"villa" poems
Vano el motivo
desta prosa:
nada...
Cosas de todo día.
Sucesos
banales.
Gente necia,
local y chata y roma.
Gran tráfico
en el marco de la plaza.
Chismes.
Catolicismo.
Y una total inopia en los cerebros...
Cual
si todo
se fincara en la riqueza,
en menjurjes bursátiles
y en un mayor volumen de la panza.
8.4k
Wonderful
Simply wonderful
An amazing facade
A fantastic mask
Where oh where
Did I once see
By the sea
By these people?
Strangers in and out
Moving on?
Where oh where
Did I once grasp
Cold and empty;
The house of gold
The villa of superiority;
A broken bone
Where oh where
Is my only refuge
Silver pen,
Black ink,
White lie:
Comfort me
For I was once a god
For I was once in power
For there is no one I could need
For this silhouette is vanishing
Cold heart;
Blind eye;
A question,
An answer:
Why oh why
Am I unloved
I am simply
unloved
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 6:06 AM UTC
I
There is a house with ivied walls,
And mullioned windows worn and old,
And the long dwellers in those halls
Have souls that know but sordid calls,
And dote on gold.
II
In a blazing brick and plated show
Not far away a ‘villa’ gleams,
And here a family few may know,
With book and pencil, viol and bow,
Lead inner lives of dreams.
III
The philosophic passers say,
‘See that old mansion mossed and fair,
Poetic souls therein are they:
And O that gaudy box! Away,
You ****** people there.’
6.8k
You, saying love
You, shaman's road
You, a bird
You, a yellow sun
You, Emperor
You, lovely door
You, my Walt Whitman
You, Neal
You, Sal Paradise
You, Pancho Villa
You, La Revolución Mexicana
You, navajo
You, the border
You, the river
You, chicana
You, Mafia
You, redemption
You, poetry
You, Salvador Dalí
You, Picasso
You, stereo
You, love
You, ***
You, youth
You, America
You, América
You, español
You, english
You, country side
You, cat
You, fire
You, books
You, E. E. Cummings
You, Bukowski
You, Octavio Paz
You, Coca-Cola
You, Coke
You, India
You, Mississippi
You, jazz
You, Miles
You, Davis
You, water
You, rain
You, lagoon
You, chest
You, car
You, road
You, reading
You, lines
You, Paris
You, Baudelaire
You, Poe
You, japanese
You, katana
You, Mishima
You, gun
You, rifle
You, cam
You, can
You, can't
You, Durango
You, Arizona
You, desert
You, gonzo
You, mezcal
You, alcohol
You, drive
You, crush
You, alive
You, again
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
*The red light of the sun
Slowly descending
The sky is all I see
It’s never ending
We could fly
You and I
On a cloud
Music on the hillside
Piano in a villa over there
Violin below
Fireworks above
A beat – a beating heart
Someone begins to sing
The red light of the sun
Slowly descending
The sky is all I see
It’s never ending
We could fly
You and I
On a cloud
Is this place real
The ocean below
The red sky above
The music
Romance on the wind.
Sing with me
The wind plays with the leaves
The weather turns colder
But as long as we believe
Love doesn’t get older
We could fly
You and I
On a cloud
Only after one leaves
Does this place become real
A crown jewel midst a rocky cliff
A place so beautiful its
Memory etches itself into your soul
Food to die for
Drinks to fight for…
On a journey of the heart
There’s so much to see
When the sky is dark
You’ll be right here
Right here with me
Good morning I vow*
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
All summer we moved in a villa brimful of echos,
Cool as the pearled interior of a conch.
Bells, hooves, of the high-stipping black goats woke us.
Around our bed the baronial furniture
Foundered through levels of light seagreen and strange.
Not one leaf wrinkled in the clearing air.
We dreamed how we were perfect, and we were.
Against bare, whitewashed walls, the furniture
Anchored itself, griffin-legged and darkly grained.
