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Meteo Aug 2015
I saw you in winter,
and thought of tree branches feathered by starlight in poorly lit neighborhoods. A hearth where the more honest parts of myself, I am bared fetal, warmed upon, welcomed.

I saw you in spring,
and thought of long drives in the countryside in the rain. Ice cream melting from our chins dancing petrichor upon our toes, kissing by the sea shore.

I saw you in summer,
and thought of sleepy boathouses, uncovering ancient childhood treasures in the woods. A secret lake somewhere, the sky's reflection in promise. Windy hilltops upon which to blame each other for the sunrise.

I saw you in autumn,
and thought of scarfs and cafes, city streets and sunsets where we watched each others breath escape. Apartment staircases where windchill hibernates, the world slowing down around us from your window.

The first time I saw You, I thought to myself, "I could live there."
Hannuh Jacey Oct 2012
Rainbows sit high
Imagination glides down their backs
and it scars hearts
after reaching a high, nothing matches that
Missing something now.
The paint, it trickles down and melts eyes
its canvas pain, it paints it gray.

To my fickle sea.
Poking holes in wishes you receive
The colors of the bay, they float away
Black and White is an infinite abyss
Lose yourself in the grace of it.
No in between,
just keep your eyes wide
you'll see nothing.
The sand at your feet
The glass and rocks that glaze the earth,
always find a way to cut their grace.
Don't pray too hard for me.

Search through your garden
the size of a thumbtack
the flowers rise over your head.
Trees of candy cane sprout before your eyes
You can't see what another sees,
no one to know what you know.

Taking a step inside an orchids stem
and tip-toeing down through the veins of its petals
the purple and gold
they all bleed through your mind.
Form and shape the world which you dance along,
thoughts of blowing breezes send your thoughts along their way
into this endless sea.

Watch the lines write themselves into darkened corners.
The bright and shining sun could change your world.
Swirling and spiraling staircases send you downwards without a thought,
no stopping the whirl-pool once your slipping under.
An octopus would take you in
and with every one of his eight arms he caresses your pain away
showing real effort in his cause

those who impress, settle at unrest

Watch as the berries erupt and bloom
crawl along the lines
mazes of blue
and red know there is no way to succeed.
Watch as the bumblebees sneeze with their noses covered in yellow dreams.
they pack it in with their toes in teams

A great glass lake, to skate along
the ripples
She falls along each crease,
stumbling and tumbling between each droplet.

The clouds fly high above her head,
they gaze upon her flowing gown.
They cry sad tears when they see her eyes
drowning her futures in their skies,
flowing and crashing and thrashing.

With an umbrella, float away
above the days when everything
turned out wrong.

The great glass lake serves true,
until you skip the rock of inferiority along its reflection.
The shatter will fly all about.
That is the point at which it ends
Everything you know is then contradicted and compromised
Your own description shattered

Stones drop from high heights
out of clouds with heavy hearts
waiting to smash this dream.

Great glass lake shines on.
February 7th, 2008
Read well with - The Reluctant Ballerina by Greg Maroney
Anastasia Webb Apr 2014
If I sung you to sleep,
what would you dream?
of mystery and madness?
of love and revenge?
of spiralling staircases, culminating
swiftly in a pool
of swirling fear?

Starfish –
sleep slowly,
sleep soundly.
Stretch bubbly limbs that
are kissed by the shore,
hugged by the sea.

This cove
of creeping creatures,
they slip and slime
like a plastic bag
of goldfish.

What will you dream?
of memories:
when you were swept
away from the sea
to dry on the sand
like a limpet?

Bubbling, giggling,
blobbing starfish:
sleeping, sliding,
slipping out of place,
slipping out
of starfish dreams.
Delta Swingline Mar 2017
Don't get me wrong, I like elevators as much as the next guy. But there's always been something about stairs that just interests me in a way elevators can't.

If you've ever watched me climb a flight of stairs, I usually skip every other step. Mainly to save time because I live life too fast, climbing stairs so I could slow life down somewhere else.

I have this one staircase where all my friends hang out, less than 10 steps with a door at the top. That door wasn't opened very often, we called it the -- "Suicide Door". Only to find that it was a room where there were tons of stacked boxes willed with paper. But we still hung out on that staircase anyway.

Lately, the conversations that take place on those stairs are less than amusing, we don't laugh about how stupid people are. Rather we rant about who we want to **** in this world, and who's mad at who for thier gender or religion, I don't feel safe there anymore.

I fear if I say anything that I'll be shut down because I don't like people's use of "free speech" when it's used to put people down. And yes, I know, I'm not innocent here. There are conversations I regret saying that I have left on that staircase.

We don't talk about those conversations because we know out opinions are still changing. I may not remember any of this when it's finally over.

We don't talk about conversations we had behind closed suicide doors. But we never talk about the ones we had on the staircase below it. Sometimes that door seems like it's locked forever, and we choose to believe that our staircase leads to nowhere.

I miss the way thing used to be, when conversations weren't poisonous to those who heard the even by accident.

It makes me want to take elevators with strangers. Sure, it would be awkward, but at least nobody would want to rant about people to a bunch of strangers.

I sat by the stairs again. All my friends were there. But the school bells ring and everybody leaves. Nobody bothers with a "see you later" of a "c'mon, we gotta go, you'll be late". They just leave.

I'll stay there for a minute, gather my things, and wonder where they all went.

And whether or not they'd come back.

After all, the stairs aren't all that important right?

And these stairs, out of all staircases, just lead to nowhere...
I haven't been to that staircase in a while. Although the suicide door seems to call a little louder than it used to.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”
There's A Wocket In My Pocket by Dr. Seuss
Queen Sep 2014
I love starecases
I love the different levels of them,
especially the colours,
black, brown which ever hue,
one likes or chooses.
however,
I hate the ones we have at home,
the ones covered in ****** stains,
I know
I sound insane,
but the ghost still lives and on walks on them,
the ghost of mom,
you remember dad,
you were there when she died,
in my arms,
when you shot her brains out
one,
two,
like a boxing match,
she was knocked out,
why didn't you listen to her?
when she told you to put the gun down?
she now sleeps six feet underground,
so much for the love of staircases.
Luke Gagnon Dec 2013
I’ve whittled shelves into my body to try and bring an

order to things. All it did was make space.

So many shelves like staircases built in anger.

Winding forcefully

until they end right where I stand.


2. There are days I wash my face with vinegar

and soak my fists in horse *****. I use it to

conceal the musty smell of forgotten Bibles.


3. It’s while God is in my novels,

that I see my bedroom floor.

A junkyard of loose-leaf prayers,

my boots go out of their way to step on

dry crunchy ones.

I can hear the breaking, and it’s satisfying.

The acrid smell of fall

in my mouth,

I bite my lip just to feel the sting.


4. The phantom pain in my chest tastes like cotton

stuck to my teeth.


5. I am Leonid Rogozov in Antarctica, I’ve built my

staircase-shelves by cutting into myself,

only local-numbness needed.


6. No, my shelves are not staircases.

Shelves never extend forward. Just, upward.

A little too much like trees,

not permanent enough in the ground.


7. It all reduces to sawdust anyway, collected

on the bedroom floor.

I’ve been sweeping it up for 40 days now,

each day, a little more.

One day, the floor will be clean.


8. You say, “You are made of blessings.” I say, “No, I’m made of blood

and skeleton bones.”


9. I love You. You say you love me.

Some days, that’s enough.


10. Today, Just yellow-

brown pages and

nothing resembling gospels.


11. I wasn’t born, I just walked in

one quiet evening and started living


12. After every shelf I whittle I still ask,

What is numbered in my life?


13. Things will change, things will change.

Things will change.


14. I have layers and layers of papier-mâché skins you can thumb

through like pages.

You’ve peeled them away,

each becoming more raw and permanent.

The cleanliness worries me.


15. There are 17 different kinds of fractures:

non-displaced, complete, oblique, transverse, comminuted, greenstick,

simple, linear, incomplete, compound, compacted, avulsion,

compression, stress, impacted, displaced, spiral and fatigue.

Believing in You makes me tired.


16. ‘Post mortem nihil, ipsaque mors nihil’

Death built its own shelves

After My body was felled.


17. When it’s you resting on my tree-shelves,

I begin to see an end.

Books are the most efficient weapons in the world.
David Barr Feb 2014
It dons a hat of seeming sophistication, in the manner of a Boston gangster where cross-cultural expressions gather at Gaelic mouse-traps of East Coast dominance.
It is a heritage, my friend.
There is sophistication around Italian restaurants, and I have no regrets. Yet, I must say, that I have experienced minimal fun amidst this political Anglican black-comedy where integrity is often confused with connected colours of red, white and blue, and the colours of green white and gold.
This is a picture of illegitimate power, where brethren gnash their intellectual mandibles and covet recognition at the price of their very soul.
Delusional quests for superiority remind me of downward spiralling staircases with blazing torches, where the echoes of scorching souls can be heard to resound throughout professional circles.
As I carry this blazing torch through spiritual levels of command, I ask the question: whatever happened to humanity?
Black Swan Mar 2010
Presumptuous, perhaps arrogant,
My perception of reality.
I invoke, with humility,
The Great Spirit and
Receive an answer.
Heavenly manifestations
In the form of trees,
Birds and dreams.
My reality.
But, what about me?

I am important.
I am destined.
I am.
I
Regulate and manipulate
My world.

Channeled energies, memories
Are brick and mortar
For the building of myself.
I build and build,
Adding rooms,
Windows, staircases.
My domain.
My center draws farther
From the edge.
Understanding expands.
I know more and more.
I sleep.

I dream of angels,
Of nature in bliss,
Of blue skies imbedded
With soft clouds,  
Of worlds--
Many, many, worlds--
And, I dream of myself.
I wake up.
I wake.
I

Am aware, facing
A being not of my choosing,
Beyond myself.
Shrill whistles,
Bright, flashing bulbs,
Agitated bees,
Forgotten memories,
Woven into the
Space that unfolds--
And more.
No longer under my control,
The earth spins on
Its axis.  
A world apart from me.
Presumptuous, perhaps arrogant,
My perception of reality.
Black Swan © 2008
"I'm not a ******* villain," he said as he walked down those lonely staircases and out the door
I wasn't a lover,
I was a victim

A serial killer with an appetite for hearts
holding captive his next hostage,
ready to chew her heart and spit it out
Connor Oct 2018
"In Heaven
The Water
is Shiny Gold"

In approach of a clearing /
Vernal-Volcanic-Bagpipe-Intimidation-Collapse-Arise-/
empty hopscotches fade with rain, remembrances of my foiled return
lent to after-rather haze mingling line by line
with eyeglasses fogged up

I relinquished the panic of your absence one week ago today, but it wasn't easy, being caught in such swelling strings once desiring to wake in Gold

I was guided by my dream family which led me thus / glimpsing premonition Wyomings sprawl with pine & geyser
flat land fire
down river /
Spring Snow and tribulations sound with elemental reverberations of Spirit colliding with Stone
pirouetting upon a newfound expanse

My restless and uninitiated Tulpa stirs and screams
(I am owed this one) delving to ancient territories of attractive chaos
emerged unkind
but tender enough to fold into my next dressing, appropriately remote

II

By June I ascend further via Nepalese staircases carved from Mountain rock, Sun-showers resplendently endow this band of rattling Sherpas with grace
to hold, to wrap around their necks and deliver to my private Summit

(where many have died, where many have given their flesh to this
Golgotha Sagarmatha)

Sneah Yerng !
away you mortal entity death !

I consume you with Himalayan tea and the heavy sensation of my boots planting their weight to frozen earth - listening, attention to the foreground Chorus exhaling harmonies of Khmer which give further texture to the native brush

(We were once kindling set perfect across the ground - to blaze & become heavenly together - instead subjugated by time's feral will, you - now a Mother and a stranger to me, Myself - continuing & following this sense strangeness which is always present but flickering like cosmic frequency magnetically luring me into a breadbasket of fire & weeping intermittent, into a cycle, a snake - surrounding magic Islands of self-past and self-future
which whirl-about searching feverishly for a path - now that the one preceding has been lost or misguided, you're bound to this breathing child who's not ours - but yours)

This is how our story ends. Where we diverge and become Actual -
carrying separate but respectful momentum in each Epoch of life in all it's various & flowing Identities, just as I'd once predicted in an Altenburg Kitchen reading Rimbaud and sipping hot water quietly, disturbed - knowing, somehow, that we'd irrecoverably commit to being temporary conflagrations in the lives of the other. The end of A summation. Events that in many ways were born there, it is forcibly behind me now.. I was the result of these things. A sword carved from heat, and pressure.

What do I do with this?
So worn with necessity - living
Enjoying occasional rain, timely - capturing passing loves
refusing to stale and finish as Petrarchan - Madame George and Myself as two ambitions which acted both honorably & dishonorably at times. As human nature dictates, as I'll know, a branded truth from now on -
I am proud of you, I love you. I will cherish you, always.

We curate and amend – understand
each other's impossible profundities

(Shh! lights go out unexpectedly ! Your remainder hovers by the door for just a few secret and sacred seconds/ gone...)

These poems have been as much for you as they were for me - But I must exit this vacated place of only peering into the beyondness of things that have outgrown their form
open, step - deliver myself to:
The last poem I'll be posting here or writing for a while. The end of a continuous stream of thought depicting the events and emotions of the last two years. Recent events have called to their end. I'll be ready to write again once this coming new state of mind and being has revealed itself - of which I am optimistic
beauty is born
torn and tired
tirelessly turning 
into itself
she unfurls 
her long and shapely legs 
like a chain of
tibetan prayer-flags
waving to the Sun
immediately she begins 
to stage the play
that penetrates the heart 
with strong arms
and a silken mane 
the color of sea-spray 
her neck is the foam filled ocean 
and her ******* 
are coral reefs that protect
the polyps that cluster 
in her unfathomable depths 

modern day education
is beyond biased 
and most definitely broken
impermanent knots 
are haphazardly tied
to bind the minds
of dancing children
short-term memory
instigates a fleeting vision
some call it autism 
others prefer anarchy
a fear of growth 
or is it really indecision
that when you can no longer respond 
to life's most pertinent questions
with anything other 
than no thank you
eventually every syllable uttered 
becomes the stuttered sound 
of overly clichéd ambivalence
that frequently masks 
itself as wisdom


despite our higher self's 
best wishes
such limitless awareness
our very own bodhichitta
slowly becomes 
an interminable trickster
also known as Ego 
which incessantly repeats

phrases like 
i’ve earned these blessings
i've learned these lessons
aeons ago
therefore it is best to
meditate and inspect one's thoughts
on a daily basis
before all these shadows 
have a chance to grow and become
funeral wreaths
still the ego says
oh what fun it is to look at
the shimmering shawls strewn 
haphazardly like wedding veils
upon our watery souls
as if you and I were a couple of
Jackson ******* paintings


to heat the flame
inside the
limitless
space of your soul
you cannot
deny your heart
the swamps, vines, rocks and peaks
it seeks for eternity
the ancient trees drink light
and breathe out the heaviness
of splintered sight 
into the ephemeral night
divine breath
is calling you home
sounding trumpet flowers
daily...

gathering falling branches
and transforming sticks of palo santo
into star-studded candles
which permanently leave 
their ashen and iridescent marks 
like tattooed scars
upon the painted face of the sky

while angels fly
with flaming bundles of hair
weaving silent smoke signals
rising up from warm coals
the spiraling eyes of the spirits 
are alight with the embers of love
which impress their radiant etchings 
upon the daguerreotype of darkness' 
burning eyeballs


faceless in the heat
grief is asleep and dreaming
of justice
a curse on those 
who evade their emptiness
in culturally appropriated places
harboring...

regret like a fugitive 
such frustration that i wept
for the lack of fruitfulness 
******* the chords of love
slowly and gently she strums
her weeping guitar 
as if arrows and yarn
were woven into her arms
like baby blankets and bundles of cotton
naked and forlorn 
her hair worn short
still she swore that she could not rest
until all had sweat their prayers
through hollow caverns and windy staircases
her vision forever strengthened
by a ceaseless determination

balancing multiple lovers
is never an ideal situation
hearts broken and freedom falling
toppling down from heaven’s peak 
into these dusty old basements
just as we suspected
everything is resurrected
to time’s smiling amazement
both old ones and new ones
are reflections of truth
juniper sours
and blooming flowers 
of golden waterlilies 
poppies and sprigs of amaranth
jaundiced and porous
loquacious are the stages 
that we must pass through 
on our way to becoming 
dew drops and frozen apples


remediating all this concrete nonsense 
would be to our immediate economic advantage
these tragic promissory notes 
where landed lords of wealth 
have repeatedly replicated themselves 
upon trillions of meaningless pieces of paper
their stoically printed faces 
should not be readily trusted
nor traded or exchanged
for life's necessities
they are not only useless but truly 
dangerous
as they often claim
that they are only passing through
yet as each new day dawns
they are forever inclined 
to once again dine with you anew


bold in flesh and sinuous
only a moment before
the Sun shall bloom and whisper
with sleepy eyes
into yarrow flavored water
the secret of not knowing
the ancient face
of grandmother Moon speaks
through alabaster teeth
so intent on biting through sheets of
dawn’s iridescent sky
that the sounds of her words
are instantly drowned out 
by her tears
yet if you listen 
really closely like an owl
to the chorus of the night
you can clearly 
hear the forest echo

i love you
Connor Dec 2018
I

I relinquished the panic of your absence one week ago today, but it wasn't easy, being caught in such swelling strings once desiring to wake in Gold

I was guided by my dream family which led me thus / glimpsing premonition Wyomings sprawl with pine & geyser
flat land fire
down river /
Spring Snow and tribulations sound with elemental reverberations of Spirit colliding with Stone
pirouetting upon a newfound expanse

My restless and uninitiated Tulpa stirs and screams
(I am owed this one) delving to ancient territories of attractive chaos
emerged unkind
but tender enough to fold into my next dressing, appropriately remote

II

By June I ascend further via Nepalese staircases carved from Mountain rock, Sun-showers resplendently endow this band of rattling Sherpas with grace
to hold, to wrap around their necks and deliver to my private Summit

(where many have died, where many have given their flesh to this
Golgotha Sagarmatha)

Sneah Yerng !
away you mortal entity death !

I consume you with Himalayan tea and the heavy sensation of my boots planting their weight to frozen earth - listening, attention to the foreground Chorus exhaling harmonies of Khmer which give further texture to the native brush

(We were once kindling set perfect across the ground - to blaze & become heavenly together - instead subjugated by time's feral will, you - now a Mother and a stranger to me, Myself - continuing & following this sense strangeness which is always present but flickering like cosmic frequency magnetically luring me into a breadbasket of fire & weeping intermittent, into a cycle, a snake - surrounding magic Islands of self-past and self-future
which whirl-about searching feverishly for a path - now that the one preceding has been lost or misguided, you're bound to this breathing child who's not ours - but yours)


This is how our story ends. Where we diverge and become Actual -
carrying separate but respectful momentum in each Epoch of life in all its various & flowing Identities, just as I'd once predicted in an Altenburg Kitchen reading Rimbaud and sipping hot water quietly, disturbed - knowing, somehow, that we'd irrecoverably commit to being temporary conflagrations in the lives of the other. The end of A summation. Events that in many ways were born there, it is forcibly behind me now.. I was the result of these things. A sword carved from heat, and pressure.

What do I do with this?
So worn with necessity - living
Enjoying occasional rain, timely - capturing passing loves
refusing to stale and finish as Petrarchan - Madame George and Myself as two ambitions which acted both honorably & dishonorably at times. As human nature dictates, as I'll know, a branded truth from now on -

I am proud of you, I love you. I will cherish you, always.
Darby Rose Jan 2014
Jordan gave me rose quartz prayer beads. Freddy picked me up and spun me around.

I kissed the beads and kissed my hand and blew it to the stars, over and over again.
Thank you universe, for the kind hearted people you have dropped into my existence.
Thank you universe, for the good music, the good ****, good wine, and good company.
Thank you, for the smiles, the laughs, the cigarettes, the numbers given out on backs of receipts.
Thank you for the swing sets, the campfires, the coffee and tea, the cars we drive around in.
Thank you for emotions.
Thank you for the feeling I get when someone kisses my forehead,
the feeling when someone compliments my smile,
the feeling when I notice the moon for the first time that evening.
Thank you, for the moon, the stars, the clouds, and the autumn breeze.
Thank you for the sounds, the crickets, the leaves rustling, the clinking glasses,
and the sound of small kisses.
Thank you for the snort I get when I laugh to hard.
Thank you for the bass, the guitar, the drums.
Thank you for the shouts, the soft spoken, the loud, and the whispers.
Thank you for the doors, the staircases, and the windows.
Thank you for everything that ever was, is, and will be.
Thank you for the indefiniteness of the now.
Thank you for everything.

I once read in a book, that the likelihood of our proteins folding just so to make us what we are is comparable to that of a twister rolling through a junkyard and assembling a jumbo jet.
This is something I like to remind myself daily.
It is so miraculous that we are here today to experience everything and everyone around us, and be able to document and share it.
I hope one day someone can look at my photographs and writings and feel these immense and overwhelming emotions that I feel in these moments.
Bird May 2016
Shaky, stuttered breaths
Like there's no oxygen left
That's what you do to me
I'm sitting in the hallway on the stairs
It's like I was never even there
The light is dim
But I don't care
I wish you were here
To clear
My blurry, sloppy tears
Cali Courtney Nov 2014
it seems as though
when surrounded by smoke
of different illicit substances
that numb the minds of sad mortals
I tend to sit silently
feet stomping by
hands being held as different couples
one by one
pass by to visit the sanctuary of
a lonely bedroom
table for two
the breath I let out smells
smells that belong to broken promises
I made when I was young
no difference between the heater
above my head
and the door inviting in spirits
who were too cold to last outside
they both bring chills
they both bring memories
of the different places I have been
sitting on a staircase
the green carpet
upset from ashes flicked
into its skin
kinda like that one time
u burned me so hard with the fire
I saw inside of you
the fire I thought was a flame of light
and not a flame of hell
it burned through my flesh
and the scars
don't look like the burns that usually appear
deeper
smaller
can open just to close
to open up again
but here I am with those
just as ****** up as I am
hoping these brain cells will do all of the talking
but no
instead it takes me back to the same staircase
where I sit after taking too many drinks
and I wait for you to answer the phone
David Barr Jan 2015
The paradise of darkness is like a climactic and physiological déjà vu, where souls have been swallowed by ancient daemons amidst an **** of oral sacrifice.
Aren’t you tantalised by such forbidden seductions?
Although I am somewhat acquainted with the blackness of unfathomable depths of the ancient abyss, I sincerely call upon your superior wisdom to beckon me across craggy chasms of mathematical perplexity, where eternal ghosts wail with agonising obscurity from the turrets of architectural stronghold.
If you light a candle toward the incarnation of depravity and reveal the sacred circle, then I will ensure safe passage down those historical and spiral staircases where dungeons hold innumerable fetishistic secrets.
I am captivated by co-existing opposites.
Let us talk with the goat, and arrive at a mutually agreeable pact.
I dance
And when I dance
I dance
With her
I dance
Across the room
On the thin blade of a rapier
I dance
Her into walls and
Over splintered tables
I dance
Her into the shower where
She huddles fetally as she
Awaits the next act
I two step and waltz her
Down staircases
Tango with her
Through doorways
I dance
And when I dance
I dance
With her
Because she always
Allows me to lead
A H J Aug 2018
I’ve been crying a lot lately.



Swirling thoughts, as if they try to crush my existence. An endless staircase that leads me to nowhere but despair, despair, and another despair that greets me over and over. An unfathomable, non explainable feelings that I fail to express to others; and they only came out as faint scars. Countless voices screaming into my  imaginary ears that I yearn to stop, and I deafened myself from those voices by running away to even louder voices. Something inside of me that carves the walls of my skin with a gushing, sharpened knife, but I can’t grasp the reality of that knife so I just stand there and ignore it.

The cycle of me trying to fight my painful, unexplainable misery. Even so, I couldn’t cry.

I couldn’t express all of my predicament, so I couldn’t cry.

That’s why it became a cycle. Again, again, again! I suffer, to the point I want to cut my own throat and die.

“Don’t cry. Crying means you're weak,”

those were the words that were said to me ages ago. Why do I always remember that? I think the person who said that to me already forget about it.



Then, when I thought all of my miseries flooded inside me, they spilled. I cry, ugly face in front of the mirror. Oh boy, when was the last time I saw those eyes, that were usually red below the pupils, wet? When was the last time I sobbed that hard?

That was the first time I sat on the public toilet,

crying.



“What’s wrong with crying?”

A person said that to me. A person said that people who don’t cry are the weird ones; do they not blessed with these beautiful, miraculous thing called emotions? Cry, cry, cry, because tears are ...



So, the cycle came back to me. Gushing thoughts hitting me madly, along with staircases that still lead me to land of despair. But now, I cry when I think of them.

I cried.

And cried.

And cried and cried and cried.



I’ve been crying a lot lately.
is crying a good thing?
JESUS emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs and the hogs took the edge of a high rock and dropped off and down into the sea: a mob.

The sheep on the hills of Australia, blundering fourfooted in the sunset mist to the dark, they go one way, they hunt one sleep, they find one pocket of grass for all.

Karnak? Pyramids? Sphinx paws tall as a coolie? Tombs kept for kings and sacred cows? A mob.

Young roast pigs and naked dancing girls of Belshazzar, the room where a thousand sat guzzling when a hand wrote: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin? A mob.

The honeycomb of green that won the sun as the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh, flew to its shape at the hands of a mob that followed the fingers of Nebuchadnezzar: a mob of one hand and one plan.

Stones of a circle of hills at Athens, staircases of a mountain in Peru, scattered clans of marble dragons in China: each a mob on the rim of a sunrise: hammers and wagons have them now.

Locks and gates of Panama? The Union Pacific crossing deserts and tunneling mountains? The Woolworth on land and the Titanic at sea? Lighthouses blinking a coast line from Labrador to Key West? Pigiron bars piled on a barge whistling in a fog off Sheboygan? A mob: hammers and wagons have them to-morrow.

The mob? A typhoon tearing loose an island from thousand-year moorings and bastions, shooting a volcanic ash with a fire tongue that licks up cities and peoples. Layers of worms eating rocks and forming loam and valley floors for potatoes, wheat, watermelons.

The mob? A jag of lightning, a geyser, a gravel mass loosening...

The mob ... kills or builds ... the mob is Attila or Ghengis Khan, the mob is Napoleon, Lincoln.

I am born in the mob-I die in the mob-the same goes for you-I don't care who you are.

I cross the sheets of fire in No Man's land for you, my brother-I slip a steel tooth into your throat, you my brother-I die for you and I **** you-It is a twisted and gnarled thing, a crimson wool:
                One more arch of stars,
                In the night of our mist,
                In the night of our tears.
namii May 2014
In your eyes I feel everything I have ever felt like old bruises hurting when you press on them slightly resembling unfathomable emotions spilling unknown into the galaxy under my ribs

And yearning bursts under my skin in blood spangled patterns all threaded with your name and racing through my veins

Like how you race through balconies in silent fervor and every spot that your foot touches blooms tiny little silver beds of moss that get swallowed up by the ground as quickly as they appear

Liken it to how you don't even know how beautiful you are

If they pierced me with a knife all that would ooze out would be ghosts of pressed flowers, all in your memory. The flowers will be green like the grass that you run on and the hills that you dream of

My lungs explode and stitch up by themselves again with every breath you gulp after every leap you take jumping over staircases, your cheekbones catching the light

Your frown never smiles nor does it sing but your fingertips do, they graze the ground and I've never seen as much passion elsewhere but in you

Beautiful is your every kind of hue

Between your toes are spaces filled with whispers of all the other girls who have said your name in awe

They're all the way down there because you let their giggles trickle from your cheeks and down to your hips, so nonchalant that they never reached your lips

Crush their giggles between your limbs into dust

You speak in a language not enough for me to grasp, flowers growing from your chest and twisting around each of your defined limbs pulled tighter around your elbows that nudge away apathy

Your cheekbones that catch the light are as strangely beautiful as your bruised knuckles you bite

Because blood is a medal of glory, as much as it is used to flower the unspoken words lying in seedlings on my open wrists

You’re a standing sculpture of rippling passion, your hair cascading into waves at your shoulders, glistening from your perspiration under the shaft of sunlight that seems to beam on only you

When I gaze at you all I think is how to fit your rugged grace in stanzas.
Our hands clenched together
In a spontaneous dash,
We fly down the grand staircases and swirling halls
Of the Atlantis at 3 a.m.

I,
Skidding to a halt in triumph,
Push toward the wall of sleek windows
Containing the exotic creatures
Swimming swiftly and sweetly
Through the dark water of the night.

And you, my dear,
Drunk with the ancient incense
Of island air and twilight,
Nourish my curiosity with your voice.
“Go ahead.”

We approach the world of blue
And lift our faces to the glass,
Pressing coolly against the fins
Sprinkled with deep, dark gold.

