"tilting" poems
When you plunged
The light of Tuscany wavered
And swung through the pool
From top to bottom.
I loved your wet head and smashing crawl,
Your fine swimmer's back and shoulders
Surfacing and surfacing again
This year and every year since.
I sat dry-throated on the warm stones.
You were beyond me.
The mellowed clarities, the grape-deep air
Thinned and disappointed.
Thank God for the slow loadening,
When I hold you now
We are close and deep
As the atmosphere on water.
My two hands are plumbed water.
You are my palpable, lithe
Otter of memory
In the pool of the moment,
Turning to swim on your back,
Each silent, thigh-shaking kick
Re-tilting the light,
Heaving the cool at your neck.
And suddenly you're out,
Back again, intent as ever,
Heavy and frisky in your freshened pelt,
Printing the stones.
25.6k
if the ocean would carry me
it'll collapse under the weight of my bones
made with cement and steel
and the burden each brick owns
witness the waves howler and scream
just like the heart caged in my chest
blood bubbling around the muscle
surging with every beat and protest
the bottom of the sea may be quiet
like my tongue folded neatly in my mouth
though feral beasts deep within
choke with pressure more than i can count
the ocean and i are seperate
both flowers from different gardens
one ephemeral, one wilting before your eyes
but both's head tilting up to the heavens
sorrowful eyes, swirling, storm awakening
chaos mingling betwixt water and blood
ravid souls in dire need of feeding
cursed and blessed by god
i wonder if i could carry the ocean
within just the corners of my palm
i and the ocean - we are one
a catastrophe after the calm
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 10:22 AM UTC
Color of lemon, mango, peach,
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, thier balconies
Fine as hand-
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower pen-sketch.
Tilting with the winds,
On arrowy stems,
Pineapple-barked,
A green crescent of palms
Sends up its forked
Firework of fronds.
A quartz-clear dawn
Inch by bright inch
Gilds all our Avenue,
And out of the blue drench
Of Angels' Bay
Rises the round red watermelon sun.
9.9k
the magnolia was a bit of a *******
(as far as trees can be ********
and like very many other things—
like japanese candy from the Fugi Mart in Greenwich
(across from the McDonald’s and next to
the music shop where I got my viola)
and like pokemon cards and nintendo gaming systems
and like Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” on a pink CD in a Hello Kitty radio
—that ******* of a magnolia was a distinctive taste
of the years I spent growing up in my house at the end of Wyndover Lane.
the ******* thing was almost perpetually in bloom.
it barged into both spring and autumn
(it didn’t give a **** about timing)
those pink and white spongy petals padding the ground
and at first you think it’s ******* beautiful
sitting in the crook of the trunk where it split into
two large
separate branches
tilting your chin back to catch a glimpse of blue between fat blossoms
then the petals start rotting
water-retentive little *******
and you can’t sweep ‘em away because they stick to the patio
brown clumps slipping under rubber soles
my dad lets loose a string of curses
and the magnolia shakes with laughter
I tried pressing the petals in a notebook once
while I was in that naturalist phase it seems all little girls go through
when you make fairy houses out of bark in the backyard
and put flowers between the pages of books because it feels
oh-so-much-more significant
than picking a pretty thing and showing it to mom
but the magnolia seeped through my spiral ring
and when I opened it up a month later they were dry tan papery things
not at all velveteen and rosy
and there were garish pink bloodstains all through the ten pages
on either side
magnolias don’t preserve well
except, honestly they do don’t they
then of course there’s that childhood tragedy that everyone has
when your dog got hit by some soccer mom’s suburban
or your teddy bear was lost in an airport
or maybe you just liked to cry because some things
were just really worth the tears at the time
but when I came home and found out they cut down my ******* ******* of a magnolia
I bawled
there wasn’t
even
a
stump.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
I can tell by the way you look at me,
one eyebrow cocked upward while
examining my so called perfection.
Completely astonished by my beauty,
the beauty I don't even see in myself.
Peering out of the right corners
of your deep brown eyes
without tilting your head at
even the slightest angle
because you don't want me to know
you still think about me.
But I've noticed you can't look away.
You can't look away
because that may be the last time
you ever see my face.
And the thought of that being
your last chance to catch a glimpse
at my sparkling blue eyes
destroys you.
You just can't look away,
and that's how I know you still love me
(even though you wish you didn't).
Jul 5, 2023
Jul 5, 2023 at 12:18 AM UTC
Sensation, intuition, feeling, and thinking,
Is wrapped inside a ball,
A small pink ball inside our head,
That won't stop till we're dead,
Analytical bedrock inside oozing theories,
Elemental atoms sizzling logic,
The imaginative stranger,
One abstracted and eccentric,
Walking with shadows,
Talking and mocking,
Through these theories inside us,
Tilting our caps ‘til we’re shaking our heads,
Pensive love in storming analysis,
Sapiosexually excited, piqued interest,
Unemotional and thoughtfully attuned,
Absently minded, always condoned,
Unconventional and impartially stringed,
Weirdly wired in auxiliary functions,
Misconstrued and misunderstood,
An ****** intelligence bleeding paranoia,
Knocking unto me,
Into you, inside us all,
It’s something we all yearn to be,
And when you fail and prevail we laugh,
Crickling crickets thinking nothing,
Washing down the storm drain,
With no thoughts fluidly sliding down my throat,
Pop goes no questions into absolute concise words like freshly broken glass,
Again shadows await, but different shadows,
Blinking at me staring at you,
Wondering what’s what, inside this dementia made sense of a lovely afternoon,
Inside your sane, autocorrected, predetermined, twitching, little…mind.
Inspired by Myers Briggs Personality Test
Tyler is INTP... Logician (Introverted INtuitive Thinking Perception)
The drifter, dreamer the absent minded professor!
SassyJ is INTJ... Architect (Introverted INtuitive Thinking Judging)
The starry-eyed idealist manoeuvring life as if a giant chess board!
What Myer Briggs personality type are you?... See link below
It would be great to know.Please comment!!
http://www.16personalities.com/intp-personality
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
you had me when you
skinned my hide—the future
and present of squiggled
intestines tilting with the
rotation of earth.
I am macho—no nighttime.
the summer constellations
throw me a bone and big crunch
as my molars snap with my
jaw.
it takes a year to go around the sun once.
it takes a trawl to fish properly.
it takes a dog to chase the brightest
star.
Sirius.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
Darkness engulfs the morning
Letting the sun rest for a simple moment
Slighting the thought of commitment
On the edge of the earth
The arctic circle spins madly in love
Tilting the earth drunk
Just enough to admit she is shy
That attention never came easy
Going unnoticed
Tucked under the drab sky
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Every year is the same,
same people,
same places,
same time,
same faces.
They bring me their labeled tickets,
the same ugly tan-colored, black-inked tickets.
Bent and smudged as if it went through their wash.
No time for conversation,
not even small talk,
only the same old.... hello.
They sit, they smile, they leave.
They sit,
on that same old boring brown box,
"Feet placed where the red exes are please."
You think they'd already know that by now.
They smile,
tilting their head to the right,
their eyes looking directly at the lens,
looking as if they were hypnotized.
They leave,
the camera flashes bringing them back to realization,
they release their breath,
"Goodbye!" They say,
"Have a nice day!" They say.
Who I wanted to be is who I am not today,
who I wanted to be is not where society has placed me,
who I wanted to be is what society calls a joke,
who I wanted to be is free.
A photographer.
Not here working for life touch taking pictures of the same bland faces,
I imagined myself... flying,
Like a bird traveling around the world,
Capturing every moment I see,
Where the natural light glistens across the landscape,
where i can direct the poses of my subject.
But instead,
i'm stuck here taking pictures for life touch
of the same people,
at the same places,
of the same faces.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
We’re reeling, thundering, flying.
We’re racing down the hill.
We’re sweeping along the pavement.
I will carry you; I’ll take you where ever you want.
We’re wobbling, swaying, tilting.
We’re blown and knocked; uneasy.
We’re pushing into the wind.
I’ll try to be steady; try my hardest to never let you fall.
We’re bumping, pounding, jolting.
We’re kicking up leaves.
We’re skidding along the track.
I’ll weave between every tree, don’t worry, my love.
We’re gliding, sprinting, whizzing.
We’re brushing by the hedge.
We’re crunching along the stones.
I shall trundle with you, gently down the towpath.
We’re moseying, wandering, meandering.
We’re stopping, choosing some lunch.
We’re pacing through the lanes.
I’ll wait when you’re gone, wait to take you home.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 9:42 AM UTC
Three parts treasure hunter
to two parts scientist,
the archaeologist
with picks and brushes
sifts through shards and ruins,
echoes of ancestral time,
burning for answers:
How on earth did we manage
to carve out shelters from the crust
tilting the scales
of survival in our favor?
A cliff house here, a cathedral there
a village by the river
chronicling our escape from
the shadows of pre-recorded time.
We wonder where they all went
and why they vanished, but the real question
that haunts our paleolithic selves,
is who are we and where are we going?
October 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
Joy murmurs above.
We crave patience.
Twisting the top off each other's head.
Who first insults permission.
Applying our hands as cups.
No longer dull to the vapor of how we feel.
We recline in long verse.
Spudders of interruption.
The rush of anticipation.
Pressed against the couch.
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
Opening up to you without cease.
Frequent sips of red wine.
Tilting you over filling my cup.
Eager to sip in weighed sway.
I hear and smile.
Feeling the effects.
How you laugh.
How you smile.
It's funny how time flies.
Leaves in Spring.
Blown away, scrunched up in the crinkle of your dress.
Rustic brown & red accented in black.
Some fears are simple.
Others are not.
There's no alternative.
I'm an alcoholic.
Pursuing sip after sip.
Civil in how we converse.
Neighboring bold taste
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
You’re frightened but, there is no need for fear.
Your eyes are barely open.
Your vision is blurred beneath your thickened lashes.
Blinded, you are.
Hazed, you are.
Sick, you are.
Lying on the minted tile floor,
back arched and your cheek pressed to a faded rug,
you roll on your side.
Tilting your head up, you moan.
The vicious pulse begins pounding your wounded head.
You roll again on your shrunken stomach,
bubbling over with an ocean of alcohol.
You drag your eyes up to the piercing light above you.
Adjusting yourself slowly,
your hands fumble for the floor beneath you.
The muscles in your arm strain as you push yourself to sit.
No strength.
The stained bathtub provides something stable to grasp.
Smeared makeup.
Hair stuck to your hollow face.
Memories scattering in the wind outside.
More pounding, but this time it isn’t in your head.
It’s booming outside the door.
Screaming and movement is caving in on you,
suffocating you.
Who’s outside?
What’s outside?
"It's okay”, he says “You’re fine now.”
You turn and stare.
How long has he been here?
He’s been watching you the entire time.
He knows something.
He’s done something to you.
That’s why your in this frightening room below the ground.
He stands and walks towards you.
You must stay strong.
Don’t flinch.
No weakness.
A gentle arm glides just under your leg
and the other behind your waist.
He lifts you up and a small whimper escapes your lips.
There’s pain.
He carries you into a familiar room through another door.
The pounding from outside grows softer.
Shoulders relax.
Forehead cools.
Sleepiness comes.
He sits on the bed with you in his lap.
Suddenly your alertness fades and you feel comforted.
“How much did you drink?” He asks timidly.
You lean your head back.
Funny.
“Just a little”,
your words slur from your swollen tongue.
You start to giggle.
Arms begin to sweat.
Stomach tightens.
Puke.
Tears.
Hushed.
“Shh now. You’re fine. It’s alright. Breathe. Breathe.”, He coo's
and slowly strokes your spine.
Tensions released.
He stands and walks to the door.
“No! Come back!”, You cry.
He’s leaving.
Why?
You reach your hand out,
like a child,
but draw it back quickly.
“Haven’t I always come back? This time is no different.”
Only a second passes and you’re out.
Not all the way.
Eyes closed.
A window opens.
The fan goes on.
A blanket covers you.
He’s there.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC
Staying still
I try to drain
Every last
Little drop.
Tilting back, I
Grip the neck but
Don't break it, God forbid
I'm in no shape to clean up a mess
Though I'm an expert at making them,
I tell you what, I hate the television, all
those shiny happy people like in that
song I don't know the words to, but it's
obviously true, watching these shiny
happy lives with all of these beautiful
people who are probably ugly on the
inside, just like me, going home to sit
in their expensive new recliners and
grip the neck but don't break it, don't
make a mess that you can't clean up
drain every last drop even if you don't
really want it, 'cause it used to make
you feel much better, and now it's just
routine, like brushing your teeth and
trying to sleep and telling old friends
that you're fine, fine, just tired, so very
tired and I'm trying to stare through the
television to see these stupid phonies at
home in their own chairs, drinking from
a bottle like this one as if it might save
their sorry lives, like I'm trying to do
right now, tilting it back for just one
more drop, ****** there is no more
and I'm not done drinking but the neck
is slipping from my hands and I'm trying
to drink it down, **** it up when I let go
of the neck and drop it and there is a mess
for me to clean up, I tell you what, all that
broken glass and those elusive little drops
that could've made everything so much better,
could've fixed me but oh well, guess I can't
watch TV anymore, 'cause I've got a mess to
try to clean up right now, yes siree, guess
that even the shiny happy people have to
**** it up and fix it every now and then
just like me and you and everyone else.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
Fighting demons
Bursting bubbles
He's in my head
Among the rubbles
Seeing that most things get done
He works at it from moon till sun
He tilts at windmills only he can see
Please meet.... Don Quixote
My affliction
or my soul
hearing voices
takes its toll
Fighting what may not be there
And if it's not, why should I care?
Before the windmills in my mind
Don Quixote....you will find
An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
Hidden loves
Broken hearts
So much to do
just where to start
No Sancho Panza by his side
In my head he's stuck inside
Keeping madness at arms length
Don Quixote...my minds strength
Unfinished tales
Broken dreams
So little time
Or so it seems
A wayward soldier on his way
What windmills will he fight today?
The thoughts I write reveal what's me
Allowed outside by Quixote
An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
They began without notice, in the city of Mombasa
By the Al shabab shooting baby Osinya in the head,
Killed the mother, leaving a slug stuck in Osinya’s head
Killing and mauling many others macabrously,
Killing for no other reason, but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They had initially lynched the West Gate Mall
In Nairobi, killing the aged and seasoned darling
Of African poetry and true fountain of peace
The dearest Kofi Awonor, in full watch of his son,
Confirming a trail of the ghastly curse of fate and death
That totted him arduously from his home in the west
Of the tropical gulag that makes the land of Africa
From where the terror maestro ; Boko haram reign scot free
Mayheming, Killing, ****** and kidnapping harmless virgins
Killing For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They have now killed fifty peasants in Mpeketon town,
****** them in circles to puncture their virginity
and brutally kidnapping those that are not *****
Using the AK 47 and the Ak 74 to shoot and ****
Without reason nor course but failure of mind
Botched down by authenticity of holy diversity
Heavenly packaged in God’s idea of tribe,
Uhm! An African man with a gun is a brute of brutes,
Giving an African a gun is simple mess of the world
In to helter-skelter poise tilting peace higgledy-piggledy,
Killing one another like animals premised by Charles Darwin
As overtly seen in the warring Congo and CAR,
Where Africans **** one another in a stupid dint,
To ape Rwanda or no! To outshine the Jewish Massacre
In the Ammonium chambers of fuehrer Adolf ******
This stupid Africans baser than wild beasts,
Who told you that your greatness will come
from killing your neighbours; the fellow peasants?
These African men are the modern homoguerrillus,
Which one call cheap war making man
They and **** ! **** **** **** **** **** ****
For no other reason but faith and tribe,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Gunshots of the gunmen in Africa are not
A song of the caged bird, no whatsoever,
They are cowardly maneuvers of the weak
As the weak and cowards rarely forgive,
They arm themselves to the teeth
With deadly weapons from Russia or wherever
Only to shoot and **** the old and malnourished
Peasant women, killing the likes of baby Osinya
Shooting a suckling baby to prove your heroism,
These African men are really a Whiteman’s burden,
They **** their fellows from cockcrow to chick roost
For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
Close your eyes
relax
breath deep and slow
as I with words
****** your aching form...
Feel my breath against your neck
no don't move
not yet
as my lips graze your skin
lightly dancing
in quick succession of kisses
between your
shoulder blades as you shiver.
My finger tips trace your spine
feeling every
delicious movement
as you arch backward tilting your head
I bite slow
your upturned chin
feeling your sigh upon me soft.
My hands with reversed finger tips
stroke your arms
tentatively touching your upper thighs...
Shush he's home
we will continue this soon...
To be continued.
Biting you
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
Months have gone by and still
you echo in my black hole,
your lips still brushing mine
in the wind that caresses my face,
your voice whispering through
the riffs and chords of songs,
your body visible in the contours of trees,
your face in the curves of the clouds,
and looking up desperately at
the night sky,
I envision you glancing at the same stars,
your soul having been imprinted permanently
on the Earth's ceiling,
so even when I close my eyes
you linger in the corners of my mind,
a universe of
constellations and planets,
galactic clusters of
immortal memories and undying
desires.
Months have gone by as I
continue to orbit around
the memory of you,
tilting onto your axis,
spinning round and round as
I try desperately to get back
to you, but you're
galaxies away.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
And then I too
am part of the silence
that casts its post-sunset stillness
throughout this swamp white oak's great spread.
It seems as though even the hive of honeybees
and the nearby nest of baby birds
have stopped to admire
the feeling of the world
tilting on its axis; sinking through space.
We all gaze further upwards,
those bees and birds and I.
And nestled in the remaining twigs above,
is the shockingly finite dance
of the leaves... of the stars.
The shadows that hang from the top-most branches
cast their way down around me
and coat their way all over the ground, making it
easy to forget the height—
the ultimate suspension. Because
born within my skin
is a swamp white oak,
stretching its branches through the
grey matter in my mind,
over-taking and over-whelming.
At the end of it all is me:
a tiny little acorn laid
by an impossible evolution
of people into trees.
Every cell becomes leaf and
the heart a listening ear. Amongst
the chorus of the frogs,
the owls, the coyotes—
the chorus of the woods around—
is that shift
so revered.
The shift of the Earth.
The Earth tilting
on its axis.
It’s time to admit that the maps and
man’s little green boxes there,
are nothing but products
of a continually
diminishing temper... showing
that when this swamp white falls,
it won’t just be a wood
that’s finally left barren.
It won't just be a body
left emptied and charred.
Please, I think, as the bark gets flimsier
and flimsier
beneath my feet. As the wind gets fiercer
and fiercer
howling in my ears. *Please. Let this lone acorn
standing here
sprout into something.
Let a swamp white oak
be seen.*
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Not too distant beach tree sways in distance
Mandala Rorschach blot patterns dance like celebrating Salish drum circle
There's a hallow college sound of crime show to my left
Bickering with the occasional crush of,
**** my job is stressful."
A sleeping armadillo composed of quarks reflective within a drop of water
Fallen from the bottom-bulged North 49 canteen
A foot and 3/4ths away the snow-white generic of a ***** coffee mug formerly host to a Tetley green stands silent
Reminiscent of the eternal stillness of a mountain range
Fibonacci's name rings inexplicably from tilting branches
And I can't help but wonder if I would be grasping his hand in grasping a branch.
19 years alive and I can't help asking if I've grown-up too fast
Or simply grown into myself.
I feel old
young
and somewhere indescribable most of the time
and it's funny I cannot even fathom the length of 22 years.
A deflated balloon yellow like trend pants or sunrise sits like dejected missile
No longer screaming towards Gaza
No longer screaming.
A Holiday Inn Express pen sits with a ready-call number
Part of its mustang flame
If its quality of penmanship has any parallel to hotel service
Perhaps I'll stick with hostels.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
people watching in a coffee shop
is one of the simple pleasures in life
the bizarre satisfaction you get
when you sit by the window
solving crossword puzzles
or probably sipping your cup of hot latte
immediately tilting your head up
when someone enters
analyzing, wondering,
as they pass by your table
what kind of person they are?
what coffee do they drink?
what do they do in the coffee shop?
where were they from?
who are they with?
thoughts by thoughts
questions by questions
curiosity kicks in
eventually clouding your mind
as you nibble your chapped lip
finally finding a solution
to the crosswords
also your futile thoughts
without hesitation
you give those people in the shop
every single one of them
a life
based on their coffee
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
The poet’s quill scribes a vision of the debutante
as she rests amongst the bluebells
Scattered like jewels over the meadow.
The delicate voice of the robins
Echo through the valley,
Where the gentleman tells of his ardor
As they shelter amongst the weeping willows.
Curls tumble from the confines of her hat,
Parasol tilting to hide girlish blushes,
Careless of her silk skirts
they are crushed, lying as broken rose petals.
She glows with the joy of an un-chaperoned picnic
Scent of cinnamon scrolls tempt her senses,
as her beau offers cider to moisten their suddenly dry throats.
Dapper in his impeccable finery,
Coat tails trailing, crisply starched shirt points lifting his chin,
Top hat tilted at a rakish angle.
Dark eye’s glinting with the thrill of his endeavors.
Sunshine silhouettes the glory of the lovers,
whom the poet has sewn together
as an artist creates a masterpiece.
Each syllable as a brushstroke on canvas.
A Monet made not of oil and brushes,
But ink and parchment.
Every word scribed by the care of the poet,
Transformed within the mind of the reader
Oct 21, 2009
Oct 21, 2009 at 12:59 AM UTC
here is something that
mother told me
about god complexes:
“everyone believes themselves
to be gods among men:
even that hideous monster from your
half-remembered Hellenistic dreams
will retreat back to
his craggy hideaway and continue
with his hedonistic ways.
the poor creature:
he will don a halo,
iconize himself in caricatures
pretending that if for a moment
his veins flow ichorous that
Icarus may have envied when his wings
beat in tandem with the footfalls of
the sun chariots’ horses.
“the sun shines upon
hallowed ground, though Polyphemus
will avoid Helios’s scornful gaze.
he herds sheep––his only acolytes––
an unabashed king in his realm,
like a god plays war, or as a child
would play house,
humming hallelujah,
veins running gold-blooded.
when moon rises,
he will hang his weary
shadow at his door and retreat
to his fire-pit. perhaps this will be
the closest he will be to the gods,
basking in the heat of Hestia’s
humble hearth.
“in the end,” mother said,
“Nobody will end up deified.
Icarus may have rained down wax and
feathers in godlike fury
before tilting his head to Helios once more;
Polyphemus waded into the sea,
eyes clouded in godlike fury
before resigning himself to fate, head bowed.”
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
My eyes alight softly upon pale velvet waxing
Whose grace is as weightless as a tilting feather
Slowly orbiting between gentle arches
Caressing the space that separates two hearts
And minds locked in a tidal waltz
Waning, my gaze shifts to supple curves
Outlining the crescent shaped body
Which loving light reflects in full
As the beats of my pulse rapidly impact
Scaring the surface with my every rotation
That births a new phase with every rise
Yet sets my sights again upon distant beauty
Teasing the mind to reach out and embrace my muse
Relenting to the gravity ever drawing me nearer
Until we collide in throes of violent passion
Two bodies merging in the fires of love
To become one forever more
Aug 16, 2021
Aug 16, 2021 at 11:59 AM UTC
thoughts are transmitted
via translucent dragonfly mosquitos
from the angeled mountains of an ancient africa
to the plagued fountains of a new chimerica
miracles of disease and possibility in this
naked play they bear
fruitwords
juicing gifts of malleable meaning clothes for being or
chains, chainings
and so you are
water and messaging
carried all from timelands so distant & vague you are forever a
vague and distant stranger to your self.
when a man or woman is cut
wide, and deep enough
they bleed
despair
and with the desperate drops flows all the
thought force of all the riversrunnininthabellyod'earth.
in these despedrops
the flickerin' reflexions of starbirds turn banal to beauty
meaning
dangerously alive
in them the wombman is mirrored countless
countless times each a
split second in their life a
minute detail in their endless skies.
today i made
upon leaving home
a wish
that an image would come to stand frozen
across my peepholepupil
of what it will not matter;
and that some one, whomever,
a dancer, a ***
would come to stand staring
just intentsly enough
to have this moist unmatter
touch to fill their own eye.
this has all happened, just now, a blink before our ending -
all of it, together, when you told me
ah feigned casualty:
it's the sweetness that kills you
or was it
yr perfect just the way you are.
at the last i followed your passing with my gaze as your wake
the most intensfool one i could ever make
as your backs became horizons i
turned tilting to the old borderline
it stood as ever sealing the sea -
sealing a sea that heeeaved against the
plentyfullpollutionoftheshorelinepowerplantplantation inc smoke sky
beyond a wind oh
my window, ours
the wind wowed with that old border time
i saw the blue behemeoth
spotted four white dots in crescent form
and you see, looking through thus windowed i simply could not say
were they sailboats, fallenserapheathers
or reflexions of those electricpearlights upon waxfloressence
from the waning walls of the halls you just walked
out of
time
all around me
wail the waking walls of a maze my hazedazedgaze
your never.
Sep 21, 2009
Sep 21, 2009 at 12:39 AM UTC