We spend one day together, in the park and now the sun reminds me of you.
It was 29 degrees and the sun still couldn’t match your brightness.
29 degrees and you were still the brightest star in my sky.
I think back to my diary, when I told her we would forge a picnic from the empty living room and yet here we are.
The cream carpet, now green grass and my heart melts in your hands.
Sizzling air beats down on our pale skin as my heart beats a mile a minute.
Sometimes I like to play pretend.
Cast myself as the role of your love interest.
So during my game I was shocked.
When we step foot in your local corner store, when the cashier muttered a “you too, together”
I thought I’d alternated reality.
Or at least I did for that second and a half.
Before you fumbled over your words and tried to find the ones that would break my heart the least.
You settled on she’s out of my league, you joked about it once we’ve left.
Then I pretended again.
I cast myself as your laid back friend,
As the girl who has better things to think about then a cashier wrong assumptions.
Reality didn’t shift this time.
another ****** love poem about a dumb boy
Minutes to hours morph into days.
Enough is never quite too much.
Thoughts of geometric squares,
Half-lived inside half-empty cups.
All fingers point to
Phosphorus-red eyes melt in
Hydrochloric fume. Each and
Every day stretch long, like
Three-neck flasks, lithium blues
Amphetamines. Synthesis of
Methylamine. Daydreams of
Nearly asleep, I plea:
Evaporate all that's left of me."
Life* often speaks in rhythm & blues
whispering trumpets to bended ears, while reminding us
that smiles belong only in photographs; and tears
behind the curtain of an indifferent face
We walk fine lines, between tragedy
and genius, lines so rarely straight
we seek balance in mediocrity
and solitude in unfinished lives
We become incomplete puzzles
forcing squares into circular places
by tearing away pieces of the whole
and conforming to the empty spaces
some things were never meant to be changed
We place people into boxes, neatly organizing them
by the labels* we give their cracks and flaws
seldom ever realizing that *broken has a beauty all it's own, and...
*some things were never meant be mended
I saw a pigeon
Sitting on an Ariel
Smiling at the squares
it seeps like sap down the spine
this tar, or fear, or hate of mine
beads opaque and thick and full of sin
i pick and peel
but they get in
i still dream
but blue, it blurs to black
deep seascape of a tormented hand,
i bind, am bound, to the things i pretend i understand
circle of a girl
eyeing squares of man
light is the letting go
hoping you pull, forgetting you won't
each time i forget, i melt and i drip,
a bad trip.
but when i think of teeth
discerning meat from bone
i float back with loose palms,
a web of plantary oppositions squares and triangulations
curses and blessings
demons, humans and gods
friends and enemies
each a constituent
a revolving carousel of heavens and hells
the macro, an umbrella of spilling stars
like shattered glass in flames
outer and inner stone & gas planets
others in tight gravitational ellipses and eclipses
the elements of fire air earth and water
from the most subtle formless
to rocks flames oceans and the air we breathe
a gruesome churning mouth swallowing our delicate membranes
and we wonder
we are in pain
we are nourished by flesh
as we ourselves are consumed
filled with blood and nothing
and deadened by marking time
all hungry shells
we wither to dust
as do suns and moons
and gods themselves
all of us children of monsters
and corpse eaters
born of magnitudes
and harrowing creative destructions
the dead living and the living dead
with eyes that flicker only on half a landscape at a time
of pyramids and bones
always running from wolves
because we are meant to be eaten
okay my darlings
and boundless light
I'm losing my mind.
Don't want to hear your story,
I'm busy with mine.
Not a pretty picture like Gogh,
It's an awful sight.
I'll cut you off from my ears just to avoid a fight.
Tunnel vision in a starry night.
I don't care about squares or straights I only see circles
like copyright in my line of sight.
My frequency is two-toned like morse code,
makes it hard to recite.
I've been gone for too long It's time to phone home,
I hope you copy right,
Perhaps by then, should you find us Insane
Which you consider Loony in your Bin
For you, Shy Heart, Compassion do you Feign
And Ignore these Squares they have Worked so since
Mindfully, Tears do their Hands become
And strained the Sweat asking for your Favour
At least, bend your Fast-Numbered Face for once
And see on your own you Missed to Savour
Now Common, yet Elegant in their Theme
Reminding you what really does Matter
Faces! Faces! And Messages post-seam
Holidays bid Cheer; Wee bit of Flatter.
Their Spirits engraved; At their Time's Expense
To sort your Clouds out; And make full of Sense.
It's dark outside except for the pale glow of a fingernail moon sailing through the starry sea of night.
The wind has tucked itself to sleep with the birds, weary of bustling about and playing with my hair.
The whippet snuffles his way along the rabbit trails, delighted with this late night walk, white tail wagging in the air.
I wander down by the edge of the swamp, grass all soft and dewy 'neath my feet and spy the pallid uoow reflected upside down,
between the reeds along the creek.
The constant, shrilling chorus of frogs and crickets drills my ears yet I find it strangely soothing - a well known voice across the years.
I turn to walk back, whistling the dog and notice in the low fields, the usual ethereal fog begin to form.
I look up at the dark shape of the house and see light from my
kitchen window painting squares upon the lawn.
Amphibean bodies seek the brightness, bellies pressed against the glass and if you warm them with your finger on the other side, they move.
My man and I bet kisses on whose frog would move the most - one of those silly games you play when you're in love.
As I close the door behind me, grabbing logs to feed the fire, the dog flops down upon the hearthrug letting warmth dry swampy mire.
I make cocoa in my blue mug then pull down the kitchen blind - cutting off the froggy light source - abruptly silencing the choir.
© Emmie van Duren 25th April 2017
Its two and the pubs doors lock
And we're forces from the warmth
Into the street and the dark
To get home through the ever drizzle in the northern climbs
A nights drink filling up our hearts and minds.
As the wind howls through the town
Fancy free and devil may care
Hand in hand dancing on the old squares cracked and worn stones
Banishing the cold from our bones.
Seeking shelter from the downpour
Under the awning of the store for phone repair
I push from her soaked cheek a lock of equally soaked hair
And move my hand to the back of her neck
She moves hers to my thigh
Casts a spell with a look from her deep hazel eyes
It makes time stop
And blood hammer through my veins
On this cold Autumn night
We kiss in the rain
Lavender lays where the spider cries
On the gravel path by the lawn
The licacious tree spills its leaves
And the spider runs around.
If I could give you a book of thistledown
Lined in sashes of jade silk
And edged in purple squares
Your days fill every page
And every day be you.
Four walls; a pair of cupped hands.
Jaundiced like an open eye; an open cove
Prescribing solitude to those whom solitude cannot withstand,
And I choose this cold corner which is furthest from the door,
To be where I am not, before
Your proclivities become my own, I write. I write,
My window holds my breath and frosts the world,
The moon in his amber gown, dressed in chatoyance and spite,
Godspeed; dark, dark shroud for naked skies!
Six floors, walls, doors from you am I.
I couldn't write when the sun peered in,
Her inquiry evangelizing the specks of time left upon the glass -
I've heard it all before; God's shining face leaves none unloved (unseen)
but his spotlight has no starlet; so who can see me up here?
We can't see from windows, dear.
I'd live and sing for the cloudless hall
The nursery of misanthropists crawling on the grey cobblestone
And the lilt of the wind on the rose; through squares nice and small -
The peevish moth shudders at the sight of itself obscuring the day through the glass.
It seems we're always in the way.
one I wrote in Cambridge
Midst of ocean waves
Day by day
Writing of blues and reds
I have a garden sitting full of
Mint and Thyme
Forsaying a broken heart of mine
Hemmingway, Tolkein, Fitzgerald
Reposed on woven iron shelves
Keeping me distracted time after time
It doesn’t help wondrous memories
Of the fireworks exploding
Us sneaking away on bikes
My hands wrapped around your neck
Slipping away into the tenebrous night
You sit on my skin
Sun squares tracing down hardwood floors
The coffee *** murmuring with Chet Baker
How can I be?
As I pour in your creamer,
I finally feel so good, with my writing. I love falling back into this.