"tendril" poems
*Love in garden rose
Her little hands twining tight
Heart rapt in tendril*
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
And that night I was a mechanical doll
and I turned right and left, to all sides
and I fell on my face and broke to bits,
and they tried to put me together with skillful hands
And then I went back to being a correct doll
and all my manners were studied and compliant.
But by then I was a different kind of doll
like a wounded twig hanging by a tendril.
And then I went to dance at a ball,
but they left me in the company of cats and dogs
even though all my steps were measured and patterned.
And I had golden hair and I had blue eyes
and I had a dress the color of the flowers in the garden
and I had a straw hat decorated with a cherry.
Translated from the original Hebrew by Karen Alkalay-Gut.
14.2k
The intricate swirls
collecting into
the elegant character
of love.
However,
to step back and view
each individual tendril,
is it love I see
or lust?
What is building this
firework of magnificence?
The powers of passion,
or the powers of trust?
The layering of the two
create the wedding cake of tranquility.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
O mistress, your gentle eyes were a warm angel’s song.
Your glazed almond skin was soft like a virgin's touch.
Bound me in chains of desire and sin in your love dungeon.
Your euphonic voice calls out to me like a raven’s tweet.
I licked my lips and pleasured my *******
My face flushed like a thorny rose.
I reached out to caress her tendril twine of hair.
She whispered sweet nothings that filled the air.
O mistress! Our love is wrong.
In the heat of this forbidden love
we embrace the eternal night,
sharing a kiss in the moonless delight.
My body’s a canvas, craving her touch
I yearn for her sweet **********
Pain and pleasure whips me to shape.
My love for her will always creep.
O mistress, come close to me.
Print your skin on my pale flesh.
Prepare me for my best nightmare.
Where you invite worship for this time.
You stab me with love like a swordswoman
and make art out of my darkness.
No demon or god can tear us asunder.
There is still beauty in this immoral hunger.
O mistress, I submit every ounce of my soul to you.
For you have your way with me for eternity.
The bellowing echoes of ****** rumors
will never take my love for you away.
May 4, 2024
May 4, 2024 at 10:06 PM UTC
What are fingertips but pulses and pauses?
A spinal sigh---a cradle to all existence?
The punchline of all sensory implications,
the culmination of our tangles and departures?
All flesh is ephemeral, soft to shards in hours;
Touch is but a ****** tendril in memoriam for desire.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
It was only ever flowers, in a meadow wild
tangled tendril vines, of blue eyed passiflora
caressing stems of blooming heart, delicate dicentra
shining silver in early summer, a pond of silken mirrors
leafy vines of garland rings, nature weaved
perfectly a tranquil scene of bonny swans
float silently amidst fallen petals
soft nests of downy feathers, wispy on the winds
that a woodland summer drifts on
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
I walk along a path
I do not know
But falter left nor right,
And, welcoming the light
Of birches, still and white
As sleeping snow,
A raven, coat that shimmers
Soft as coal,
Beside me flutters square
And, drawn like to a snare,
Alights upon the air
As on a knoll.
A ripened chestnut, trapped
Within his maw
And hard as ancient ice,
Is tightened by the vise
And shatters at the slicing
Of his jaw
To crumble into dust,
Which quick cascades
And settles, as it slows,
To carefully compose
The shape of raven toes
Where he parades.
The raven flies ahead
And, with a stamp,
His talons take a grip
Atop a wooden tip
Of birches, dead and stripped
To form a ramp.
I stumble after, fixed
Through field of black
As in a telescope,
And, clawing at the slope,
I climb it with a hope
To touch his back
And ****** a hand ahead
Just as he slumps,
Both limp but stiff, to lie
Upon his side and die.
I meet his cloudy eye
Upon the stump,
Then lift my head to find
A willow sprig,
A tendril hanging free
For me to grip. Indeed,
I climb the strip of tree,
The little twig,
And swivel in the air,
As if by choice.
I hear a humming, low,
Resounding from below—
The raven’s eyes, aglow
With Odin’s voice.
Like lightbulbs flicker, dim
with yellow light,
They sharpen with the tones
That bellow from his bones—
This god and poet moans
His heavy spite:
He damns me to the lifetime
of a bird.
My sin, I do not know
But bear the bitter woe
And close my eyes to focus
On this word:
Saṃsāra. So I feel my
Senses spill
Upon the ground
And flood out all around
And swallow every sound
Till all is still.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
calm and collect my thoughts
ethereal smoke twists upwards
indecipherable spirals winding
their way towards the moon
temporary existence
fleeting memories
my fingers grasp and hold nothing
a silly gesture - acted out
more so in a symbolic way
the ticking clock provides a
backdrop to this satisfied silence
as i take stock of my body
and file away the sensation
of skin on skin and desperate
moans for more
a midnight tryst held close
to my heart that's beating its
way out of my body and
finding its way into yours
with limited time to live this life
embrace it head on and hold me close
tell this dream to last forever
for a moment this special made real
could only be a fragment of
a sleeping mind
i never want to wake up
if time were to stop i'd be happy
knowing that this finite strand
of fine gold thread held high
by fate was made to last more
than the thin tendril of white
sighed out - brushed past my lips and into yours
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 9:32 PM UTC
You've asked me how can I see a future when love, in all
Its numinous beauty, is waning?
I reply, the immortal stars still shine above the veil of clouds.
You say, why are the salmon swimming to their pools of origin
Only to die as they spawn? Only to die?
I tell you their love is unconditional, like mine.
You ask me did the giant sequoia know it was shelter for the burning grasses
When they walked from the seas? I reply yes they knew.
You question me about the lofty snow cranes that fly over the Himalayas
And I reply by describing
How the priestly flocks, chanting on their mission, honk—
Announcing the mantle steps to the heavens.
You inquire about the elephantine manatees gracing the shallow banks
And wonder if the sea mermaids remember their lives beyond the latitudes
Of capricorn and cancer?
Or you’ve discovered in the wind a new reasoning as to why
The talons of the paired eagles lock in midair as they court?
You want to understand the nimbus garden, ocean slate, of lake Titicaca
Where resides the Andean sea horse gliding above the clouds?
The whales that circle dance in unison collecting krill?
The noetic display of the birds of paradise, the songs of nameless creatures
Playing in the wilderness like a forgotten melody only lovers lips remember?
I want to tell you that true love knows this, that life in its
Prismatic shimmer is all the myriad colours of infinite existence wrapped
In time to the sublime structure of white and bones. I must tell you
That the flower is mighty in its opening, the humming bird is a sorcerer
Who needles ambrosia with vortex wings weaving his way to the Gods.
But I am nothing beside your disbelief which has arrived, before
I can even imagine the sweet awakening, like doom, my shell is the iridescent
Hollow of the one eyed Abalone, discarded in the deep fathoms
Of the ocean pressures.
I swim the tides as you do, investigating
The endless tendril seas,
And in my chest, during the night, I woke up empty,
The only thing treasured, a golden face
Trapped inside my dreams.
— after Neruda
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
you are the light at the end of a tendril. a spindle of dread, woven in caustic guile of argyle
parallelograms...phantom realms of solid waste. you are the pin in the subject. gating satan through a thimble
of crocodile tears, the new symbol.
the rude glyph in black bibles and strong drink, en-kindling the dead. rodents ponzi the scheme
of hell’s maze, with lies...your lies...
you have eyes that lead aside from your heart’s plot
you are saboteur. banal.
unrestrained waste. you are the fin in the barracuda puppet, grazing the wrist of Dim Henson
huffing crystal gorillas in the congo of your foyer
you are
the black chandelier.
teach me your cheap trick
striking off ‘ iron-on’ pinkie swears
your praline heresies... your ‘ no remorse’ code
lay bare to me.
better my better angels, to fathom the loathsome ****
of your actual mind. keep me abreast of your wretched games...
apply the rod of your wrong love, above all.... you must betray.
you must know in your fetid rot
of a third eye... the phlegm genius of **** blindness.... teach me the rictus of
cold hearted. a false god in my lotus !
spare me the chaste suzette
flip me the ***** that spits fables.
learn me the savage puns
to pummel you sustaining your worst done.
grant me the lethal beans for my sacred cow
trade me the idylls of your forked heart
for your crushed null
and crossed
bones.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
Wouldn't you say,
Wouldn't you say: one day,
With a little more time or a little more patience, one might
Disentangle for separate, deliberate, slow delight
One of the moment's hundred strands, unfray
Beginnings from endings, this from that, survey
Say a square inch of the ground one stands on, touch
Part of oneself or a leaf or a sound (not clutch
Or cuff or bruise but touch with finger-tip, ear-
Tip, eyetip, creeping near yet not too near);
Might take up life and lay it on one's palm
And, encircling it in closeness, warmth and calm,
Let it lie still, then stir smooth-softly, and
Tendril by tendril unfold, there on one's hand ...
One might examine eternity's cross-section
For a second, with slightly more patience, more time for reflection?
2.8k
You've asked me how can I see a future when love, in all
Its numinous beauty, is waning?
I reply, the immortal stars still shine above the veil of clouds.
You say, why are the salmon swimming to their pools of origin
Only to die as they spawn? Only to die?
I tell you their love is unconditional, like mine.
You ask me did the giant sequoia know it was shelter for the burning grasses
When they walked from the seas? I reply yes they knew.
You question me about the lofty snow cranes that fly over the Himalayas
And I reply by describing
How the priestly flocks, chanting on their mission, honk—
Announcing the mantle steps to the heavens.
You inquire about the elephantine manatees gracing the shallow banks
And wonder if the sea mermaids remember their lives beyond the latitudes
Of capricorn and cancer?
Or you’ve discovered in the wind a new reasoning as to why
The talons of the paired eagles lock in midair as they court?
You want to understand the nimbus garden, ocean slate, of lake Titicaca
Where resides the Andean sea horse gliding above the clouds?
The whales that circle dance in unison collecting krill?
The noetic display of the birds of paradise, the songs of nameless creatures
Playing in the wilderness like a forgotten melody only lovers lips remember?
I want to tell you that true love knows this, that life in its
Prismatic shimmer is all the myriad colours of infinite existence wrapped
In time to the sublime structure of white and bones. I must tell you
That the flower is mighty in its opening, the humming bird is a sorcerer
Who needles ambrosia with vortex wings weaving his way to the Gods.
But I am nothing beside your disbelief which has arrived, before
I can even imagine the sweet awakening, like doom, my shell is the iridescent
Hollow of the one eyed Abalone, discarded in the deep fathoms
Of the ocean pressures.
I swim the tides as you do, investigating
The endless tendril seas,
And in my chest, during the night, I woke up empty,
The only thing treasured, a golden face
Trapped inside my dreams.
— after Neruda
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC
Honeysuckle running deep in nostril's recollection
Wafting nectar dripping in air, please stop
Must stay present, no time for memory swap
Sneaking in, yellowed dreams, desirous confection
O purgatory, keep me still, deviate no such inflection
Causeway flash backing egg yolk, and lemon spectrum
Road lined in runners, speckling scintillation
This loose maddening of honeysuckle titillation
Reverse your tendril's twist, quivers an ungated septum
Covers, green to yellow transitions, honeysuckle bedlam
I cannot dance down this lane for fear of you
Your ringlets curl, clasp, coil me
On such road of alluvial soil I see
How can I? Must I, escape steer of dew?
