"suspires" poems
*in the bleakest twilight, stars, a rural sea
hues possessing confusions, mayhem;
like susurrous in the rivers the fugitives seek.
devouring words betwixt papers of prayers
the quiet evensong plays, the salted saliva swallowed
into Rome gardens of sea green and stars
a morose spirit bellow.
into the midst of the labyrinthine coral sea
they'll sail through the soughing seawind
conflating into ocean salts, erupt in mesmeric pulse
soon the April gales will shrink to a bated breath,
credence will turn into a sempiternal menace.
fiery suspires blown to my knees,
auburn tress covered a crescent beam
serenade a zero, I tilt to the drones in the haze
a scintilla of lukewarm left to trace;
to the sea her body lured,
losing panaceas and remedies.
into maelstroms she goes,
inhaling salt water, a spirit wet with ruth;
her grey bones into ash,
into watery cemeteries she goes.*
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
The coiled phone wire wrapped
around her capricious fingers,
Her chest, pitched then collapse,
air solders clings cleaves splinters,
She sighs, she suspires
And her eyes communicate a vision
veering away from her present self,
Swerving in and out of ambition,
I could never gather all that she felt,
She sights, she seeks skyward
Her mouth leaks what she muses,
her lips remind me of victorian doorways,
The wood, the skin, it bruises
as she absorbs enclosing disarray,
She cries, she is tired
The way she leans in her maroon pants
Her hands plunging in her pockets,
I fervidly hope she finds other plans,
revives abandoned passions, left in cluttered closets
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
Nada me importa vivir
con tal de que tú suspires,
(por tu imposible yo,
tú por mi imposible)
Nada me importa morir
si tú te mantienes libre
(por tu imposible yo,
tú por mi imposible)
1k
my life is not beautiful.
it just is and that is enough.
refraining from falling
into the hopelessness I've created,
that prison of my own manufacture.
I put water over the stove
and sit in this carcass
while I myself,
a cadaver if you will,
wait for it to complace me.
the lost dreams and
suspires wander these walls
that have trapped
every abandoned hope hides
behind these eternal furniture.
how am I supposed
to thread beautifully with
all this weight? my arms
are full, with bruises and plates;
***** plates I carry on
from door to door before
running away holding more.
should I drop, let them shatter?
is it cowardice, or care for the self?
my friend has said they
are no different.
to know there is no expectation present
you mustn't know what an expectation is.
so, do you, my friend?
the flies on the still life
are agreeing with us.
do you allow them dictate
that which is beautiful, why,
when they haven't got a feeling?
do you allow me dictate
that which isn't?
tell me beauty's antonym
and I'll teach you to survive
between humans and the flies
that peck at the remains
of what once lost I retrieved,
and corrupted it came back.
on my floors the plates stay shattered
my soles bleed on every step
on the edge of hopelessness.
it is not for us; romantics,
sinners of massacre, thieves of all kinds.
lives cannot be made beautiful,
yet you found beauty in its lack.
I wanted encouragement yet only found courage—
to write, grieve, and die.
Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 1:24 AM UTC