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"striae" poems
a nacreous tossing around at the sides, a dappled silver sunlight if looked one way, an apocalyptic gloam if another, exhaled from a seeming mouth, feeding on what has already eviscerated an unfelt ***** a predator certainly its own prey, a heat certainly poison-breath on a cheek falling when a meretricious lover spouts that spurious hypocorism, and also just a wavering, iridescent puddle— cornered, soft as a liquid steel echo of a futile struggle rolling around, bouncing off a wine glass, and a porcelain table edge, while a listening head shakes, looks down despondently, gloom glowing out the hair, a voice jaded since birth saying some thing about differences, or a helpless slender strap of hope hanging itself on the way two other eyes look at it across checkered watered wings, two swirling god whorls, two effulgent galaxies the color of melting pine bole circling around in living umber striae, pulling its gaze, raising it, as if they, they were blazing truth cased behind lithophane, and it, only an aporetic puddle now of tepid ocher, a mild earth stone placed in a hand, asked what is thought of it and the response: yes, yes of course, before foreign distance splutters its face, and it retreats from its meaning imparted to every thing (with the vulnerable precision of a swaying finger tip) to the baby lanugo of a delicate floating, through human rills, of what is horizon docked, dead, not merely deciduous—forever jilted with breath bulging as when beating a flopping eyeless fish to half-dead, head tilted up a throat trying to pry itself free, trying to live by streaming snagless, airful, without spirant sound of going lost straight from the hands— then a short chop of fullness finally expunged and sputtering like an escaped tuft of shackled wonder soaring up the sky in a puff and soul ring.
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Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
daniello
I in Graffiti Mural
a nacreous tossing around at the sides, a dappled silver sunlight if looked one way, an apocalyptic gloam if another, exhaled from a seeming mouth, feeding on what has already eviscerated an unfelt ***** a predator certainly its own prey, a heat certainly poison-breath on a cheek falling when a meretricious lover spouts that spurious hypocorism, and also just a wavering, iridescent puddle— cornered, soft as a liquid steel echo of a futile struggle rolling around, bouncing off a wine glass, and a porcelain table edge, while a listening head shakes, looks down despondently, gloom glowing out the hair, a voice jaded since birth saying some thing about differences, or a helpless slender strap of hope hanging itself on the way two other eyes look at it across checkered watered wings, two swirling god whorls, two effulgent galaxies the color of melting pine bole circling around in living umber striae, pulling its gaze, raising it, as if they, they were blazing truth cased behind lithophane, and it, only an aporetic puddle now of tepid ocher, a mild earth stone placed in a hand, asked what is thought of it and the response: yes, yes of course, before foreign distance splutters its face, and it retreats from its meaning imparted to every thing (with the vulnerable precision of a swaying finger tip) to the baby lanugo of a delicate floating, through human rills, of what is horizon docked, dead, not merely deciduous—forever jilted with breath bulging as when beating a flopping eyeless fish to half-dead, head tilted up a throat trying to pry itself free, trying to live by streaming snagless, airful, without spirant sound of going lost straight from the hands— then a short chop of fullness finally expunged and sputtering like an escaped tuft of shackled wonder soaring up the sky in a puff and soul ring.
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63
Daylight seeps through the black and white curtains, Like fingers tearing through fabric, Touching his skin. Soft, Dark, Sound asleep. His back is turned to face me, And in the morning light, I see the stretchmarks I love, Stretching beyond horizons, Beyond untouched barriers. Striae like streams flowing into rivers, Rivers draining into oceans, Beckoning explorers to brave the choppy currents. I trace them with my fingertips, Sending shivers down his spine, Electrical jolts down mine. I close my eyes, Hold him tight. Before I know it, Day has turned into night. Just like that, Sunbeam into moonlight. There is a cacophony, Of gentle snores, Groggy moans, Words mumbled through half-awaken lips, Words I can’t really make out. I roll to the edge of the bed, Prop myself up. He turns to face me, Eyes still shut, And mumbles, Stay.
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Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 12:08 PM UTC
imajingation
Stay
Daylight seeps through the black and white curtains, Like fingers tearing through fabric, Touching his skin. Soft, Dark, Sound asleep. His back is turned to face me, And in the morning light, I see the stretchmarks I love, Stretching beyond horizons, Beyond untouched barriers. Striae like streams flowing into rivers, Rivers draining into oceans, Beckoning explorers to brave the choppy currents. I trace them with my fingertips, Sending shivers down his spine, Electrical jolts down mine. I close my eyes, Hold him tight. Before I know it, Day has turned into night. Just like that, Sunbeam into moonlight. There is a cacophony, Of gentle snores, Groggy moans, Words mumbled through half-awaken lips, Words I can’t really make out. I roll to the edge of the bed, Prop myself up. He turns to face me, Eyes still shut, And mumbles, Stay.
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