Through the water I see
The scales twinkling in your eyes,
And in secret I see them return a gaze
Through the reflection of the window
Softly sprinkled with life.
Martin Narrod Mar 2014
I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”
*There's A Wocket In My Pocket by Dr. Seuss
Claire Bircher Dec 2010
Piled in corners
are things I've tried to be.
Study books build staircases,
art materials stack up in paint splashed bonfires,
a yoga mat lolls like a disembodied tongue
and the sewing machine crouches beetle like,
chews on thread
weaves a cocoon over itself.
Pictures line the walls.
I smile behind glass,
children tuck in, arms tight.
Amanda Aug 2014
I like how her eyelids slowly close ever so gently, as if those words could be forever inked into the pockets of her mind.

Oh, the way he breathes in at times, it's like he tries to inhale the words through his slightly chapped lips into the airways and then

into the staircases to *nowhere.
Hey hey hey, lovely reader!
I am in a state of high emotions.
I just finished watching The Fault In Our Stars for the first time.
Wrote this little piece whilst listening to the end credits.
I was not meant to cry this much.
Hugs a.s.a.p.
x
2:09:19
Marieta Maglas Aug 2013
She stopped to sit softly on a jutting rock near the lake.
In that fine damp mist, she felt the need to take a break.
Then, she pulled back her sleeves of scales having to kneel
To sculpture in a clay like that one used on a potter's wheel.

She kept altering and shaping it into a beautiful male head.
The lines of his face proved that the man was unreal or dead.
Then, she pulled her sleeves back down, and started to walk.  
Her aunt, a witch, approached the sculpture wanting to talk.

Come here, aunt Surah’, said Jezebel. ’What do you think?’
Surah unbuttoned her neck telling her, ‘My dear, I need a drink!’
‘Is this sculpture your deep secret?’ Surah smiled as a feline.
’ He’s the man of my dreams, and his face I will never reline.’
(Jezebel started to sing)
‘I still can hear his very sad low wail,
In a sleeping forest being of no avail,
In searching for his bride he can fail,
His bride is caught in the time's gale.

When a castle he sees in the sun's rays
Keeping two decades of sleeping days,
The beauty sleep leaves him in a daze.
'Come and take your bride', the oak says.’
(Surah became nervous.)
‘My dear, it’s a very strange dream, believe me.’
Said Surah, looking as tired as being after a hard pull.
‘Tell me, sweet child, in this dream can you see
Something about using a drop spindle to spin wool?’

‘No, never! By the way, what means a drop spindle?’
‘You must promise me to keep your mouth shut,
Or the demons in the forest a dead fire may kindle.’
‘I’ll keep the secret, or the tip of my tongue you may cut.’

(Jezebel started to dance singing another song this time.)
Come and dance with me between the daffodils.
I can hear the strong wind coming from the hills,
And never let die inside you your inner child.'
‘Sometimes, this princess wants to be really wild!'

(Surah got close to Jezebel having a book in her hands.)
'This book is a precious treasure’, Surah said.
'It always cries loudly in order twice to bake its meaning,
And we must be strong, when these words we read.
This book explains the whole history of queening.'



(Surah opened the book at the chapter: Spindle)

To begin spinning on a bottom whorl drop spindle,
You must attach a leader by tying a piece of yarn.
The best wool's colors are black, white, or brindle.
Moreover, wool dresses may be difficult to ****.

You must take the yarn over the side of the whorl.

You must loop it around the shaft underneath and back.

Over the side of the whorl, it looks like a hairy natural curl.

By the way, there's a spindle in the tower having a crack.'

(The castle where Jezebel lived)

The castle was in the forest, at a high mountain.

In the approach to the front door, there was a natural fountain.

The castle had a ditch and a bridge allowing people to cross.

It had a first gallery having the marble slabs nice cut across.


The gallery was situated between the great and the little tower.

The towers had thick walls being protected from the wind power.

The south-west side of the castle had a perfect hexagonal shape.

The northeast side had prisons, from where no one could escape.


There were four storeys formed around the hexagon on all sides.

There was an interior courtyard for the people wanting to turn aside.

In the center of this courtyard, there was a well and a natural cave.

In the cave, there was an underground lake, fossils and an old grave.


In the mountain stone, there was a subway leading to the great tower,

Which was a secret place having nothing alive inside it, even no single flower.

Banqueting House was a hall having a colored fireplace of marble,

Where the king and the queen entertained their guests, stories to garble.


The stained glass in the windows could share the sounds of many *****,

And many secret meetings took place behind those enigmatic walls.

At the top of the stairs leading from the wall, there was a passageway

Guiding into Dining Room having painted ceiling light over its walls' gray.


King's Hall had the throne in front of a screen with arched openings.

It had an oak chair and a footstool for guests to sit when they were coming.

It also contained some royal portraits, expensive furniture, and tapestries.

Here, the aristocracy came to enjoy their feast, and to share formalities.


Near it, a big Lobby having walls covered in rich fabrics was used

To entertain guests with sweets, while the jesters made them be amused.

After the meal, Great Hall was a huge space for singing and dancing.

It had monumental stone arcades in the light were really glancing.


Behind the arcades, there were the staircases leading to the upper rooms.

Those rooms were used by the guests to rest, and to dress in their costumes.

They had wooden roofs, and tall windows that were looking out upon the garden,

A domed pergola, shrubs, gateways, pavilions, and a forest of pine marten.
Mike Arms Nov 2011
Your children twist
their legs in the fields
during
the play murdering
gather their
arms to decide
how to assemble
your hips
when onlookers
burned into paved
staircases
dream of how
tumbling phantoms
destroy countrysides
and what wreck
is the womb
Lyteweaver Feb 2016
Facebook makes me want to *****
Spew chunks of fake houses
perfect spouses
So many poses
perfect smiles and staircases
tout it.
Adorn rose-colored glasses
as you watch the egregious *****
boast champagne in their glasses
as they fool masses.
What does it matter the square footage
if you can’t teach your children how to solve problems?
Or start movements?
Or have values?
I’d rather wear hand-me-downs and have roots
than don Versace and walk in rich boots.
When the day ends, as you are lounging in your satin linens
do you ask yourself how you grew today?
How you moved today?
How you flew today?
Well I am…

So get out of my way.
Brett Jones Oct 2011
Next time I act like a heartbroken Holmes,
do me a favor and let me drink it away.

Words hurt what whiskey soothes.

I catch your name drifting away on a nimbus,
past the trees of someone else’s hometown.  

Your eyes are bean sprouts and your scent
is divorce.  Your fingers are still placid,

not yet ****** from the scratch of anxiety.

Eyebrows bow to nose bone in speculative uncertainty,
confusing rainy prom nights with dreams of Hercules.

One more sip of wine will detonate firecracker cheeks.

I hold your hand in secret on desolate city streets,
remembering the practice of lost lovers and

drunk ******* in dead friend’s beds and falling down staircases
in mid-afternoon moonshine. Our pasts intertwine, just as

West-coast tourist traps fill family photo albums.
MaleXcore Aug 2015
He liked it black
No sugar or cream
16 ounces of pure caffeine

I've never tasted something so bitter
The way it touched my lips
Made my body shake and quiver

This caffeinated high
Drives me to do such things
Like going on endless adventures
Reaching for the extreme

Building staircases in familiar places
But never reaching for the stars
Leaving only a slip of paper
Handwritten with a smile

Silly little light house
Sitting on the rocks
Laying there for hours
Singing and such

I could waste away here forever
There in your arms
But I rather have those
Black coffee kisses
So bitter, so strong

He liked it black
No sugar or cream
These black coffee kisses
Made me forever weak in the knees
Charlie Chirico Jul 2015
What if you're the addict that has accepted the first step a long time ago, while lines tallied up against years, and once familiar folk have given up hope long after patience; there's you first squatting in the corner of a house you barely know, with people you just met, and you shoot water in your veins, now on bent knees, praying this water is holy enough to ease the pain. The immaculate fix.

Arms outstretched, facing east and west, needles as big as nails delicately caressing the flesh and resting on sweaty palms, emaciating by way of lust and fear. No Will. No Power of Attorney. No Will Power.

They say Adam walked with Eve in the garden, and it was Eve that bit the apple. But you never hear the part about Adam killing Eve with silence. Adam was the snake. And of course above, and beyond, omnipotence comes with the added responsibility of design. "Would you consider yourself a Type A personality or a Type B personality?" The doctor asked.

One suicide and one admission to the psych ward should always be coincidental, but in case it's not and silence becomes deadly you must keep a straight face. Let the guilt mentally choke you, like a murderer choking the life from their victim. You look around the ward to find that there are no staircases. But empathy and keeping that straight face will lead to discharge, and programs, and twelve steps.
And you know when you get to that final step, it takes only one more
to push off and fall away.
Mike Bergeron Sep 2012
Sitting at a bar
In a palace built by
Nineteenth-century slaves,
And the back of my shirt
Is soaked from the
Hundred degree weather.
I rub my neck,
Wipe the hot perspiration
From it with my hand,
Only to pick up
My glass of beer
And get it's cold sweat
All over my palm.
I ask the bartender
About the nets
Obstructing my view
Of the gold-flaked,
Hundred foot ceilings,
But he doesn't know
Why they're there,
Or just doesn't care
Enough to humor me.
Happy hour prices
Segregate me and my soul
From the charcoal
Suits shuffling past
As they head to
The trains that will
Deliver them to
Their BMWs
So they can drive to
Their wine cellars
And plastic wives.
The history of this place
Is suffocating me,
It's thick in the air,
As are the dialects
Of dozens of states,
Shouting to each other
Or to themselves
Or to god.
I pay our tab
And dive into
A red line train
Like a CVS syringe
Into a ******'s arm,
And rush away from
the city's heart
With the other cells,
Through tunnels buried
Beneath the birth and death
Of the American scream.
If I fall asleep,
I'll never wake up,
The dream will replace
The reality I've created.
The steady thrum of
The train croons to me,
But the acidic stench
Of July humanity
Keeps me locked
In this scenario.
The darkness flees
As we breach the
Border of daylight.
Jetskis on the Potomac
Remind me of what
I don't know.
Dreaded beards
On weathered sacks
Of human decay
Perched on plastic seats
Remind me of what
I've painted as real
In my underexposed brain.
I'm exhausted,
All my water has
Evaporated, risen,
And I'm a Little drunk.
My eyelids are heavy,
And move like
Hurricane barriers.
Open:
Same scene,
Different passengers.
Closed:
Spiral staircases
Of neon fibres,
A religious maven
Spitting his canon,
Fleeting images of
Hardwired memories
I've grown old
Trying to erase.
Open:
He's staring right at us.
The man in the
Periwinkle shirt
And the bronze
Kmart tie.
His sweat shines
Like young paint
On an Oldsmobile,
His double chin
Is tanned to
The color of his tie,
And he knows too much.
He knows more than I do,
More than I can take.
His eyes shine
With the knowledge,
The stupid grin
Plastered on his
Greasy face
Knocks me out.
Closed:
The sky is vast,
And unscathed by jealous clouds.
The crystal clear water holds me up,
Its pressure on my back
Is as refreshing as it is comforting.
Max and Andy splash and laugh to my left.
The pond water in my ears
Distorts their sounds,
But the mushrooms in my blood
Explain them.
Jesse is coming,
Doing well at keeping his cigarette dry,
Swimming with one arm.
I feel something unlock inside me,
Forget it's June,
That I'm floating
In this lake
For the first
And last time,
That I'm still
In Rhode Island,
That the love
Of my life
Is in Virginia,
I forget my limbs,
My hair,
My skin,
My ****,
My heartbeat,
The stellar iron in my blood,
And as the water fills my lungs,
As the shouts commence
And sight fades,
I am reborn,
I am the microbes I am swallowing,
I am the glow of the nearest star
Glinting off the rippling surface,
I am the sand beneath me,
I am the air pushing the pine needles,
I am alive,
I am open:
I am still on a train
In Washington DC
And this ******* guy
Knows too much.
His lips are wet with it.
It's written in the part
Of his thinning hair,
In the way he's thumbing
the pages
Of the book he isn't reading.
I can't contain the shout,
The burst of wasted pride,
The "*******!"
The "What do you see that's so ******* interesting?!"
I can feel Ali's hand
And the eyes of
All the passengers in the car
Fall upon me,
And the pressure
Caves in my skull.
From my sunken face:
"I'm a reasonable man, get off my case."
"I'm a reasonable man, get off my case."
"I'm a reasonable man, get off my case."
"I'm a reasonable man, get off my case." -Radiohead
Luis Mdáhuar Jun 2015
She resembles a make believe song
As if my sorrow for the staircases
Of the ocean
Blue because the nymph stretches
Around the ring of perfection
When the world was as dull as a sink
When the sky looked like a pillow
Trembling behind the doors of ***
As if the leggs weren't enough
To ask for a second meal
Then
The hand cuts the melancholy pear
Swift and shinning pear
Before the branch broke in half
ok Jan 2015
Resolutions are
supposed to be
constructed from broken staircases and
antique chandeliers to
sand away the rough patches on your
wrist bones and
the scabs on your elbows;
they're meant to
declaw your demons and
file down your teeth so you
stop ripping the Band Aids off the
wounds that have been trying to
heal since the day you
gave up on
morality,
they're meant to take what you have and
polish it until it's
pretty enough to put behind the
glass in the living room where
strangers can
"ooh" and "ahh" and
pretend like they actually
give a ****,
they're made to fold you up into a
paper crane as a
reminder that
everything can be art if you
strip away the titles.

However,
my New Years resolution is to
write a poem every day, to
finally post the
For Rent sign that's been
gathering dust
in the attic, to
staple my heart to the
bulletin board in the
bad part of town.

Is it more ironic that I'm digging up the worst parts of myself to make my art better, or that I think writing some ****** metaphors is considered a resolution?
idk if irony is the right word but it sounds good
1/365
Anderson M Feb 2015
I groggily stumble out of bed
My high pitched ear splitting alarm
Having ****** me to consciousness
Everything around me seemingly heel over head
Spiraling up and down virtual staircases of confusion.
Aftereffects of a long night cut short inadvertently, causing untoward harm
Thank Heavens I don’t suffer from urinary incontinence
It’d otherwise be a disaster of mind boggling proportion
I go about my daily routine tasks in slow haste
Mine eyes heavier than lead, straining to keep them alert
I hurriedly help myself to a serving of chips doused in tomato paste
I top up my morning meal with a  chocolate mousse dessert
I proceed to kiss mummy on the cheek
Wishing and hoping for a good week.
a typical Monday morning.
Monday blues...:-(
L Scott Dec 2013
Outside these three walls,
we assemble and separate.
We’ve gathered up all that was received and given out,
only then to burn it all in the end.

Forget the Barber, the Barista,
the man who borrows heels,
and those who argue that all are wrong in and around the snow.
All know me as the easy mark.

Remember the slaves to the letter
who are washed and cut in red,
Agony and age written well on hands blue,
live life in a mirror, too.

But these words spoken at the seat of the head,
and underneath twin staircases
high, low, and in between your hair,
Suggest that longevity isn’t so bad after all.
Connor Apr 2015
Oh ferocious angels,
lionesque children of Eden
on narrow streets and polluted alleyways
whispering cruel things to each other,
you're radiant in your belligerence
and as my enemies you are virtuous.
Beside me in this carpeted rectangle room
a faint glow exhales
from the tall alpine ivory lamp illuminating
firefly wings of blossoms
alluringly exuberant in the afternoon sun-ray
diamond shine and shimmer.
Dusty tin roofs billow
firewood smoke in the thick violet shade fog over-top cabin potted
mountains and hills sprouting firs and rose bushes abounding.
Spectrum cast chandeliers echo staircases which
jot up and up arduous ruby landings,
hardwood floor cracked
and stacks of novels ballast the senescent hallways
of bookshops where poets works and journals diaries and memoirs blur
the serpentine walls with memories.
Angelic the soul which is too often contaminated with
avarice rebellious to concord living
harmonious midst dew grass and calm waters in residential lakes
empathy equanimity, far from Bodhisattva.
Few kinds of darkness transcendental
subduing other darkness to a weak shadow.
There's an importance to admiring the delirium of metropolitan roads on roads
this intricate unspoken connection to those who
rest by stoplights and crawling traffic metallic molten aura of
cars in July heat.
Paying attention to the open window of adjacent apartments
where Mr. Norris waters his tulips and shares this moment
modern meditations practiced
finding a balance in such an anxious
volatile world like this.
Oh ferocious angels, impetuous
forlorn seraphs,
sing! sing and soar!
Boundless is our ardor
and our passion.
Unenclosed is the lion
in it's bloom.
Flickerings of distant memories flutter
past my psyche into nothing.
Through an astral plain I drift.
Over nonexistent lands
my feet carry me, floating.

She slinks away, the black cat, agile—
“The dreamscape is a fragile
thing,” she said. I'm following,
changing, borrowing her shape but then
the story fades, too vague
and just like that
it's vanished.

Incomprehensible images wander
as clouds through skies of colours unseen.
I'm lost in an ocean of questions
that pierce my ears as hooks through the fish's mouth
but I cannot ask,
for a white hot zipper seals my lips.
A voice whispers, breath damp in my ear:
“Watch, listen...”

The ground opens beneath me
and I plummet.
Feeling cold against my skin
I'm naked, vulnerable, fearful.
This pit must be bottomless but
I've landed, unscathed.
Bathed in grasses soft as silk
smelling of life and freedom
I'm enveloped in relief, protection.

My body moves, uncontrollable
as reeds in a river
yet still guided by a wind with no origin
playing melodies of beauty immense and painful.

Wonder fills me as the song ends,
ominous and heavy the silence looms.
Flowers die and the grasses wither
as I'm pulled away,
reluctant.

Higher, higher I'm lifted
into lucidity
past ladders and staircases, tunnels and gateways
closing before my eyes
as nearer draws the moment I dread more than anything.
Despite my persistence,
I'm solid again.
I'm myself, mundane and mourning:
awake.

— The End —