"stardusted" poems
your split-lipped compliments are
boulder-heavy with caramel
undertones,
while i’ve got my basic stardusted
collarbones
and dancing fingertips;
ink stained and lust-conforming.
you’re stitching your ideas
onto my cerebellum,
and as i cry ‘foul!’
you fly away like
you’re free.
spit speckled with blood
and my dna,
you laugh and cry and kiss
like you’re mine.
dreams are growing
like wild flowers, and babe they
make me itch for some sort
of way
to alleviate the pain.
but people claim,
that these moments
we spend are never going
to be more
than little discomfort
and i dare say
that they’re wrong.
my body is not weather proof.
it will wash away
in the rain,
so hold me under your umbrella
and keep me
by your side,
because that way
if all else fails
we’ll wash away
together.
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
He brushes lips of chapped silver
against her eager waiting ears
words dipped in warm honey gold
weave through the still morning air into
pretty distractions and buttercup dreams
She’s falling falling f a l l i n g
into those alluring violet eyes
they make for the perfect Solemn and
Earnest when he wants them to be
spinning seductive stardusted half-promises
The gossamer sunlight glints off
his aquamarine hair, and it’s like
like winter’s breath crystallized on the ends
of those beautiful blue strands;
they snare her in their breathtaking tangles
She’s almost asking to be bound
so he complies with those
clever ivory fingers on smooth piano keys
as rich chocolate swirls of his music enfold,
intoxicating-saccharine like whisky truffles
As he reaches out to draw her close,
the world soars in a myriad of colours.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
words drip
from friend's lips
a memento of coffee cups
and foamed cheeks
lost are the days of feeling alone
an empty cup filled
with warm memories of new days
made bright with new faces
and drinks made in order
to soothe your swollen heart
the evening fades
to a stardusted night
and a comforting solace
grows in our stomachs
a garden replenished
the dark seems less lonely
the stars seem so close by
no longer dead things
floating in
a desolate sky
so close in proximity
they seem almost
like our moonlit
freckles laughing
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
It is funny;
Funny how one day you can see the universe reflected in your own eyes
And blue-rich galaxies bursting from the hidden darknesses
And the gone-places of your mind.
Your pen is as ceaseless on your paper as your feet are on your bedroom floor.
Other days are like tepid water, or half-sour milk
That is undecided on the matter of its own freshness.
Those dark, gone-places of your mind are not even dimly lit.
And yet you wish for that eye-universe,
And those blue-rich galaxies,
And for your pen to skate across the page
As if possessed by the likes of Ginsberg or Kerouac.
So you wander down to the quiet places;
To the caged city forests where the trees cohabitate with basketball hoops,
And the birds sing their squeezed-in yellow melodies.
To the crumbling, sandy banks,
Where on a good day you can find a smashed white seashell
Or a pocket watch, rusty and decayed with time
And confident in its fragility.
But all you do is stare at the sky.
No miraculous inspiration comes to you;
No stardusted metaphysics,
No juice-rich red and purple existentialism.
No darling lovers dripping with candy-yellow sweetness
As the birds sing like Blake or Wordsworth.
So You return to the loud and cluttered places;
To your places,
To your off-white apartments where the water runs cold
And the refrigerator stinks worse than hell.
To your concrete-welded rivers,
Where the only birds are grey pigeons,
And the most beautiful thing you will find
Is a ***** green bottle
Or a razor blade
With more memories than you.
And you will try tomorrow.
Maybe the ticking of your generic clock
Or the casual griminess of your old green bathtub
Will be enough.
But for now, you will sit,
And you will consider constellations
And contemplate the reason why your lover's eyes
Remind you of the Milky Way.
For now, the eye-universe is still, and the blue-rich galaxies
Are deep in sleep,
Just like you wish you were.
For this is a tepid water day, a half-sour milk day.
And that is not a bad thing, in the end.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
At the end of all things, there will always be
You and I, dear – and our little story.
There will still be, at hand,
the time you spun me round to dance
– at the same time
I spun you round to dance –
in a little, stardusted, pocket of memory
in the black coat of the universe.
The curse of remembering, is
Our lovers’ loving curse.
It happened – we can always retrieve
Our little fairy story, the story we craft for the world,
Then leave.
At the end of it all, if we are not here
in our compact, glittering world of Each Other;
Even if my memory is riddled with
the little worms of age,
There will always be a part of my young self
Trapped in that giant’s pocket with your young self.
That spiral-bound Tale of Us
Sitting on my third bookshelf.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC