amid the great bamboos

The clouds were piled in tumbling flow
And darkened as they fell
To charcoal black, blood red aglow
At meeting with the swell

And as the skyflow met the sea
And seemed to melt within
The sea took on its vibrancy
And flow began again

And as the skyflood reached its peak
Engulfing and aflame
It seemed directly to retreat
As quickly as it came

The ashen grey began above
And slowly spread below
Till all was left in pumice drifts
Within its final glow

And now the show has ended
With the sky once more a sky
And the clouds and sea appended
For a witness such as I

3 Oct 2000
Quite simply, a poem about one of the most gorgeous and amazing sunsets I was privileged to witness.  I have read this in public and this is the first time it appears in print.
JJ Hutton Jun 2011
"So you'll be in tonight? Wonderful, sweetie.
It's been far too long. Are you bringing Mattie?
Oh, I see. Are Todd's parent's good to her?
Alright, well, I love you and I'll see you at six.
Sorry seven...okay, sevenish."

The Prine place smelled of rich
lemon cleaner.
Not a cobweb could be found,
nor ***** dish, nor glass smudge.

Margaret Prine applied her blood red
lipstick--the final touch before school.

Mrs. Prine arrived thirty minutes before
anyone else, started the coffeepot in
the teacher's lounge, and wrapped up some
lesson plans.

The starting bell sounded,
she headed for her room.
Principal Hughes said,
"Good morning! Madam Margaret!"
as he always did.
Mrs. Prine, nodded cooly, grinned
lightly at the corners of her blood
red lips, and said nothing--as she always did.

At forty-five, she could turn more heads
than any head cheerleader,
and she was well aware
that beauty's power reigns
absolute.

Two young lovers draining saliva
stood outside her classroom door
dressed in matching yellow t-shirts.

"Excuse me, canaries.
Showboat your love out in nature.
Not outside my room," Mrs. Prine snipped,
calm like a seasoned surgeon.

"We're sorry--" Harvey's eyes met Mrs. Prine's.
Mrs. Prine felt a strange transfusion take hold.
The blackness started at her spine
and snaked to her skull.
Old jealousy, been awhile.

"Kaitlyn, Harvey, get to class."
Kaitlyn Mullens barely existed.
Pencil thin, thought little, and spoke less.
Kaitlyn just happened to be in Mrs. Prine's
literature class.
Mrs. Prine followed her into the room--
sizing up her shoulders, ***, and cheapshit heels
with a keen eye.

"Alright, everyone as you know, your analysis
on Catcher in the Rye motifs is due today.
No excuses."

During her lecture she couldn't keep her eyes
off Kaitlyn. The way she fidgeted incessantly;
shifted her gaze with each question asked.
Her idiot face somehow held a superior wisdom.
The dark jealousy coupled itself with
a wicked wandering mind.
A mind journeying into
the mad middle stage,
when a prime lioness
becomes declawed by calendars
and withering mirrors.

