"ungrace" poems
Oasis in the vast wasteland,
inhabited by ungrace.
Walked a hundred miles,
my hope is finally here.
But alas, you were no oasis.
You are but grains of sand,
a sack of it like the many.
I have passed supposed oasis
but am always fooled
by my everyday delusions.
I will never taste your sweet waters
you, my coconuts of my dreams,
wasting though as a sultan
in your very oasis of my dreams
that I am now dreaming of
and might keep on dreaming.
You are like the many oases
the pictures of mere delusions
in my mind scrapbook.
You are one of the dozens,
the suspects of my insanity
whose cure yet unfound.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:23 AM UTC
not i
,
Turn this lift
upon its shoulder
into up making music of
neck:
sinew febrile alive with dancing electric sometimes sound of mouth; and
by how of fingers alight with such ungrace to hurt is a beautiful poem
faster than light is quick through the blinds cut into a trillion thinness
of glowing dust–
(it can barely to feel)
the
stroking
boy sigh of
tonguefully
aware thighs.
flah ton decarb
by girl cheek of
inching into seams,
pollen thickly sealed.
(a rose of night and sword of day;
with which vein'd marvels play – )
tumbling trill and awake with sight:
to see where dark and skein are tight )
–––––––––––––––––––––––
a not caving self of into daring stem
******
burnt
,
reeling
and said .
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 1:10 AM UTC