Glorious ShitAnother Dream-
You can make it;
Pass through shit
To welcome the divine.
What kind of mind is this?
What kind of perversion?
You don't make much sense to me,
You don't make much sense to them-
You don't make much sense.
Return to painting flowers,
Name flowers flowers,
Name darkness strangeness,
Name genius a vile trait.
We cannot decipher you...
Bend down a little.
Everyone needs their audience-
Who are you to dispute?
Who is it you're talking to?
It can't be to yourself!
Everything is illuminated!
(I can write my glossary
Of horror and neglect.)
Do I love you?
Of course I love you,
Nobody else still cares
About the little things,
Such as your senseless self.
(Yes, I'll make everything clear,
The way you want me to.)
Let's speak a new language,
Let's call man the Head,
The alphabet into the globe-
The stud of universe.
(Of course we are the center,
Can't you see?)
Stop mocking me!
You are a brilliant little b
Wadewhen i asked him whyWade2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he took his time with me—
why, when i was petulant
and often absent,
he bothered to teach me—
you will mourn your childhood;
perhaps you will hold a son,
a daughter—even a niece or
nephew, and you will understand;
when they say old soul,
they mean young scars and someday
you will understand."
MoonMoonMoon2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You left the knife on the drainboard,
bits of lettuce scattered like green rice.
We should get married, you tell me,
this house tight as a ring around us.
In every room, sleep waits for me.
Sometimes I wake sprawled on the wooden floor
not remembering that I fell.
Things blur, the copper pans
hanging on the wall swell in tight glowing bellies
woven rugs flow like rivers.
At night, your face flowers into an open moon,
filling our bed with light
There is no place left to hide.
Rise and fall.Rise and fall2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
What is like breathing?
I look around at everything.
"It doesn't make sense
and it hurts,"
my brother said
just before he died.
I get thirsty.
It's not absence of one thing
and presence of another,
it's not knowing what to say
to someone suffering more than you,
it's looking at dust floating in the air
and breathing differently.
The dunes fade to tapered surf.
Winter is like being born
with the wrong name.
You are lovely.
The water's shapes over the dusty ground
You wait for me to talk.
I don't know what to say,
so I'll say
In the jar
on the mantle--
green twigs as life,
Sadness is your hair cropped
to a paragraph,
a five-minute break,
a picture of a waterfall
in which the space behind it
is doctored out.
After my brother's funeral
you asked me why I
kept begging you to write me a letter
as if you were him.
"I didn't say it made sense,
I said that it hurt,"
I said, starting the letter
Everyone is wishing they could
Catcat -Cat2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
on the chair -
black crescent moon.
i like how your fur glistens in the light.
in your dreams you are chasing beasts again.
are you still breathing? pyromania.your skin is petrol and my skin is a lit cigarette. your skin might be with some stupid teenagers tonight, getting high off your fumes, killing themselves. and my skin might be pressed up against a pretty girls lips as she inhales and tries to forget. but i say lets get together and start a fire. fuck 'em all and watch the world burn. this girl with her lips to me--, she doesn't have enough scars for someone her age. it makes me wonder if she's even lived a day in her life. but she breathes my poison into her lungs. those teenagers, dizzy with you and out of their minds, they have death in their veins already. lets set their blood on fire. take my hand beautiful disaster, and i'll teach you why this, more than anything, is living.are you still breathing? pyromania.3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
the sun isn't up yet. there are tramps making love on an abandon shop front, they're so cold...but they don't care who sees and we dance a fucking foxtrot. we laugh like imps, because we burn bright, love.
we can't touch without bursting into flames. an
HungryI arrive hungry -Hungry2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like last night's wine,
my mouth full of you.
Dinner is a dying art you say,
tucking a napkin
over my lap.
First course -
something you feed me
with your hands
poised in flight.
Main course -
I wear a blindfold;
you have a spoon
between your lips,
daring me to bite.
collected in a cup.
I can taste
the morsel of your skin
just a tease
upon my tongue
nookssometimes I want to writenooks3 years ago in Personal More Like This
more than I need to breathe
and the words
they hum, (un)waiting in line
impatient rascal brats
filling the labyrinths of my mind
and the music always plays
abstract is the sound
of the waves today
the Ocean swells too far away
to ride it
the heat rises
and the sky warns me
to stay indoors
I'll send the King away
on a wild goose chase
and run away
with the Dark Knight
barefoot & whistling
watch for them rooks.
all rights reserved ©
a few images that travel and keep me.
the spiralling of winter ghosts by ra-gro
d u s k by reydooabendstille by augenweidePlayful by jup3nep
I'll Wait For The Day by catch---22
SleepSleepSleep3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
For the first time, the angels sleep. They perch in trees
above the river where the women wash.
Drunk on the angels' mulled breath,
the women wrap wet linen
around their hips and spin, the angels' snores
buzzing in their bones. They pound the dirt flat,
the earth humming, a beehive beneath their feet.
Mary pirouettes, whirls and shimmers,
her unbound hair eddies through the air
as though she is still a virgin. The child crouches piggyback
on an angel's shoulder, his hands twined
in the angel's mane. None of the women see them,
and he laughs. Ollie, ollie, oxen free,
he's safe. The angels dream of clay pots,
hot ground meal and asses' milk. They dream of sleeping,
their bodies curled around each other like snuffling, drooping puppies.
Heaven has yet to exist.
WatchingWatchingWatching3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I watch you again
and again as though
you are demonstrating
resuscitation ... resurrection,
pushing air back into
dying lungs, the needle
sliding so slowly
into your skin, your
body into mine.
Paradésio en tierre.
"A fuckin' perfect high, man."
My body is imperfect,
an euphoria balanced
on a pause, the pressure
of mouth on a breast,
between a thigh. They say
I should save you.
But how can I? When all
I can offer is an
earth on earth.
Tilt-o-whirlMy car is dirty,Tilt-o-whirl3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Your mind is dirtier.
This gas station might be the last for a while,
We best fill up the back seat with chips and cheap wine.
I can paint my face in clown colours if it will make you love me more,
If you shave yourself smooth for me.
We can survive the coming dust storm,
We can survive the next fight we have.
I'll finally wash my hair,
If you promise to wear heals so high that you get a nose bleed.
We'll burn this Santa outfit to the ground, until only a small red dot survives,
And we'll bruise in exactly the same places.
We'll live in slow motion, tripping over our Doc Martin laces and our attitudes,
We'll blind the world with 40's industrial lights and our outrageous ideas.
I'll chase you down with my car,
You'll chase me down on foot, but neither of us we'll catch each other.
We'll eat cotton candy for breakfast and the ride the tilt-o-whirl for tea,
We'll separate the trailer in half with tape, your side will be zebra print and mine will be black.
But I doI want to lie and say she's crazyBut I do4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in a way I do not understand.
But I do.
Pregnant with hope that lies
Studying arts that crush her
Married to normal that dies
Doing the hormone shuffle
I want to lie and say she's happy
in a way I will never understand.
But I do.
SenryuLove is justSenryu6 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
A state of mind.
Prove me wrong.
Between the Barsi.Between the Bars3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I kiss the sickly mouths
noticing how the cracks
in their faces mirror
the ones in the pavement.
An anonymous photo
of a radioactive tattoo
flashes in the night
drunken smiles whispering
to the wind
& the thousand windows
across the street
screeching like train brakes
Falling down with
the flickering colors
my arms raised in
on the ceiling
I find myself mattering
a little less each time.
There is no sympathy
in strobe lights
& no one is seeing the heat
of pheromones & alcohol
on the dance floor.
A meat market rolls out
with the bass.
Loneliness preaches in
the name of human contact
you find yourself feeling
every pair of hungry eyes
on the street
& the man next to her
is not British or her lover
but she needs help
handling her longing.
I miss you
falling into traps
that seem glamorous
but taste like nightmares.
This is the end
of sitting by myself
only four months until
the flow of
pearlescentyou are as pearlescent as a paua shellpearlescent2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
soft, pretty, glimmer-changing.
like a fish, a silver-quick fish
darting, shifting, every moment you are new.
rippling, iridescent colours
sliding joyously and gleamingly over you and
around you, kissing you with fragments of light
here, there, gone.
quick as a flash you are.
Valium HeartSo last night I took valium. And other things. And everything wentValium Heart2 years ago in Personal More Like This
Like a hum
Like distant voices
And everything I had been scared of receded like a fleet of ships into the distance. And they moored there. On the horizon. They weren't completely gone but some commanding officer had said 'let's just leave the habour for a bit, shall we? Let's go where the blue turns to green. Okay? Let's empty this bay for a while.'
So I lay in bed in only my underwear with my sheets pulled tight around me and I could feel my heart fluttering. Not like a human heart. More like a wing. One wing of a very small bird. Creating a breeze in my body between my ribs and up into my throat.
I actually raised one hand to check it. My heart, I mean. I placed my fingers between my breasts and felt for the beat. I expected it to be racing. To feel it as a blur. A quiver. Like a plucked string but
Under my hand
It felt steady
It wasn't going an
solar perplexusagain, it rises, that stupid sun,solar perplexus2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
trying to brighten my nurtured overcast.
no matter how i try -
roll over in bed, bury my head.
it still shines all optimistic.
go away. leave me alone.
can't you see i need to suffer...?
llp - dA - nov2012
AP: WoofYou don't believe it? You want me to show you?AP: Woof3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Of course I can, and no, it's not a problem. But you'll need to get small for this, we can't be noticed, it would be terribly unfair to everyone.
Why? You have to ask? Because you want to see the real thing, that's why. This won't be a couple of porn pros fucking from a script like you saw in training. These are real people, my people. This is part of their life, their reality.
Did you hear a word I just said? No I'm not going to tell you their names, where they live, where they work. You don't need to know that. Look, you're new here. It's not official but it's considered good manners here on planet to respect their privacy ok? After you've been here a couple of centuries you'll understand why. It's for them, and for us as well. What you do need to know is these p
see the foolirredeemably.see the fool3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the dream created, silky, frays.
a Palomino strangely brays.
an amour-ed knight bereft
a misread missive,
her milky body
blond and silken through,
illusion, blinding is revealed;
overridden now by truth,
self-betrayal won't be reined,
nor ever be
llp - apr2012 - dA
Cruel...is a five-letter word.Cruel3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a flaming hand
to hold high
in the air.
than a slap
to the face.
...is a four-letter word.
those dark spaces
you can't trust.
...is a five-letter word
you never could
I Cannot Forget.I am a modern girl;I Cannot Forget.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I debate complexities.
I get migraines.
I don't know, either way I'm used to the cold sterile
of doctor's waiting rooms
and the bitter bite of medication.
There was a time, about a year ago, now
when even the thought of a germ
made me scrub my hands raw.
I have no qualms about describing myself as such;
this is who I am, I cannot pretend to be my sister
with her proud, broad, sunburnt fisherwoman's face
or my father, and his hands that can soothe panicking horses
and create order out of metal chaos, make something
that moves out of piles of bolts and puddles of black
sticky oil on the floor.
But even so
there was a child once;
a little bob-haired girl, and that girl was part of the dust.
Her hair was tangled and she wore truly atrocious clothes
and even at the age of six she knew that
knotted trees and soaring stripes of ocean over hill
were her - they were owners of something that she owned too.
I cannot ever forget the heat of t
On death, children and dragonsAlba: Hey, Kit?On death, children and dragons2 years ago in Drama More Like This
Alba: Kit. Hey, Kit?
Alba: You know you're sitting on a dead person, right?
Kit: Don't! / Don't – I know, alright, I know!
Alba: It's true!
Kit: I know it's true!
Alba: We're in a cemetery, Kit!
Kit: I know!
Alba: We're surrounded by dead people!
Kit: I know!
Alba: Hundreds and hundreds of them! Dead and rotting –
Kit: I know!
Alba: Rotting or rotted! Some of them have nothing left to rot.
Kit: Yeah – yeah! – I know!
Alba: Well I know you know!
Alba: There's hundreds and hundreds of us here and we're the only two alive.
Kit: I know.
Alba: Hey, Kit?
Alba: You know how your dad's dead?
Kit: Yeah. So?
Alba: Well, how did he die?
Alba: Oh yeah?
Kit: Do you know what that even is?
Alba: Yeah! I – yeah! Durr!
Kit: Well what / is it?
Alba: I know!
Kit: What / is it?
the reasons we should not divorcei.the reasons we should not divorce2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
we have a breakfast of egg whites and turkey sausage (mine); coffee and tomato soup (yours); and discomfort (shared). you are unthinkingly deferential and a touch antipathetic, speaking over your bottom lip to the cherrywood table. i bought this table last week, after you asked me why we didn't have a table. i said it was because we ate at the granite island. you said you would prefer a table, and we are sitting at the table now because it's the small things that make our lives normal, but the table does not make a difference when you will not look at me. you say, "we need to talk."
i say, "about what?"
you say, "about retirement. you're bored. and you miss him."
"viggo, why would i be bored? this is what we wanted."
"this is what i wanted." you are looking at your nails instead, and when you finally look at me, you look at the wall behind me. you ask, "what was he like?"
and i answer, "not you."
i owned this house before i met you; i owned this house before i knew