When the class left,
Mrs. Prine could not recall a single thing
she had lectured over.
She rubbed her head, sighed a low growl,
and began siphoning through the homework.
"Ah, there you are."
She grabbed a bleeding red ink pen,
then proceeded to massacre the essay.
"Plagiarism, plagiarism. Lazy, lazy."
© 2011 by J.J. Hutton
Samantha Jan 2014
I say “tomato”
You say “toe-mah-toe”
I say “I want to pierce my nose”
You say “don’t you dare scare that ivory skin”
I say “ I want to be a poet”
You say “but that doesn’t make much income”
I say “I am never having a baby”
You say “you’ll meet a nice man, settle down, and change your mind”
I wear this silver pentacle
Around my throat like a noose
String me up and hang me
Like my sisters from Salem
Condemn me because I don’t fit
In the box labeled “Christian” on your questionnaire
Call me a ****** for finding the beauty in another woman’s curve
Brand me a ***** just for existing
Pull at my heartstrings
Like a puppeteer
Guide my every movement
Cut out my vocal cords and replace them with yours
After all, you know best right
If I dye my hair a color that isn’t
Blonde, black, or brunette
I’ll never land a job
If I don’t quit with this feminist ****
No man will ever want me
You’re only looking out for me right
If you know so much about me
Tell me who I am
Tell me how I felt when I was thirteen
And stealing my brother’s straightedge
To carve Jack-O-Lantern faces into my upper thighs
Tell me how I felt when my mother
Grabbed my cheeks and told me
To pop my pimples
When she asked me if I ever wanted to be beautiful
As if I wasn’t already
Tell me how I felt when I sat across my sister
In a mental hospital
After she gorged herself on unknown pills
And she said
“Don’t ever die. Dying isn’t fun”
Tell me how I felt when my parents
Showered me in gifts
After I finally told them I was depressed
Like they were trying to buy back my happiness
Tell me how I felt when the boy
With the beautiful smile and cigarette stained breath
Stuck his hand into my *******
And whispered
“You know you want it”
Tell me how I felt when my body froze with fear
When early onset rigor mortis snaked through my muscles
When I clamped my knees together
And denied him access to my body
Tell me how I felt when
He pushed his blushing appendage into my mouth
After I said no
And how I felt when I kept my lips sealed
How I let him get away with it
If you are such an expert on my landscape
Pinpoint all my scars and beauty marks and moles
Locate all the intimate areas my fingertips explored
Tell me how often I shave my legs
Tell me how much pride I feel when I remember to put on deodorant in the morning
Draw a map of all my
Forests, canyons, and lakes
Prove to me you really know me
Prove that you’re really looking out for me
Prove your advice
And remember
No good deed goes unpunished
And if you still maintain that you know what's best
Look me in the eyes
And tell me who I am
Brea Brea May 2013
lights, lights
four ways
more ways
traffic
lights, lights
this world is a jigsaw
and my mind, habits
like a snake puzzle cube, ridged
fluorescent lights channeling into pairs of funnels
like eyes that peirce my calm simple soul
like a small petrified animal
about to be crushed
highlighting my nerves
hot like an electrical fire under my skin
like the fiery veins under my wrists
like that of a heroine ******
walking people from the face of the window
walking in from my peripheral vision
walking across the streets
like leather belts tight around my forearms
walking likes needles under my skin
from the front, from the left, from the right, from the back into the front, from the left
like ants, operating endless ribbons of motor vehicles
weaving endlessly dynamic patterns resembling my distrust
3.14159265358979323864264338327950288419716939937510 to 50 decimal places
despite the fact that I'm pulling my head back
my face feels like its plastered against the windows
a policeman of an installed reality man handling me from behind
eye lashes clung to the pane
humidity sticking my hair to the glass
tears warp my deformed perceptions
my tongue pressed hard to my cheek
I'm confused, flustered, how’d I get here
How do I make my case?
flustered, how do I get out?
small holes, air vents, locks, cracked windows
small things keeping me in my seat when I would find more immediate relief in jumping out.
of this pile of fire hoses snaked around me
feet deep around my thighs
It all started as tiles
tiles of a grocery store creeping in, creeping in until I am utterly
consumed, my vision contorted, maimed
my frontal lobes caving in
I keep pulling back
pulling back
and the world keeps coming in
coming in
my eyes are swelling
the tension jerks an anxious laugh
a series of hysterical laughs
like polaroid’s of my humiliation on clothes pins to a
relentlessly ceaseless rope.
my eyes following it like a speeding car until the images of my trauma are spinning into one shameful image like a thaumatrope on gasoline and electric
a spider swallowed by its own intelligent web
my soothing thumbs are rubbing my delicate skin thin
man handling myself to avoid something tragic
I want to knock the wind out of myself
because the magic isn’t helping me now
if I thought the world was invading my inner world then
I know they are now
their perceptions, their perceptive judgment casting eyes, like knives
ripping at the seams of my reality
digging into the once calm invisible cloak around me
tied from behind my eyes
irises like poison bubbling in my happiness, my solitution
if I were alone

I could just lose myself in the soft flexed ball of my body
as I talk hysterically into a seemingly empty room
talking gibberish
Alice in wonderland non-sense
vomiting the acidic parchment
ph balance of my word-feelings
dry heaving once the damage is done
waiting for the laughter and the words
and the breath to punch my gut silent
waiting in torment
in delirium
for the calming effects, the grounding effects of warm micro swiveling textures of a **** carpet
to take me over like a dopamine release
for my high child-self
to come down from the brain-drugs
like **** from condensed crack rocks
someone slipped in the container
that holds my brain
hugging it like a moat
sipping it unknowingly
that this is what would come over

me
Richard Matheson Aug 2012
Those words are now meaningless
compared to what you mean to me.
Where I thought that there was no way to feel deeper,
you prove me wrong.

I am ice
and you were the cool breeze
that keeps me from melting and evaporating away.

No four letter-word could ever measure against you.

I was eating cigarettes for breakfast;
now I subsist only on the health of you.