You're honeysuckle memory of all I knew
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
It was an unexpected travesty
While I sipped on my Paris tea
Black and swirling in the creamy cup
The melancholy inside wasn’t made up
The touches shared never to be replayed
A pen left wordless on the splotched page
The story of us dwindled and ended
I’ll yearn the soul I lost and befriended
It stains the wanderings in my heart
Restless longing never to depart
Will she look at you the way I did too
Or with her smile is your gaze anew
Amongst any spoken tendril I have to say
You’ll ignore it regardless, keep it at bay
No matter wherever I beg and try
Forever I’ll be pinned as the bad guy
Your friends affirm it without any doubt
The words you spill attract gallons of clout
And even with a vine of knowledge to prove
They’d pry and spy ‘til nothing’s left to prune
Apr 16, 2021
Apr 16, 2021 at 11:14 PM UTC
you stranger,
you becoming stranger,
your voice the
heart-beat spindle’s threadbare pull,
pulsating in green-light chorus,
washing me in and out of the shore
of an intangible reality
that i think you not only live in,
but that you’ve created for yourself,
cloth of blood and crystalline light
and layer
upon layer
of memory
that may or may not have happened.
i dream of having my own palace in the
inverted sky;
i’d be the taste that
you try to swallow away,
the flickering guilt of
the candle you forgot to blow
out when you left the room—
you left me in the light.
i’d coax that tendril of
half-thought half-baked
slightly-worn
feeling,
weaving it
through the syllables of my fingertips.
the drumming of my hands
across impatient countertops would
keep the time,
and you’d grow in rhythm.
i’d smile,
the smug, gap-toothed knowledge
that comes from molding the inarticulate
summation of
yourself,
you, who i have never met.
our eyes would meet across the infinite
cliff of a space between words,
and that would be enough.
i’d like to be able to leave
the sound of my voice in the
crook of your elbow,
jarring your step as
you try to look past the horizon,
and only see my
tower of
words—
i want to be your babel, baby.
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 3:53 PM UTC
You've asked me how can I see a future when love, in all
Its numinous beauty, is waning?
I reply, the immortal stars still shine above the veil of clouds.
You say, why are the salmon swimming to their pools of origin
Only to die as they spawn? Only to die?
I tell you their love is unconditional, like mine.
You ask me did the giant sequoia know it was shelter for the burning grasses
When they walked from the seas? I reply yes they knew.
You question me about the lofty snow cranes that fly over the Himalayas
And I reply by describing
How the priestly flocks, chanting on their mission, honk—
Announcing the mantle steps to the heavens.
You inquire about the elephantine manatees gracing the shallow banks
And wonder if the sea mermaids remember their lives beyond the latitudes
Of capricorn and cancer?
Or you’ve discovered in the wind a new reasoning as to why
The talons of the paired eagles lock in midair as they court?
You want to understand the nimbus garden, ocean slate, of lake Titicaca
Where resides the Andean sea horse gliding above the clouds?
The whales that circle dance in unison collecting krill?
The noetic display of the birds of paradise, the songs of nameless creatures
Playing in the wilderness like a forgotten melody only lovers lips remember?
I want to tell you that true love knows this, that life in its
Prismatic shimmer is all the myriad colours of infinite existence wrapped
In time to the sublime structure of white and bones. I must tell you
That the flower is mighty in its opening, the humming bird is a sorcerer
Who needles ambrosia with vortex wings weaving his way to the Gods.
But I am nothing beside your disbelief which has arrived, before
I can even imagine the sweet awakening, like doom, my shell is the iridescent
Hollow of the one eyed Abalone, discarded in the deep fathoms
Of the ocean pressures.
I swim the tides as you do, investigating
The endless tendril seas,
And in my chest, during the night, I woke up empty,
The only thing treasured, a golden face
Trapped inside my dreams.
