| Deviant Login | Shop | Join deviantART for FREE  |
Take the Tour  |
AnterogradeAnterograde2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
1
There's an inevitable
preamble to every morning: the shriek
from a soundless planet
reaching
back around;
ancient echoes.
I'm tired
of chasing
my own song.
Through Socratic discourse,
crossing off every
possibility . . .
I realize I'm not a fissure
spilling light into the sum, I am not
anyone
but a blur
that splits into an ant fire,
crawling and
needling
your perfection.
All I'll ever be:
a pulse
of movement,
ganglia
dangling
outside a clothesline dimension;
just a numskull
with cartoon
extremities.
It is the inkwell
of infinitude
I fall into. Look,
we have a barbiedoll
for a deity
and similes
for souls
stay pretty, glass universestay pretty, glass universe2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
No one must see you
living
like they do.
The Hell
in the starlit
conflagration,
the one which has polemicized
your phenocryst
intrusion
is the shape of this world,
should never lay naked
for their vain
sacreligion.
Their nonplussing fingers
will murder you.
Stay jellied
and safe
in your
slipcase,
asleep
in my glass
universe.
the end and also everythingthe end and also everything2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
listen with the skin
I've lost the album of my life
vistas and their episodes
ones that you were in
the wind is warm
impossibly
more alive
than nights or vessels
the wind is
all there ever is
~*~
today
it comes: the universe
is not adding
light to darkness
we are the shadows
shielding sockets
from
obliterative
birth-song
sometime
we'll leave the outside
white
and reoccur
from one to One.
demonsAcross the blue waterdemons3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
out beyond the distance that can be walked
the boat moved smoothly
silently
like magic
engines invisible
leaving only the scent
of fire and brimstone behind
the primitives were right
it's driven by demons
unholy
they will destroy us all
----------------------------------------------------
counterpoint in epilogue:
And yet I love my laptop
my computer that gives me a world
Inner conflict.
Bugger.
rhetoricrhetoric2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Famously,
they say insanity
is repetition;
faith renewed
in failing strategies.
So
what is living,
life?
What is loving
you?
jealous glassjealous glass3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
i try to transcendentalise your
convoluted
hue
i
see it catching
up in prisms, subpellucid moons
Die Slowlyi'm tired of breaking up with meaning - she's as cageless and unfaithfulDie Slowly3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
as a life full of grace and hope and so am i, it seems.
i wear your unspoken wish as a dark clasp: the gleam of scales to abrade
the color-paper walls of your chest, thumbs pressing for your sweet dissolution
and open arms for the maniacal hysteria of a sad child's chaos machine
in a twist of hungry prongs that twirl your limbs into a vein wreath.
here, i was built to plunge your delusive dream back into the black hood;
i know it's blind and cruel as a storm, my dear;
dumbly, the grey weight of you will burst without a cloud
and the hellfire left cooling in yo
synaesthesiasynaesthesia3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
no,
the actualities are not lost on me.
but i grow these cathodes
for a reason;
it's
why the dreammaker
comes skullbroken
wet
with shocking orange orisons
somnambulant
and sung with
heat
and why you lent your
cushions
to those rapists and angry pin harpies
and why i feel so desperate
for the sun exchange.
In TranslationI sit with a false sense of ParisIn Translation3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
In the furnishing
And the obvious conversion
From a basement bomb shelter
To a restaurant.
Mirrors reflect the spotlights
And make me sit opposite
My reflection. I watch him eating
And drinking.
A modern jukebox
Plays only old French music
Written in the 1930's.
They sing about grief,
At least in my English
I think they do.
Breakfast of the GypsiesMy ashtray looks likeBreakfast of the Gypsies3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
The bones of last night's kill.
There was one name
On the victim list,
With its missing teeth
Of dead cigarettes.
The morning after
Those predictions,
There is coffee, eggs and orange juice
As I imagine waking
With a room in New York.
I return to that ashtray,
Far more grotesque
In the morning
Than with the dark of the stars.
lullabylullaby2 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
The night birds have grown quiet, dear. They listen to the cloudfall.
And your room is held aloft, passing through the dark.
But you'll know where you are, winds will come to glimpse a starface.
And your breath will whisper in sleepy dust, moontide impressions.
The shore is calm and every thought is safe and happy.
Ahead are only good times, your morning song awaits.
Your eyelids are caladiums, heavy with the dew.
And your bed is a warm nest filled with soft grass,
your favorite colored yarn and candy wrap.
Feel your breast, your bird-pulse slowing to a steady hum
as you fall into a rose-coloured dream of the womb.
TritanopiaI'll gladly weave the ashen wrath of a snow bank into my terrible flesh; I'll sprout new PrometheanTritanopia3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
nerves to beg the scorn off dark and drizzle, to settle the slow-riddle of bitter holes sold deep
within the waterchest ; I'll give back all the violent blue these faithless eyes had ever dared
to lure from the depths of the sleepless Dream;
but i'll never accept
the callous death
that is [....]
ambivalence.
Breakfast At Connie'sSmall birdbones, brittleBreakfast At Connie's2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Large eggs over easy
Tiny dogs yip and nip at the feet
Under the table
A lock of hair in ashes
A crow cawing from the bookcase
Breakfast at Connie's is always
So damned surreal
Last chance for a smoke before the show begins
Light 'em if you got 'em, or just light a candle
Italian Catholic grey-eyed girls
Love ceremony
A pumping heart dessert
Hidden in plain sight
Ignored by all as proper etiquette demands
They leave softly
Marching in softshoe-step rhythm
Crunching small bones beneath their feet
Wondering why it's still dark and why the
Show still goes on
Cardboard I feel sick. The coffee's too strong, the morning too dark. CigarettesCardboard2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
taste like cardboard must taste, although I've never eaten cardboard. (I
wonder why I hear "tastes like cardboard" so often. Are people eating it?
Should I try it?) No, I feel too sick. I want to spill my guts. The fluid
in my lungs, the bile in my stomach. Void myself of whatever inside is
making me feel this way. Heartsick. Cee's heart got sick and died. Whatever
gods there might be hated me so much, they kept me alive for their
amusement. Brainsick, soulsick. There'll be no sun today, but it's still as
dark as twilight at eight AM. It could (should) be
Four AM Musings .Four AM Musings2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Four AM, something calls me from my bed
Coffee and cigarettes in the Quiet Time
Before the world awakes and begins its manic noise
Time to think, and feel, and dream
But you, you're always the first thing on my mind.
Scattered dreams still cling like cobwebs
Fading but not yet gone, mingling with the
Lights-on reality of the dark morning and its silence
While you were here I'd have simply thrown
An arm around you, and gone back to sleep.
The world changes, people leave
Never understanding what they
immediacyimmediacy2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
this new little truth
this robin egg
blue
brooding in skies'
dull decidua
is begging
black space
for a mercy
murdering
damn this featherbrain
confuter
with its wilding
silver blood
tongue
licking
for obsequious
anticipants
'till they burn
to a soft nilpotency -
i'll make a bed
in
armageddon
gray
paper crane
ashes
here's my nirvana: the ache of the ramrod's
slow dre
cardboardcardboard2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i had ears for the undersea
i had ears for the words
"you are the most beautiful thing
in this world."
(who knows how it happens)
but the amorist is greaseless,
dead
unguessed and gone
a hoary, haunted
howlet spitting antistrophes
and drifting
above the spatterdock.
go ahead and live me down.
we all pretend
to drown in sera - this
whole entire dimension
made of
windlestraw
and totem hollows
and other things
and other things . . .
forget about meforget about me2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
don't listen for it, anymore:
the ugly balladist, the poète maudit
unbosoming his delustrants,
strangulations and subglossal annulments.
i want you to find my secret life, the arrhythmia
of spoondrift oblivions.
open out your palms to me; i'm over-swelling with octonaries, octonaries!
that is where i've been these years,
shimmering flush
in the night between kneeholes.
moments of fake silencei.moments of fake silence3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I wish someone would silence me. The truth is, I talk too much even when my mouth is shut. I'm a ventriloquist of some sort, my mind sits on my knee and babbles of whatever I am pretending not to say. It's such a poor puppet, talking out of turn. I would love to tie strings to its synapses, pull it along an empty stage, and watch it put on a chitchat show without a skull to hide behind. But now that I think about it, loneliness is always worse when you bring it upon yourself.
---
ii.
It is a Thursday night and it is not quiet enough and even if it was it's too cold for crickets now. That was the joy I found in hot nights not even the c
made from killing sleepmade from killing sleep2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the morning
irresolution
has murdered you;
vicissitude,
dislimbed mementos,
poppies and feathers and gray impressions
are all that's left
to reassemble
the aching
chest of
screaming
nightjars,
that pinion
harp
with the
mazarine
teeth.
letters to the universe 5hear my prayer, oh Star-Wraith!letters to the universe 54 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You are the Night-Seraph, the Death-Maiden,
and i, your humble, aimless creation
do call upon Your gracious form
deliver me (an answer).
i see
Your trees spoke out
for acres,
Your warm creek slivers
through their blind fingers
shading the herd from their Buddha-stare;
it’s still summer here
and i must know why Your flume
so narrows
that i love only
one fallen leaf.
Daze TrainBramble-ragged robinsDaze Train3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
dreamfold into
foliage,
hedges
leave
traces
of green
in grey eyes;
so easy envisaging
feather-decked
hat-brims and
satchels of
leather
(the old
floral hill
trains of
thought) –
so easy from plate-glass
as acres unchanged,
blink, projector-slide
by.
Train-ragged,
alighting;
ribbon so
carefully tied
left unseen in the
crowd;
cloud-houred
souls, those
ephemerally
longed for,
abandoned –
uncertainly
faded line
crossed –
now scuffed-at
yellow,
now gone.
Where once were
quaint fences
and tear-bedewed
faces,
these mazes
concreted
and turnstiles
by cracked tiles;
some
JulyThe breeze was a tender thing;July2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he was glistening and nut brown.
The grass sank before his blade
like resignation.
He cut a wider arc than mine-
I watched his muscles slide
in swing and stride;
grass fell before and to the side.
Two dogs dripped, panting beneath the trees.
Blades shushed with every pass, till all was done.
With the field set low in the heavy afternoon,
we swallowed fear, we raised our eyes.
Sta.sh