I was dreaming of the day
I was born,
strangling on an umbilical noose;
you have slid your pink life-giving cord into my navel.

I was writing my suicide note,
but you came and lit it aflame,
blew away the embers,
wrote a story with a happy ending.

I dangled, atrophied, off of an edge,
my chalk-outline superimposed over the gaping black.
Your hair, strands of raven steel,
snaked their way through my fingers,
held me long enough for you
to pull me back.

You held my hand,
guided the crayon it held.
Where I saw only a blank
page, you showed
where the lines were and created
a piece of art beyond
anything the world has ever seen.

You are my life-support system,

Holly,

and without you,
I wouldn't be writing this.
Vamika Sinha Sep 2015
Do not abort words from love's womb;
she will choke herself
because she could not be a mother.
Stitch lips together. Let silence,
nothing,
be purity.

Words end.
They
are hot and furious, oozing
sores relishing in their own
blood.
Organisms,
dull black embryos, eyeless
until
roiled on red tongues;
spluttered, screamed, snaked
out into being.

They heal themselves to death by the hemlock of Time.
Dying is a definite thing - words are not
immortal, not greater than us.
Not love.

Autopsies reveal varied, unwanted truths:
either
heart splintered too swiftly
or
poison turned flesh to gore,
cell by cell.

Do not abort words from love's womb;
you are wrapping the umbilical cord
around your own neck.
Does love turn us into monsters?
His hand gripped her hair
Jerking her head back
Which caused a sharp gasp to escape
Full ruby lips now parted
Raging seas looked up
Meeting his explosive amber eyes

Her heart pounded like nothing she had felt before
It was like he knew it as well
The arrogance
She was breathing most shallow
Trying to compose her reactions to this man

His hand wrapped into the luxuriously thick mane of flame
Curling and pulling hard once again
This time a loud cry escaped
His lips crushed to hers catching the yell into his mouth
Exilerating to catch a womans cries, gasps, and groans of passion

Her cheeks suffused red
Heart hammered like it was coming out of her chest
Her lips returned the hard pressure
Almost begging for more
Being pull full against his strong form
She absorbed all of him

His manhood was hard and pressing against her pelvis
The familiar tingle was multiplied to an out of control volcanic reaction
How?  How could he elicit this from her?
His lips ***** hers but she returned it with ardor

His own heart was hammering in his head
He could feel the heat culminating at her love triangle
God it was magnificent
He never knew a woman could feel this much fire for a man
Tales were always told, but yet had never been felt

Bodies snaked together
Both panting as the fire consumed them
Anyone watching might actually see flames surrounding them
If they knew what to look for and payed close attention

Tongues swam over and under one another
Hands began to roam
Instinct caused her to begin to pull away
Yet another yank upon the fiery locks
His hand cupping the full breast
His thumb sliding over the ******

Even through clothing it quelled her flight
She responded in turn opening to him like a Stargazer Lilly
More was panted out as long fingers began to pull at his coat
Then his buttons on the shirt, revealing well toned pecks to soft hands
It wasn't enough, is it ever?

This woman was amazing, the way she responded was incredible
There was no stopping, no way it was past that point of reason
Brain exploding in myriads of scalding colors
Shrugging out of his coat, shirt, and laying the coat upon the ground
No bed would christen this event

Past caring, not even a scream when the expensive shirt was ripped
Revealing the creamy bodice with large orbs of flesh enslaved to the material
Reasoning was gone, a knife shined brilliant under the full moon
The lace garment was slit and removed, He had to release the hair to do so
It was not long before his fist was buried deep in the locks pulling tightly

Finally the moon shined down upon bodies of bare flesh
Chill bumps rose upon each of them from the chill of the night
Yet the fire that consumed them put everything else as oblivious

She didn't know how things had gotten this far
Was not sure if she really cared
Once his hands were stroking the ivory flesh
All thoughts of propriety, sin, and trouble were replaced
Passion, need, ecstasy, lust, heat, filled both their minds

As one hand seemed to stroke the flesh to light a fire
His mouth was feeding the flame
Teeth suddenly sinking around the swollen rosebud
A scream of pleasure followed by hips lifting and pushing against his pelvis
This further incited his own ire for her flesh

His bit hard, suckled and licked each spot where this occured
Her fingers pinched and pulled wherever they could
Body writhing beneath his as the fire was becoming an inferno
After about an hour of traded bites, scratches, suckles and licks
His staff was finally engulfed by the tight hot well that made him have to stop

Lying there a moment whispering "Don't move, god don't move"
Unbeknown to her the tunnel spasmed undoing him
His body began to move at a fast and furious pace
Paying no attention, at the time not noticing her pace was just as quick
Soft delicate hands splayed his chest as ivory teeth bit hard into the flesh

Slick walls caressed his long hard length as they contracted, spasmed
Opening more to take him even deeper, legs lifting high to rest feet over shoulders
Pummeling harder, the juices could be heard between them
Moans, groans, cries of pleasure echoed in the night

Suddenly he felt a difference in her,
Her body began to move up to meet him harder
Panting, crying out, louder, cries of yes, oh god yes harder
Filled the night air
He felt the tunnel tighten down on his shaft so tight he couldn't push forward

Her scream pierced the night air
Body pushing up hard against his shaft held tight within her ***
Fluids gushed forward as the walls loosened and he slammed forth again
As the ripples caressed him it was all over with
His own Ugh!!!! filled the night air as his rod spilled forth the tremendous load
The two fluids mingling together soaking them both

Lips finding each other once again
Swollen, sore, and bruised mattered not
Moving inside her deeply a few more times
They lay beneath the only witness to this incredible night
The large full moon peeking down low in the sky

If anyone were to see their bodies they would think they had been beaten
Bruises everywhere from the bites and pinches
Kissing once again, they laughed and then laughed louder
As they perused one another's flesh they wondered how they would explain
Their battered but satiated bodies.

Pulling her coat over them they drifted off to sleep
Each dreaming of the other
The fire's heat having nothing on what their bodies had shown them


Dedicated to those who have never felt this before with the hope it happens to you one day.


Written by Jennifer Humphrey aka Niyahlove
All rights reserved.  Please do not reproduce for any other site without my permission..
Tilly Jun 2013

with    
layers of        
of timely geology

carve me well...  

granite            
hardness      
hollowed
deep


&
through
such cannons
rivers              
run...         
      
       flowing    
                          snaked
          in 
fingers  
   scratched    

across    
   an age of  
dust

- floored-

with  
            mouths of    
silence    
open  
    
         in  
blue    
shallow  
depths

  of  
    breath
        
&  
abandoned

~buried~

**finds    

jennifer Jun 2015
I'm not paying attention until the violent
Hiss jerks me awake t
The same way the
Violent crack of a gunshot of would.
Collision of liquid on hot metal
Pushes away any dreams lingering.
Fully aware now I reach for the door, Once a gleaming, vibrant white
Now covered with  
Dingy use.
I know the cold air is coming
But still it's another
Jolt to my system,
The chill of the air conspiring the
Brightness of the light,
Giggling together at my obvious Displeasure of them.
Light tickles my eyes into a
Squint like a feather tickles your
Nose into a sneeze.
Through the squint I can see the color of bark,  
Dark brown heart of trees
Secretly pumping blood of trees,
Sticky and sweet just like
Ours.
Just like the blood being
Pumped by the
Little heart behind the sound of giggles that has slowly snaked its way
Through the doors and
Around the walls to my ears.
Giggles and shuffling footsteps
Desperately trying to be silent, covert,
Unheard.  
But the desperate desire for silence Causes such excitement  in the mind of the
Boy that the
Distinct sound of
Shuffling slippers is produced.
The boys realization of the noise Makes him
Giggle at his own sneakiness,
Too young to realize the sound means He's failed,
Young enough to have fun
Regardless.
I think of those giggles as i
Scratch at the itchy
Knot in my neck, a sharp
Contrast to the softness of cotton that I Feel everywhere else
The itch reminds me to pay attention,
Not get lost in those giggles
My hand quickly moving from my neck to the white porcelain bed
Balancing early morning sweetness That's about to be
Devoured
Bed warm and heavy now.
I set it on what I noticed for the
First time is also a
Tree.
I've never noticed how vital trees
Are to my morning.
That the last thought I'll have thats just
mine for hours.
From this point on all thoughts will
Revolve around the boy and his father,
My son and my husband
They walk towards me now
Together
Husband helps with the knot at my Neck
Untying it so I can take off the
Itchy apron and get back to
Enjoying the softness of my
PJ'S 's, my  
Son jumps into the chair and reaches For the bed of pancakes on a
Wooden table, starts to pour
Sticky sweet blood of a maple tree,
Far more syrup then he needs.
His father opens the dingy white door,
Experiencing that bright light and
cold air just like I did as
He reaches for the milk
I realize I can see the white porcelain of the plate;
I need to make more pancakes
I pour more batter into the hot skillet
Somehow that hiss catches me off guard again
Just like a bullet would again  
I shake my head and look back at the Table, them.
I walk over and kiss both of them
Both tasting like milk and syrup,
smelling like sleepy sweetness and
Looking like my Saturday morning
Looking for title ideas if anyone has any suggestions.
Layla Mar 2013
The third stanza can be read in several ways. It depends on how you read it (as two collums, one full stanza, etc.) Hope you enjoy :)

The headlines would never see Truth.
She is too truthful.
Their lies would never believe her.
She would scream
"Beautiful land taken away."
They would shout
"New zoos opening!"
  
O' humans,
You have stolen me!
I am your beautiful prisoner.
This dark place will never be a home.
My people will dwindle down.
They will become the ice caps on this warming planet.
People will disbelieve all they want until they see the impact
"Too little, too late."
  
Down to the bone my loves will gnaw on what they can.
Mother Earth                             Is the World
Food Supplies                          Gone
Water Supplies                         Down
And Father Sun                         Forever heating up
  
Can everything truly be done
Because people wanted to have fun?
Humans are you so shallow
That you let vanity corrupt untamed lands?
  
I used to be Africa a land of beauty.
Where even the blind man could see me.
I used to be Africa a land of love.
Then you took my people and made them slaves.
I used to be Africa a land of resources.
Then you took what you could
And stole the rest.
  
My sticky molasses was not strong enough to hold me together.
Instead I stuck to more places than could be counted.
The number grew until there was no more to hold.
Coming together became a chore.
I lost little pieces here and there.
They started to grow like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle slowly becoming connected together.
  
Slithering snakes snaked their way up smothering my breath.
Snakes with innocence for faces and trust for eyes.
Soon my land was used.
Minerals and gems taken.
Goodbye darling tanzanite.
Food and animals taken.
Goodbye Quagga.

Impact has come and people now try.
They start to help Mother Earth.
Reducing, reusing and recycling.  
They're efforts die as they see they cannot bear the tide.
They live with a history rooted in fame.
Now it seems their lives cannot be filled more with shame.
They stay under waiting for their blunder
to take its toll.  

They have no misery in what they see.
They do not care about my history.
I start my flame
and light the embers.
I no longer an smothered
The humans are.
Carsyn Smith Oct 2015
Her puffed pink lips wrapped
around the **** of her freshly lit cigarette,
hollowing her cheeks and sinking her eyes
as if death breathed her in and exhaled her out
as the smoke billowed out her nose
like an early 1950’s ad for Camel.
Her blue eyes were never opened all they way,
the black lashes heavy from the piling layers of mascara
she never washed off and under-eyes caked
with a yellow-orange tint that sat deep
into her sinking wrinkles, but the way her painted lips
kissed that cigarette made my heart yearn for a faster beat.
In and out, death bathed in her every breath until
nothing but the brown paper, stamped with her lipstick,
remained. Her ******* opened,
the cigarette still coughing up smoke as the toe
of her battered converse pressed it against the earth.
She waits a moment, looking out into
the busy streets of the city, until the itching of her fingers
is too much and she leans into her bag to pull out another one.
Through her heavy lashes, peaking over the basin under her eyes,
between the strands of her golden bangs
shown two bloodshot ponds that swallowed me whole.
The voice that snaked from her lips enticed me,
it sounded shattered and homely, rough and soothing,
as she leaned in and whispered
“Got a light?"
"Smoking has such a beautiful artistic sense" ~Lindsey Bost
Linking the spotlight into the dark score
Rutting out the jagged envelopes that
Refuse to be opened, clinging onto their
Sticky tape with a passion;  Don't ask me for
Release, I'm shuttered up, swathes of emotive
Blankets worn out from their duty to keep me
Warm; to blot out the morning light from
Penetrating my skull.  Shame.....sorry self
Introduced to the firing line.  BANG....the snaked
Tongued 'Medusa' who entangles her mind
With vipers, serpents dishing out their forked
Shots of maggot infection, generating wormy
Warriors burrowing into the ruby red warmth
Chewing and bubbling neuron to neuron
Exploding at boiling point into a vast mix up
A collision on course, snapped in two, vibrating
With sheer panic, wrapped in destruction.......

Utter bilge.......built this bridge
So I'll knock it down..............
                                              ­    to start anew
And so I smile.......
Dust Bowl Apr 2015
I have yet to find a word that describes the beauty in which an object unravels.
There is, however, infinite words to express the madness one must possess in order to fall in love with destruction.

I do not know why the ruins of hearts I've never known stain my hands like the tar from a fire I never set,
Or why I feel like an arsonist everytime I try to wash the ashes from my fingers,
But I do know that I have said more prayers for the chaotic than for the sick.
I know that while the English language has yet to supply me with a single word to sum up why I find hope in endings,
I can describe in detail the way the walls of my bedroom burn like they are being ravaged by the flames of my psyche,
And how I have never felt more at home than when everything is crumpling around me. 

When I try to explain that I have never felt safer than when my ribs were tearing in two,
Please do not deem me insane.
As if the concept of the deterioration of my own brain has not fascinated me since the first time "we're all mad here" snaked it's way through my consciousness.
I am a white rabbit,
Setting my pocket watch ten minutes fast,
Just to see who will run with me.
Digging holes in my skin,
Hoping someone will fall through.
And if I am mad,
Then you must be too,
For we are all just spilled ink,
Dying to turn blue.
Maple Mathers May 2016
I sat up in bed, wide awake.

Mere seconds separated my dreams from reality. Yet, consciousness had seized me more effectively than ice water.

I had been caged within sleep, until something ridiculous happened.  

Something ridiculous, and something real.

I sprang from the covers, pulled on a sweater, and burst out the door. All around me was silent. Life, it seemed, was not yet awake.

I took a deep breath, and began running. I ran so fast my surroundings blurred into a pallet of color; the sound, still muted.

My feet flew across the dewy grass.

I imagined myself into smaller, simpler spaces; tucked in with the ghosts. How fast could I run from my dreams? How fast could I run towards reality?

If the grass had soaked my socks, I barely knew. If the wind had serenaded my skin, I remained disembodied. The alexithymia of consciousness.

My thoughts snaked and swerved and collided in my head, but in that stretch of oblivion, a lone inference guided me.

Nothing mattered in the world but one thought.

Wake up, Maple. Wake up.

The House of Addictions was the epithet I chose.

It nestled several blocks from mine, and was the type of estate that demanded normalcy.

Upon reaching the front hedge, I examined the house; two blue paneled stories. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but this wasn’t it.

I coaxed the front door.

Locked.

I circled around to the backyard. The room I sought was on the second level. I ascended the balcony onto the porch; the room’s window stood several feet from where I could stand. There was a vacant flowerbox sitting on a ledge outside the window.

Without question, I clambered onto the deck’s railing and extended my leg into the flower box. It was a long way to fall, but I wasn’t scared. I had no choice. I clung with all my might to the window’s ledge, shifted my weight to the flowerbox leg, and plopped over the other. A scream frozen in my throat. Breathing heavily, a death grip on my perch, I crouched; the box seemed sturdy enough.

I peered through the window.

At this ungodly hour, he was most likely still asleep.

Unless.

The bed was vacated. Did this mean? I closed my eyes, took a breath.

Wake up.

Things like this did not happen – plain and simple.

A minute later, after clambering off the flowerbox and scampering back down the stairs, I rejoined the street, sprinting along with renewed vigor.

The sun glistened on the grass, the morning, ripening. Yet, I heard not the sound of birds chattering on secluded sycamores, nor my feet pattering along the sidewalk. I was immaterial. I was the wind – gliding fluidly towards that which waited.

My body was to be found at a stoplight, punching the button spastically.

But my mind had already arrived, several streets away.

The stoplight changed. I ran. Stores whizzed by, early morning traffic sheathed the street. I had to slow my thoughts, I had to separate from the stark possibilities that incased me.

I’d dreamed of his death; simple, like the twelve forget-me-nots he threw across my floor five years ago. The last expression I saw as he departed still had yet to leave his face.

Although he moved home a year ago, he never really returned.

Wake up.

I veered my course to the left, dodging through traffic, and found the street.

It was there that my mind had arrived.

This avenue was vacated and tranquil, an eclipse of the earlier. And there was that house; green and silent as ever.

Clutching a stitch in my stomach, I dove over the waist high fence and tripped on my own foot. I fell, scraping my elbows on concrete and swearing beneath my breath, but I couldn’t stop. I scrambled to my feet and staggered towards a ground levelled window.

Exhausted, I tripped again. Then several strangled events laced together. First, I tumbled to that window. I held my hands out, expecting to hit glass, but realized too late that it was open. Before that fully registered, I was toppling – headfirst – through the open window. My insides plummeted, muting my scream. I hit the bed with a sharp thump, before it tossed me to the floor.

There, I landed, **** first, mute and sprawling.

While my body congealed, my heart auditioned as drummer, and stars teased my peripheral.

The room materialized as I blinked through confusion. Softy, I sat myself upright.

His eyes were the first thing I saw.

Reality zapped me so hard I almost fell back again; he was alive, I’d woken up.

Then my senses caught up; my elbows cried, my head throbbed, and my breath rekindled in ragged crackles. As if a switch was flicked, I suddenly identified sound; the humming of cars outside, the crisp ticking of a clock, the gurgling of his fish tank. So loud – so distinct. Color sharpened and brightened.

My mind in overdrive.

He was here.

He sat on his bed, alive and well, speechless with alarm.

Oliver was shirtless, lidded only by flannel pants and black gloves. He considered me with bleeding elbows, disheveled hair, and desperate eyes. Then, the shock on his face gave way for a giant grin.

“Come here often?” He inquired. His voice, raspy with morning.

Still panting and shaking, I conjured a smile to match Oliver's.

“You’d think so. . .” I choked.

“And I’d be right, Maple.” He finished. I managed a laugh.

Nothing had changed.
Note: I dreamt about death, and awoke feeling frantic. Although logic confirmed that everything was okay, my intuition said otherwise. To remedy my unease, I channeled that dream into a story. A story I wrote when I was fourteen years old. Seven years later, the same story continues to illustrate my psyche; a story that set the foundation for Pretense (my novel). Herein, you’ll find that story; the origin and epithet of Maple and Oliver Starkweather.
Here goes?

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)

~
Gleb Zavlanov Oct 2013
The once lively river dried, now it’s bare
Its sweet, flowing song gone forevermore
Life’s pleasant melody just isn’t there
And won’t be there to drown within fate’s shore

For I shunned hope, I shot down all of love
And cringed whenever all my problems came
Too scared to face all of these problems, tough
Regret I, for it shan’t e’er be the same

The river dried, the rush I cannot hear
Of azure streams as they snaked through life’s land
And o, ignored I every step from ere’
And each problem and every helpful hand

I stayed inside, abhorred the streaming glow
Never answered my door for hope or strife
And repeated such foolish folly though
Each day on after, each day of my life

Eventually I faced comeuppance, mine
For I deserve this pain and woe and strife
For I shunned all of bitter hap through time
For I had shunned all of the haps of life
Copyright Gleb Zavlanov 2013
jackonary Jun 2013
This is the last time we touched.
Your eyes peered similar to the night you cried about your father.
I didn't understand.
Disconnected.
You sat with crude thoughts in your mind.
I saw days bursting with moments of you in my eyes,
of us.
I am not another person.
I was yours a year ago, wasn't I?
A month?
A week?
When did you stop feeling?
No-
You care.
I see it in those snaked eyes.
You touched her,
you feel a crack in my heart for it,
for what you did whilst wearing a ring.
But that's all you will feel,
a tiny crack.
A mere beginning to the canyons you caused.
I am littered with ash and crevices.
Your words corroded the valves and cells of my being.
**** or **** or ****
will never amount to the sinful meanings you gave
love or forever or promise.
Gavin Ray Davis Nov 2011
Can you pour music into my soul?
Can you divide the lines between forgotten and unthoughtfulness?
I am strange.
Strange is my name.
I go by the titles of ******, God and the Devil.
Acting as one being, I am all powerful.
My words cut through like ice upon the ground.
Melting into your very core.
The common withdrawals of my life tend to create an atmosphere humid with lies and deceit.
Propaganda.
I am the overlord.
The great being that coincides with the path to destruction and sexuality.
A ****** moistened by the spit of a politician.
A reckless behavior, known by my cunning smile and grinning mouth,
I engross myself in the knowledge of good and evil.
The later being the most interesting.

Did you ever hear the story of mankind?
A dwindling pack of rats scurrying through life with the will for wealth, drugs and ***.
A greedy coin collector locked inside an attic.
A basic complication.
The worlds most renowned contradiction.
A magnificent art of bones and skin.
A neck, a support beam in times of headlessness and ill-being.
I will forgo my judgement as a walk-on to Heaven's door.
A key needed, I use my snaked tongue.
A crime so easily forgotten by those that are rotten.
No longer holding back, my flames scorch your heart.
A thumping paper bag in a locked chest centuries old.
Can you take the distance, mile runner?
A treacherous land this is,
Filled with snakes of every color.
And as smoke snaked from between your lips
Like the angry ash of inactive volcano,
You said “They’re all a bunch of crackers, no good, no fun, no nothing.”
I smirked as I tasted Parliament in your gums.
“That’s enough now, let’s party” and we certainly did. You (featuring
me) hit up every street and every open door; we heard
the Music bleeding in the road, shaking the feets of the young dead.
As their ears crinkled,
their mouths dried,
And their halos melted,
I thought I heard you humming Satie.
But you were only coughing up nicotine
In rhythm to the dying song of an overdosing art student.
© David Clifford Turner, 2010

For more scrawls, head to: www.ramblingbastard.blogspot.com
Elise Nov 2013
It was always a grocery store
or shopping mall
when I imagined the first time I would see you again
we might have happened to turn down the same aisle and turned to see each other
I would have asked you how you were
we would exchange lies about how we were okay
great even, moving on and not looking back
shift slightly to cover up our new scars
and try to smile
I would ask if you were happy
you would say: yes
I would say: good
and after we parted I would decide I am much better off without you by my side

But last night was the first time in 6 months that I had heard your voice
it infiltrated my subconscious
snaked its way around my throat so I couldn't breathe
if you still had my heart it wanted so bad to come back to me I felt it racing in my chest; running for safety
my eyes met your eyes
you smiled, a sad smile
and waved
and I just….waved back
shaking
you knew me too well not to notice
but  still
you left
I fell to the ground
a blur of people and arms around me
and I think I cried
maybe
I should have yelled after you
"I keep all my promises"

&

"I miss you too much to forget"
Note to self: never drive when you are sobbing
I love you, always
Onoma Mar 2015
Pain's accretion--black snaked with royal purple--
therewith and more of, in cold case of less--
pain inexorable.
Fear's favorite pet spoilt with handling.
Pain's redemptive quality is repulsed by plain
sight, it must mobilize malignancy, purloin the
jury, condemn, palm hope to hopelessness.
Fixity--its host must remain in firm attendance.
Enough is ready...a ripened type of monologue...
the crosshairs of silence.
To grow demented from overstimulation,
breaking the same news to what needs dying.
Fetal position suffices...warm, a spinning vinyl
record scratching toward dawn.
The woodwork calls a name--as a woman hoarse...
with labor pain...rebirth.
Grace Jan 2019
I went on a walk today
I took a different route than I usually take
Snaked through parts of my past i usually avoid
For the sorrow or the nostalgia they bring me
Past the elementary school I went to in the 4th grade
Where i made friends with bullies and wore sparkly shoes
Past the house i nannied in for probably a week before i disappeared back into the bottle
And, by accident, really, past the house i later had my first one night stand
But it wasn’t there
It had been demolished and in its place lay a field of snow with a sign announcing a new building project
I was struck with a surprising delight
The idea that part of my past was literally bulldozed felt miraculous
It occurred to me for seemingly the first time
That things really do change
Things leave and new things take their place
As sedentary as my life has become
It’s hard to believe that anything takes on a new form
Across the street from the empty lot is Liberty Park
A park i’ve avoided like the plague for the past few years
I can hardly stand to look at it
But after seeing the remnants of my drunken hookup destroyed
I felt compelled to step onto the park’s outskirts
A flashback of walking with my ****** to get smokes came
And i stood as i watched myself slink along the grass with him
I saw the way she couldn’t breathe and couldn’t think
And i hugged her and she stepped inside of my body
And we walked
Then sprinted up the path
Saying goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
Scot Powers May 2013
Whilst I was riding
early last eve
a peculiar thing happened
you'll scarcely believe
just to the left
out of the corner of my eye
I caught some motion
it was a surprise

the squirrel was fast
along the fence top did he
run along at breakneck speed
I chuckled to myself
but it did keep pace
it was clear to me
it wanted a race

A race it would be
man versus beast
defeat by the squirrel
was not to be
I could sense the challenge
in it's beady eyes
down the boulevard
we did fly

A man did approach
I veered to the left
he looked astonished
the squirrel just leapt
over the branch
that suddenly appeared
I took the advantage
and increased my speed

half a block to go
then the fence it would end
me and the squirrel
were neck and neck
racing for pride
who would be beat
we increased the pace
hearts setting the beat

then it happened,
a scrabble and a squeek
the squirrel had crashed
into a tree
the poor little guy
didn't see the branch
that had snaked across
his narrowing path

the end of the race
it happened to be
but defeat for the squirrel
brought no pride for me
I laughed to myself
and shook my head
and then I thanked God
for all he had sent.

— The End —