— after Neruda
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
*dandelion seeds
too tight to fly--
frozen Spring lovers
stream breeze--
pollen ripples into sun,
brace of current bed
inflorescent burst--
hikers' boots beside a pool
on sun-baked rocks
green buds ***** the air--
in corymb echoes,
fuzz of leaves
water-sounds cascade--
moss-drops, trickles; dog-splash, falls;
gurgles under foot
the tones of waves
tiny on the smooth shore
lipping on
stem-length stars,
streaming rays of sun
and water's deep shade
gentle eddies over stone--
one world,
one world
froth twirl and tendril
under Spring brook shade--
so clear beneath
burl-sprouts misted bright,
cups of water,
forest thirst
waterfall gasp--
the cold! the winter! now swim!
the first breaths
Spring Misogi--
pummeled muscles--
grin of mossy heart
your wet shirt against my chest
--hot love--
thunderous winter-melt
we sink laughing,
numb in Spring's fluids--
our voices drown
papaya lunch--
a tropic fruit
and i am home
sweaty backpack--
two beloved women hike,
my heart weightless
cliff-jumpers--
green from nostalgia,
i hit bottomless
cameras first,
avert canopy surprise--
Spring screen
black-backed iridesce--
warm beetle slips
in and out of scree
barefoot in the stream,
our hands and voices smooth--
ankle sprain
Spring paths--
a parent's visit
breathes new life
my womb-maker
from another life--
ageless comfort
her haiku eyes--
water shining sun green
bloom here again
*
\|/
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
Not from this anger, anticlimax after
Refusal struck her **** and the lame flower
Bent like a beast to lap the singular floods
In a land strapped by hunger
Shall she receive a bellyful of weeds
And bear those tendril hands I touch across
The agonized, two seas.
Behind my head a square of sky sags over
The circular smile tossed from lover to lover
And the golden ball spins out of the skies;
Not from this anger after
Refusal struck like a bell under water
Shall her smile breed that mouth, behind the mirror,
That burns along my eyes.
2.2k
She gained ten pounds of muscle the summer she worked in Alaska.
She’d have that slight tone for the rest of her life –
a glimmer when she flexed to stock shelves at Vons the next year or to take a turkey out of the oven or to climb a ladder or to carry her sleeping daughter fifteen years later.
A flashing tight tendril of muscle in her triceps.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
A Reading from the Book of Puppets
**Her
Ventriloquist venom is never ending
engineering every word I should say**
Pity me as her words drip down from my mouth
Look to me... my paralyzing awkwardness admonishes all attempts at paucity
the ***** of vernacular continues
Manifest as a million babble born words
look at her and you’ll know why
***Would you sell your soul
if you spoke staccato and she smiled sadistic?***
And when she’s not there
***I lay prostrate on the railroad tracks
of her impending presence***
restrained
and retrained in the tailisman rope of your arrival
Look there now, a Tongue tied in knots, a mind firing (shots)
I am reduced
she is labyrinthine, in both style, and substance,
a sapiosexual maze, a soothing syrup mixed with
biter bile
why then does
nothing feel better than to see her smile
Why validate her pleasure
with my defeats?
Stuck and ****** into a singular melodious smile, the tune of which I can’t help but dance to
Why? Because at the end of the day
your eyes jut out
candelabras in defiance the night
notifying the world
of all you want but have yet to receive
a shallow existence .... a marked man... a million morbid motifs
made of mucus and stuttered star beams
You are that rare being, a glimpse at myself both wretched and alluring
A soul already tainted::: still I seek to embrue, the boredom
I am voiceless
in this decaffinated life
a tendril of hair
a woman domestic
a shadowland chaser
a light that’s poetic
The addictive tape worm of my soul
cdh
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
“hey” is the only thing you say
pressing your hand against the doorframe
and leaning in
looking past me as if you would see anything different, but it's all the same
nothing has changed except maybe you and me
and whoever decides to fill my body next
the chain on the door covers your eyes
and i can't help think about how different you look
like a stranger; one i wouldn't expect to meet me
at my threshold with groceries in a brown paper bag
now, of course, you only bring me a heart
and say it's nothing
“hey” is the only thing i say,
unlatching the chain, and letting you inside
like i'm letting you drip down my throat
i busy my hands with the locks,
the locks i put there, at first, to keep you in, and then, eventually, to keep you out
but now it seems, to anybody watching this exchange between our worlds,
like i put them there
to keep my back turned to you,
to avoid you while you spread out on the couch
and let all your dead-eyed visions collect on the coffee table
“hey” is the only thing you say
when you notice the missing ash tray,
the one you used to use as a church,
where each burnt shell was an empty prayer,
and each smoke tendril was a hand to send it up to heaven
now it's just a black spot engrained in the wood
now you're just a black spot engrained in the wood
some things did change, i guess, but nothing as much as the two of us.