Two of us in a place meant for ten more-
Our footsteps multiplied in the shadowy chambers,
Our voices fathomed a profounder sound:
The walnut banquet table, the twelve chairs
Mirrored the intricate gestures of two others.
Heavy as a statuary, shapes not ours
Performed a dumbshow in the polished wood,
That cabinet without windows or doors:
He lifts an arm to bring her close, but she
Shies from his touch: his is an iron mood.
Seeing her freeze, he turns his face away.
They poise and grieve as in some old tragedy.
Moon-blanched and implacable, he and she
Would not be eased, released. Our each example
Of temderness dove through their purgatory
Like a planet, a stone, swallowed in a great darkness,
Leaving no sparky track, setting up no ripple.
Nightly we left them in their desert place.
Lights out, they dogged us, sleepless and envious:
We dreamed their arguments, their stricken voices.
We might embrace, but those two never did,
Come, so unlike us, to a stiff impasse,
Burdened in such a way we seemed the lighter-
Ourselves the haunters, and they, flesh and blood;
As if, above love's ruinage, we were
The heaven those two dreamed of, in despair.
3.2k
Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun
On moustached archaic faces
Grinning as if it were all
An August Bank Holiday lark;
And the shut shops, the bleached
Established names on the sunblinds,
The farthings and sovereigns,
And dark-clothed children at play
Called after kings and queens,
The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist, and the pubs
Wide open all day--
And the countryside not caring:
The place names all hazed over
With flowering grasses, and fields
Shadowing Domesday lines
Under wheat's restless silence;
The differently-dressed servants
With tiny rooms in huge houses,
The dust behind limousines;
Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word--the men
Leaving the gardens tidy,
The thousands of marriages,
Lasting a little while longer:
Never such innocence again.
3k
it's inherent ontology, it's not even necessary to process inherited ontology; inherited ontology can be riddled and lost to abstraction like the invention of crosswords as antidote to the drilling-in of the Bible... but inherent ontology? inherent is a tautological invitation to italicise the word ontology - tautology anti synonym - the doubly stressed, point origin secured, but from two adjacent / adjective angles - well, might as well be a compound, the adjacent-adjective, when language meets math and math meets.... d'uh... or simply arithmetic, because that's how it's easily translated, arithmetic is grey people and math the rich... language the poets and grammar the farts.
a shortened critique of pure reason -
a) based on phenomena
(things most likely talked about)
and
b) based of noumenna
(things least likely talked about)....
i.e. a) and the ego implant,
and b) the god implant -
likewise the zealots on either side,
bleep bleep beep r r e r s.... and muslims...
i forgot to mention that Kant forgot
to mention the trigonometric foundations
as justifying owning a villa or whatnot,
the same foundations of having
the implant ego secured and willed
are the same parameters of the
implant god secured and thought
the point being dynamic parallelism,
mid-way between cosine and sine
rigid fluctuation tangents occur,
the ridiculous abbreviations, the p.s., and ibis.;
you're basically born with ego
or you're born with god -
there's no woof woof Pavlov chime chime in between -
ring-a-ding-ding-surprise?
there's no side-winding to create cinema -
being born with ego is explained clearly, coerced
with monetary affairs;
being born with god is explained "clearly", coerced
with murderers, lastly -
no psychological theory will box-me-in
given the lost tribalism and the usage of
the trans-valuation of the synonym of thing -
with money came slang - and all thorough evils,
with slang, synonyms, antonyms, critique of vocab.,
Arizona in the ******* Amazon -
i'm basically saying what Kant said:
god isn't uncool or whatever atheism tends to forget,
it's an implant of functioning, we can't rid it
by argument, and we certainly can't accept it
by prayer - unless we're dumb enough to do either
for worth of understanding tornadoes;
because that's were Seymour Hoffman started for me,
filming Twister.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
you were laid up in guadalupita
with camelia la tajena from la junta
and her tonto from la plata-
hiho-yo
shootin' tequila with pancho villa
jefe of the bandidos mc locos
- tweakin and twerkin chicas and cholos
and vatos ridin' with the vagos -
they were singing -
"*con cuerno de chivo y bazooka en la nuca
volando cabezas a quien se atraviesa
somos sanguinarios, locos bien ondeados
- nos gusta matar*"
you were kickin - breathing quickened
- bravo television tunnel visioned
to the tonto/pancho episode
en camera - exposed
pronto - camelia shot her tonto
dead - a perfect rose upon his head -
i like killin - she said
hiho-yo, tonto
we sang narcocorridos
all night long -
on the blue mesa.
r ~ 10/25/14
*song excerpt from:
"Sanguinarios del M1” (Bloodthirsty Men of the M1)” (2010)
"Translation: "With “goat’s horn” (AK-47) and bazooka at our necks/Sending heads flying if anyone tries anything/We’re bloodthirsty, crazies deep in the scene/We enjoy killing..."*
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
Cardinal sun rose
blooming as the
budding flower.
Buddha chants in the
chimes of birds
ethereal caught in gradual hot wind,
Darjeeling tea steam rises on tabletop my
mind is waking over Indonesian morning.
Foreign babel as hours draw even
cacophony of hurricane horns
the Denpasar traffic drumming
chorus midst markets where
radio emitting Li Zengguang
dizi dizzily prancing into the
assortments of spice and coiling fabrics
patterns potent azure and golden
royalty brass clatter caged noise
boiling *** cries the Orient!
Overgrowth spots the charring temples
in majesty and abundance cradling the narrow
Balinese streets while tropic palm
and orchid spring swells the soils.
Ardent sun sheaths eastern archipelagos,
religious offerings canvas sidewalks
incense burning in overwhelming
bouquets of efflorescence smelling
daedal tapestries within the paradise.
Sun goes on setting the jewel easing
underneath the horizon,
butterflies sway in rest
hearts on fire
the ceremonies have finished.
Thunder shrieks against the sea
torrential rain firing on villa ceilings.
My eyes set to sleep
consciousness transitioning
between two dreams.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
HE lived on the wings of storm.
The ashes are in Chihuahua.
Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy
With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.
They killed swearing to remember
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,
Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun ****
As a home war
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood together
And swore by the retribution of steel.
It was all accidental.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paper
Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line.
He had no mother but Mother Jones
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to stand
And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."
Named by a grand jury as a murderer
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa
And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.
How can I tell how Don Magregor went?
Three riders emptied lead into him.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stones
To keep pigs away.
The Villa men buried him in a pit
With twenty Carranzistas.
There is drama in that point...
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr
In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.
"And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones
To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune.
Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado
Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.
2.8k
The plane is emotion.
The form is a gentle rider,
she pushes bullets off cliffs, she hugs the stars.
Catches the moon eyeing her with one
great big hand wrapped on its ****
spins the bell of her dress
round and round.
Sifted from the Earth, man moody
cleft in heaps of his entrails,
no progress has been made.
My metal mother pulls hula hoops for zulu,
she rips down the shelves and pulls
Bobby Dylan from the wall. She says,
"grrrplleeopzhrka." And the smoke gets into
my eyes and burns my nostrils too.
In the great wind screen, footprints of man,
Native American blood weeps on my bright
Summer burning, no regency cleared. The
outlook denied. It sits stagnant, maddening
with its blockhead on sideways. Heavy, old
mutter hubbard wilting gold in her stare.
Mess comes. She spoils, her skin is loud
and anointed, her fecund white placard
is thinner than air. People look at each other,
a goblin, two trollops, the green woolen winter-wear
of a soldier in despair. Only a putrid noon, escaping,
cuts the flesh from the garden. Cuts out all the weakness,
the hope, the love, every thing owned, every one cleared.
The skin trap and oyster flap. The rich mixture of voices,
nothing holds common that bond, that few could look upon,
that youth could-
none of the old things work anymore.
Just a wicked boredom trickling in blood down her legs, just
the lust trickling down her legs, dear mommy, I obey.
And when the summer months set in mahogany, and the icicle
feat swallows us up, dear-
death
Winter
lips
moths buzzing
mouths
fuzzz
your sweet bomb
bon bon
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
Surely
your eyes smile like
sunflowers in August
dropping their seeds
from skyscraper heights
as you hang from your cross
nailed together by your own
rough-hewn hands
dropping their seeds
as the wind runs its fingers
through the weeds
windchiming like a
platinum-plated Joni Mitchell
and surely you touched mine
surely surely surely
and I wish like Christmas Eve
like a first junior high dance
like a death bed watch
that I could afford even
a bottle of you
but the demand for you is high
and the supply . . .
well, you know, there's never enough
and you keep raising the price and
surely surely surely
you know, there's never enough
so I lie here
among the weeds
seeking out your seeds
some small, priceless part of you
as you rise out of my reach
like a house with a seaside view
like a villa in Tuscany
like gold
which you are
surely surely surely
you are
with your sunflower eyes
and your Christmas Eve wishes
you pay for my sins
dropping your seeds and
surely surely surely
you know, there's never enough
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
Las Ramblas takes me into the olfactory and gustatory folds of a multicolored bocadillo, which led me to the breathtaking and fearful tunnels of El Chorro.
I have identified those at Sants who maintained deviant motives and gazed upon the beauty of those tree-lined streets of fountainous resignation.
Nevertheless, the combination of manchego and chorizo leads me to those meandering roads of Andalucia where the Sierra Nevada can be witnessed from festivals in Pastelero and Villa Nueva in a midnight breeze.
The best sopa de acho is to be found in Antequerra.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
Down from Arizona desert cold, absence of ice and snow
three white painted terracotta pots
by the Villa apartment on the tabled walkway—
Christina’s place.
Stacked, each alternately inverted one to the next
stabilize a snowperson body.
Can you picture it?
Black painted buttons all the way up?
Lips of dots, an orange twist of nose,
deep eyes void black.
Burgundy scarf tied around the neck,
positioned just so, it could be fit
to a Christmas Chihuahua.
By its playful form and surprising attitude,
may it well succeed at pleasing every passerby
and draw out, on each scroogey face, a smile.
It’s been doing just that for me, as I park
opposite each night, my headlights there shining.
Still, I have not and shall not peak inside
the alluring, open terracotta skull,
since I have imagined not wishes,
nor disappointments, nor elves and cookies,
but practical ash, randomly spiked with spent cigarettes.
Last night, as I walked out, with my night’s anticipations,
my grab-bag of happy tangles, Christina’s hanging silver chimes
issued soft whispering over terracotta, and I caught
a remembrance of Amazing Grace how sweet the sound.
Mojo my psychic dog turned me sharply then:
he took me away–we two, hunting the moon
in a starless night.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
Home boy thought he was a killer
Kept a necklace round his neck
In a villa near manila
A strange accurance
Small body found dead
Little ***** died underneath the currents
Homeboy was sure of his assurance
A good swimmer
His name was probably Laurence
He was just a few feet from shore,
When this Alligator about six feet or four,
His eyes went wide, bug eyed and crazy
This is when it all got a little hazy
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
Liberty bell has rung for the
longest time friends come and go
All the time why can't it be
The best news*
I ever heard in a long time
Sleepless nights at bedtime
Sunset opens worth waiting for
Healing- time -heart
We are on Prime- Time
Long healing coffee
Anytime peace of mind
Waiting for the right time
How come its more the wrong time
We all work fulltime long hours
Hits you in a whole lifetime
Nothing heals I love my trees
Maple cherry blossom wild flowers
Having strong bold coffee in
the Eiffel Towers
The train is coming but
the wrong one
All alone holding time
With your coffee cup
Please stop to think
Stirring my coffee
Long wait sometimes life stinks
Cell phones and so many links
Long sip- my- neck- out
Amazon jungle long time -out
Long night-out
Long wait hooked like a bait
Please God! I cannot wait
* * * * *
Long sip Villa- man dressed Vet
He stuck his neck out to her
mind and body set
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 11:57 AM UTC
I live in one of those small
mostly untainted towns
not trendy, just funky and innocent
the kind that’s becoming rara villa en terra.
No Starbucks.
But modern winds bring dust and particles
from larger cities around.
They have infected our fauna
which are morphing before our eyes.
Last week I was at the pond
where the deer come to drink at dusk
and my heart broke.
There was that huge seven-point whitetail buck
the one I so admired
huge, taut and fast
but instead of hooves
he was trod with Goodyear offroad tires.
He saw me see him
and embarrassed turned and sped away into the trees
leaving rubber treadmarks in the loam.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
There's a painting by Botticelli
I've always loved,
showing Venus being born naked
from the ocean and
not fearing the current.
Those around her renounce her body,
scrambling to clothe her,
turn her virginal,
contain the way her eyes cross galaxies,
shine all the way to Pluto.
But she is soft, unwavering,
not noticing the mortals' concern
about her *******
and bare collarbone that could catch water
at its base.
I found you halfway across the world on the steps of the Uffizi
and in the 3 hours it took you
to show me some of the best art on earth,
I was transfixed only
on the orbits of planets in your eyes.
Shortly before the sun set,
you took me through the secret corridor
Cosimo de' Medici built to walk across the
rooftops of the city
where you kissed me but
told me you didn't believe in love,
that all you needed was art,
and Michelangelo,
and in that moment
I saw Venus in your collarbone.
Saw a shell under your feet,
saw the universe in the way your freckles connected,
saw how you immortalize yourself
among the rest of the art in Florence
so no human can bring you down to earth,
can make your heart stop,
show you what it's like to cross timezones
with a single touch.
And here I am,
wanting to be your Botticelli,
to paint the uneven slope of your shoulders,
the crookedness of your right ankle,
your fear of exposing yourself to someone
who could love you.
It must be lonely out there, Venus,
on your little fishing boat by the sea.
Botticelli's painting was found
long after his death,
laid into the floor of
an abandoned villa in the south of Tuscany.
Venus looking lost and mortal
between cracked paint and chipping walls,
like the way you hide between
the dusty statues of the dead statesmen and fading portraits
long after the museum closes,
just you with only history to hold.
You want to believe in love
as past-tense,
like you've lost faith in present participles and the fact
that art is still being made,
and people are running barefoot into future conjugations
together.
Don't come back to land, Venus. Vanessa.
I won't be here waiting with a towel
or an art critic
or a spaceship.
But maybe,
just make a little room for me on your shell
under the sun,
atop steady waves or Florentine rooftops.
Throw the map overboard.
Let's forget the shore.
And Michelangelo and the rest of them
will smile as they see us off.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
tickity-clickity whirr went my father to set
the little merry-go-round musicbox by my bed
with its adorbsable mini-suction cups lining
purple porcelain tentacles
winding round and round
lulling gently with that nostalgic ice-cream truck tune
reminding me of sweet tang juicy mango slush
on a hot afternoon
where the posh-painted ponies fly by with the tide rising up and down
in a seaside villa of some spanish town
in all the grandness of their primary colors so carefully chosen to brush
at the command of a fairy princess with her crown gold-gilded
she's twirling whirling, a mechanical ballerina on springs
gracefully petite her frame, so small the sash on her shoulder
that slips in the breeze to catch the eye of a little soldier
in his regimentals properly fitted, buttoned in brass
a lass like me lovingly adoring bunnies in top hats and bow ties
spats on their feet to tap dance for me
in my dreams the never ending spin of a teacup party
the catch of a hook where the lullaby loses flight
but I'm already asleep with a kiss goodnight
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
Carrizo, lamina,
Cemento, y varilla.
Mi casa
Su casa
Sus casas.
Te busco
Te deseo
Y no te encuentro.
Fotos
Mapas
y Recuerdos
Es donde te tengo.
Escucha,
Habla y dime,
Como esta
Mi pueblo.
Villa de Etla,
Querida,
Adorada.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
She came to me at Calvados,
A single night, without repeat.
The woman of my soul’s love longing,
to consummate with kisses sweet.
She entered in my midnight room
a simple pastel shift she wore
Smiling as she bared her shoulders,
the garment dropping to the floor.
So beautiful, this child of Gonne,
to this poet’s bleary eyes.
How often I had praised, in print,
her auburn hair and hazel eyes.
I was silent, she as well,
neither keen to break the spell.
She kissed me deeply on the lips
just as the stroke of midnight fell.
Her fingers deeply in my hair
she brought me to her freckled chest.
I licked and nibbled at one ******
like a baby at her breast.
She mounted me, her Rocinante,
and slowly, we began our quest.
My Willie in warm velvet wetness
wrapped as I returned her thrusts.
In spirit, we belonged together.
In truth,she’d wed another man.
A brute who’d tried to **** her sister.
She, too, had suffered at his hand.
As we played, she bent to kiss me
sweet Celtic sweat was in her hair
In another life she’d been my sister.
In this life’s love war all was fair.
She gave out with a little cry
as she took my Willie deep.
we came in unison so sweetly
but quietly, her child was asleep.
I remember, one time, Maud had asked
what type of bird I’d like to be?
Back upon the hills at Howth
when we were young and both still free.
“I think”, I said,” I’d be a gull,
playing at the shore for free.
Soaring high above the water
taking my living from the sea.”
Now we lay here in Calvados
near the town Colleville sur Mer
Her villa was named “Les Mouettes”
For one night only, we coupled there.
It is rumored that, in the Summer of 1907, William Butler Yeats and Maud Gonne shared physical intimacy for the one and only time in their lives. He the famous Poet and Playwright, she the famous Irish nationalist.
At the time she was separated from John MacBride, but they had not divorced, being Catholic. Yeats had a belief in reincarnation and both had, at times, dabbled in the occult. See also my poem
" Making Iseult"
The child asleep in the adjoining room would be Sean MacBride, later in life a Nobel peace prize winner.
Les Mouettes is French for "the (Sea)gulls."
I have read that Yeats wrote a love poem about this night, but that it has been lost. This is my attempt to replicate that lost love poem.
I thank Patrick McFarland for helping me revise the original version of the poem. His suggestions improved the flow of the piece.
.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 8:39 AM UTC
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... and left it there like a cartoon tumbleweed, caked in glitter and sprite phlegm. she stood across an ocean on an island of outlandish abandonment, where all the mirrors crack. her passing quakes the stain off her daily betrothal
to a toothless bigot in the land of freedom's end in the hovel of her heart's fall from appointed grace. a place of a thousand cuts and no car. waaaay out in the country of her diminished affections, her eyes could be seen wandering the burnt out villa of her lost love, where she recalls the fairy rings piercing her lips and the trembling of her youth, finding a slow hand to explore the wet *** without peril, soaring with her palm, plastered to a feathered bed in a guest room, in a time-share.
grampa sleep. and bird's nest pitch black.
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... she slept through it... on to the next disconnect to get intimate with. she left me there, like a chocolate mint resting on a pillow made of shards of habitual flagellation by candle light and instinct; resting on a bed of nails rusting
in the flood plain of her fondest wish.
she left me there
to conspire with her better demons, to witness - the benign desperation of her frenzied exploration
of actual actualization... to watch her ****** from the jaws of a dire wolf,
her bleeding heart and her ransom.
with her bare teeth and a naked
Truth.
you should have seen her face.
i tattooed her secrets on the iris of a blind ghost, i swore it " abide in her broken heart like an open door with a cool breeze slinking through the fetid air of her self defeat and stale bread bumble bees.
and to abide by her rules
when she finds them... then to ghostly fall
upon his ghost sword by midnight
with a smile that tells hell it cannot claim what rises.
a smile that spat at the devil and pitied his children.
a ghost smile that stole a book from a museum
and never told his other
books why.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC