stricken
I want to only use the wrong words. I want to speak awkwardly and out of turn. I want this confusion to be confounded, all the archaic and unseemly palaver to rise from their cryptic slumber: zombies from a graveyard, Dracula from his tomb. Only the haggard and the hated. Only the forgotten and denied.
There is nothing gentle in a spoken tongue, less...
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I want to only use the wrong words. I want to speak awkwardly and out of turn. I want this confusion to be confounded, all the archaic and unseemly palaver to rise from their cryptic slumber: zombies from a graveyard, Dracula from his tomb. Only the haggard and the hated. Only the forgotten and denied.
There is nothing gentle in a spoken tongue, less...
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beckoning
There is no air from where I call you, no breath to sip or waste. My voice has long since left with the tide as your eyes ride the wave chopped moon. It is outside of time or instance, just a tingling on your neck, an itch that missed your skin. Every mood you shed rings out my forgotten name, alone in some soup...
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There is no air from where I call you, no breath to sip or waste. My voice has long since left with the tide as your eyes ride the wave chopped moon. It is outside of time or instance, just a tingling on your neck, an itch that missed your skin. Every mood you shed rings out my forgotten name, alone in some soup...
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composition
Just a breath and the seeds are scattered. Just a breeze and the count is on, the multitudes shifting along the lines of fate, the possibilities taking their given chance at grace. Each shift in the atmosphere, each stirring of the shadows, each gathering of the swarms frees some taste of the inevitable. The inevitable always being measured at a backwards glance, across the...
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Just a breath and the seeds are scattered. Just a breeze and the count is on, the multitudes shifting along the lines of fate, the possibilities taking their given chance at grace. Each shift in the atmosphere, each stirring of the shadows, each gathering of the swarms frees some taste of the inevitable. The inevitable always being measured at a backwards glance, across the...
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talking to yourself
You lock the door, but the wind still slips in. Loose pages flutter at this trifling breeze, some poor acknowledgement, some nod of assent. Little moments dissolve, bitter slips of that last sacrament. The dust dozes in the false brilliance of this electric light, the bottle opened and the djinni freed. Animals doze all over.
You think to that moon this morning,...
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You lock the door, but the wind still slips in. Loose pages flutter at this trifling breeze, some poor acknowledgement, some nod of assent. Little moments dissolve, bitter slips of that last sacrament. The dust dozes in the false brilliance of this electric light, the bottle opened and the djinni freed. Animals doze all over.
You think to that moon this morning,...
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that arrow, loosed and bound
Sun and dust and vitriol, blue sky weather and ribbons of hatred souring the air. Salt trickles down dirty faces, glowering into the broken earth. Radio waves and worn through winds, information seeping through the open veins of the world. The core of the day and the thorn of the rose. Some portion saved for every purpose, some purposes withheld...
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Sun and dust and vitriol, blue sky weather and ribbons of hatred souring the air. Salt trickles down dirty faces, glowering into the broken earth. Radio waves and worn through winds, information seeping through the open veins of the world. The core of the day and the thorn of the rose. Some portion saved for every purpose, some purposes withheld...
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decrescendo
That poem's last line, so moving and intent it seems upon the undoing of every line before, comes close to finishing this thought. The anticipated is often all we can see, remaking the world in our second guesses and heart felt confessions. So when the work is finished and only leaves a hole, the ache it paints is our own. The burden of extinction...
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That poem's last line, so moving and intent it seems upon the undoing of every line before, comes close to finishing this thought. The anticipated is often all we can see, remaking the world in our second guesses and heart felt confessions. So when the work is finished and only leaves a hole, the ache it paints is our own. The burden of extinction...
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dead skin
Pain is never the lesson, though it tends to teach those it doesn't impede or destroy. The tensions in the atmosphere render changes in those of us made of transitive matter, energy added to the system, the back-masked track of living becoming so much strained sensation. Skin cracked by the whispered secrets of the unbound wind, nerves exposed and flayed by the world...
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Pain is never the lesson, though it tends to teach those it doesn't impede or destroy. The tensions in the atmosphere render changes in those of us made of transitive matter, energy added to the system, the back-masked track of living becoming so much strained sensation. Skin cracked by the whispered secrets of the unbound wind, nerves exposed and flayed by the world...
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wished
Amidst the recent blue sky rain, that merest shimmer, that furthest thought was lost. Silver indistinctions pasted into that scrapbook mind. Songs for shadows, songs for buried breath. The song of warm water flowing over flesh. That flavor of spring so bountiful and so longed for, at last running down the throat. Whatever grasping that my lips remembered long gone once the word is...
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Amidst the recent blue sky rain, that merest shimmer, that furthest thought was lost. Silver indistinctions pasted into that scrapbook mind. Songs for shadows, songs for buried breath. The song of warm water flowing over flesh. That flavor of spring so bountiful and so longed for, at last running down the throat. Whatever grasping that my lips remembered long gone once the word is...
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discoquette:
Thanks for your commnet in my set!!! 
the bride of the creature
A crow heralds in the dawn atop a foreclosed house, the dawn sculpted in blacks and grays. A few short minutes earlier the sky was dark, glass-clear, littered with those furtive constellations. The great bear six blocks away, just shy of stepping on a satellite dish. Damp streets and porch lights, an owl cutting circles high above. Now the facade...
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A crow heralds in the dawn atop a foreclosed house, the dawn sculpted in blacks and grays. A few short minutes earlier the sky was dark, glass-clear, littered with those furtive constellations. The great bear six blocks away, just shy of stepping on a satellite dish. Damp streets and porch lights, an owl cutting circles high above. Now the facade...
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krito:
thanks for the commentary and support 
such a lovely desolation
A lone crow flies against that last blue left of the sky, seeming somehow like it is leaving only me. I would claim the dark clouds to the west and the latent slab of night growing in the east as well, but the melancholy even of seeming seems enough. The sky drawls on, the crow is gone, and I am the...
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A lone crow flies against that last blue left of the sky, seeming somehow like it is leaving only me. I would claim the dark clouds to the west and the latent slab of night growing in the east as well, but the melancholy even of seeming seems enough. The sky drawls on, the crow is gone, and I am the...
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dog eat dog
I wear the mantle of rendered ash, the loud palaver of pots and pans, that bargain bet of life for life. These tired sacrifices of flesh devoured first by unseen hordes, of ghosts given up again and again, talking to brush fires and following corpses. Vampire wine and savior cookies, the rituals we save to hide our crimes. The cowl of common...
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I wear the mantle of rendered ash, the loud palaver of pots and pans, that bargain bet of life for life. These tired sacrifices of flesh devoured first by unseen hordes, of ghosts given up again and again, talking to brush fires and following corpses. Vampire wine and savior cookies, the rituals we save to hide our crimes. The cowl of common...
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the story shared
Something whispers from behind my eyes. A door opens when the windows shut, candles blowing out with a startling hush. The days of dreaming rush back, revealing hidden secrets, somehow unwound with-in my existence. I seek to reveal the meaning I seek. Unbidden, I claim every symbol as that revelation. Blinded, everything points in the direction of my schema. Strange how the...
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Something whispers from behind my eyes. A door opens when the windows shut, candles blowing out with a startling hush. The days of dreaming rush back, revealing hidden secrets, somehow unwound with-in my existence. I seek to reveal the meaning I seek. Unbidden, I claim every symbol as that revelation. Blinded, everything points in the direction of my schema. Strange how the...
Read More