i remember when our old bodies fit together so well,
and how they rested so easily right where you’re sitting
i remember when i shared that smoke with you and helped you send it up to wherever you wanted it to go
i want to talk to you about that smoke, now, among other stupid, half-symbolic things that i'm not entirely sure you’d understand or even remember,
but i don't. instead i finish with the locks, which are also stupid and symbolic, and spread out next to you on the couch
i wish i had my own dead-eyes visions to unload next to yours, but then i remember that i left all of mine
somewhere inside of you
“hey” is the only thing i say, and sometimes, its the only thing i can say.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
You've asked me how can I see a future when love, in all
Its numinous beauty, is waning?
I reply, the immortal stars still shine above the veil of clouds.
You say, why are the salmon swimming to their pools of origin
Only to die as they spawn? Only to die?
I tell you their love is unconditional, like mine.
You ask me did the giant sequoia know it was shelter for the burning grasses
When they walked from the seas? I reply yes they knew.
You question me about the lofty snow cranes that fly over the Himalayas
And I reply by describing
How the priestly flocks, chanting on their mission, honk—
Announcing the mantle steps to the heavens.
You inquire about the elephantine manatees gracing the shallow banks
And wonder if the sea mermaids remember their lives beyond the latitudes
Of capricorn and cancer?
Or you’ve discovered in the wind a new reasoning as to why
The talons of the paired eagles lock in midair as they court?
You want to understand the nimbus garden, ocean slate, of lake Titicaca
Where resides the Andean sea horse gliding above the clouds?
The whales that circle dance in unison collecting krill?
The noetic display of the birds of paradise, the songs of nameless creatures
Playing in the wilderness like a forgotten melody only lovers lips remember?
I want to tell you that true love knows this, that life in its
Prismatic shimmer is all the myriad colours of infinite existence wrapped
In time to the sublime structure of white and bones. I must tell you
That the flower is mighty in its opening, the humming bird is a sorcerer
Who needles ambrosia with vortex wings weaving his way to the Gods.
But I am nothing beside your disbelief which has arrived, before
I can even imagine the sweet awakening, like doom, my shell is the iridescent
Hollow of the one eyed Abalone, discarded in the deep fathoms
Of the ocean pressures.
I swim the tides as you do, investigating
The endless tendril seas,
And in my chest, during the night, I woke up empty,
The only thing treasured, a golden face
Trapped inside my dreams.
— after Neruda
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
True tangled Gordian thoughts entwine
Amid labyrinthine paths that wind
Sliding sledding serpentine
To assay value and extent
Braid a mind a shoreward end
Seeking weeping thrashing send
Infused with knowledge deep and sound
A consciousness cogitabund
Within the portals self confined
Disconnected judgements breed
Diffuse journeys often made
To darkened places
Where no light
Of vision lucid sparkling bright
Will penetrate and seem so safe
Writhing heavy leaden womb
Elusive dissolute abound
Reclusive and so moribund
But in the darkened space there seems
A distant tendril sparkling white
A reaching focal point to strive
To make that leap
Great grasping bound
Wrapping arms so safe around
Clasping forgone lines abandoned
Sublimating impasse upward
Strength of purpose
Welling forward
Great eruption spewing outwards
Lava flowed eureka moment
Spreading outwards
Flowing downwards
Cogent sentient live born
Brewed in darkness
Drinks the bright
With clarity and strength unite
Dazzling brilliant shining moment
Cleft asunder glorious light ....!
Oct 14, 2009
Oct 14, 2009 at 2:13 AM UTC
I step out of the bathroom, the soft yellow light casting a trail from the doorway out onto the carpeted floor of my bedroom. You're sitting criss cross in my bed, your elbows resting on your knees. You look up when you hear the door open.I cross my arms across my chest and walk towards you, hoping the lighting is merciful. You push your legs out so that they dangle over the edge of the bed. I position myself between them as my hands trail up your legs.
I'm not wearing make up because I feel that you'd prefer that I didn't. I'm wearing my pink Calvin Klein bra with the lace trim and my black partial lace, partial mesh underwear. I feel self conscious, but resist the urge to ruin the moment by making fun of myself. I'm not waiting for you to say something to make me feel pretty. I don't need you to when I see the way you look at me.
You help me up into your lap so I'm straddling you. You lie down on your back and stare up at me. I'm comforted in knowing you're just as nervous as me. But the nervousness isn't the bad kind - but exciting. The alt-J album An Awesome Wave is playing softly in the background. I recall adding Intro to my Little Death playlist and laugh under my breath. Your hand reaches out to caress a tendril of my hair. I feel your touch from my split ends, to my roots, and all the way to my fingertips. I do my best to keep them from trembling. But knowing you're just beneath me has a way of making my entire body pulse in anticipation.
I want you. I want to feel you. I want you to feel me. I want it to feel unnatural when we're clothed together. I want you to hear all my noises and show me all of yours. I want our bodies to move in time to the music. Eyes closed. Sensations have a way of making you see. And I see all of you tangled up in all of me.
The music swells. The drums. Guitar. My body feels like an instrument in your arms. Your hands. Exploring my notes. Play me and I'll sing loud. Fingertips between my lips. Mine. Yours. Mouth on mouth. Mouth on neck. mouth on chest.
Your mouth tastes of gummy turtles.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
Morning is a burnt thing
that wrings the dark from my dress,
a lilting blue on the lawn,
in that twilight, so heavy
with lures and the tiniest snails
leave ochre splinters in my palms,
a scar, where you wrote in my book,
the blood part of ruined pages, bone white
and virulent, you raise the urge to render
my wrists more fragile,
more fragile than this,
a restlessness as black as a raven
drifts through bits of paper, stray wings
come to worship the hour, vanishing
between nine and ten, Winter
is a tenderness as transparent as silk,
as fragile as poppies,
its ruthless baptism upon my body
filling with snow, my skin shimmers
like dusk, like wings
all night you held me,
steadied my heart in the heavy wind,
even when the wildflowers had sown
themselves into the shape of a grave,
the garden overgrown, my body
from a bone, and my soul
out of nothing, opening,
opening for yours,
I am sure, god has failed me,
and longing is just the heart
changing colors, all its chambers, churning
the slowly spoiling hour, all night
I ribbon and tendril,
as you make a cage of your fingers to keep out the light,
shut the latches of this cell,
shut your eyes, my lover,
for I am frayed, my belly blood dark
and grey, where it is all wearing at the ends,
a little gin poured upon the open sore
of this ache, as I am caged in glass,
shackled at my wrists, like pink clusters of wisteria (oh, pink)
upon the secret places of our skin,
fingertips press against me like a bell,
beneath the swell of *******
I keep the debris,
my poems to you are small,
quartered and hidden beneath the floorboards
of this room, the bed, the glass,
the pink (oh pink) wisteria in bloom,
morning, is a burnt thing,
spoiled like a jail of brick and mortar,
where I live on licorice,
and on the palest underside of the wrists,
the half beat,
I dont think, I have ever loved so gently,
in silence, unexpected,
midnight spooled in a clavicle,
for my skeleton is a fossil
you will find every night
in your flesh,
and my faith lies
in that single thing left
to us, a smoldering filigree of sorrow,
shaped like a moth,
and morning is our burning....
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC