If I Were A Woman
Can I be enigmatic, relevant
as a tiny ball of fission in the dark art of nothing?
Can I pull up all the lures and rule this aching planet
by proxy, without fumbling in ugly desperation
like an old decrepit dictator
hiding from the throng?
Can I be a woman?
Mother or whore or star nursery run-away,
I'll peel away the subscripts;
Name me in your poetry
and I'll put a fiery end
to the tiresome frontier
of a hundred men.
Stone me in old testament fists, it won't matter;
I'll laugh and lantern myself in pink stockings and garter,
shocking with blush wounds,
frosting my doe eyes
Stretch mine out to their wildest dimensions,
flattening ovals in weepy oceans,
and I'll lay deep in the bottom of your gravity well.
Crush me together and I'll learn how to beg you
to winter my brushfire and smother my lips
to their plumbs
in a black-light
for today God is Man,
and I'm made just for
Loom me with lusci
Borderline PersonalityBorderline Personality3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I suppose I'm not the man that was promised (you)
demystified from between the ankles, and mothered
in a ritual plot, (still disentangling out of old supplications.)
I guess it's possible that I've no true colour, no hue essential,
and that I've turned to mirror transparencies,
waiting like a guilty prayer for the world to define my golem;
(I had hoped for a pilaster, a nuclear suit to match your aproning).
How do you draw my obsessor from your water glass? Did you file for abuse
or a pedestal? (A glimpse of my father's beard was like this personal Atlas,
the knight in search of famine, quick to martyr, proffering stability like the
drug of Christ, so I know I can go on unchanging for years, answering in rote
and fossilizing gestures.) Are you a bride for the vulnerable? I am an infantile
lobotomist, all I need is a scalpel and a cue! And so, just who is this embellisher
that limns my sadist from blind, atomic lead?
Whatever is out there, needing co
lullabylullaby3 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.
AnterogradeAnterograde3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
There's an inevitable
preamble to every morning: the shriek
from a soundless planet
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
but a blur
that splits into an ant fire,
All I'll ever be:
outside a clothesline dimension;
just a numskull
It is the inkwell
I fall into. Look,
we have a barbiedoll
for a deity
so why do we need
of another ghost?
I seem to push myself
out of my killing sleep,
back through those bloody walls
again and again
to birth and murder and cherish
every terrible sequence of miracles
until Shiva tires of cutting me down,
having no more cherub worms to feed,
it will speak
that final prayer,
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 your eyes will unbalance the galaxy
and gravities will rain your days back into a bottomless hollow.
perhaps i'm just an interloper, a demon trail running from each disaster
to feed a fetish for broken smiles.
quiet barbwire walls
sit and rust with no dispute
Summer, die slowly
what i would say to your facelove, theres proof of itwhat i would say to your face4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
felt in murmurs we all know:
the electric echoes of tellurian pedicles
mining for the perfect blend of pulp
and thirsty root synapses
casting Babels out of vagaries
recycled, filtered, mangled,
or whatever on Earth or Hades
it takes to burn that smile for you;
and you wear it with such a spurious pride,
in light of
your inhaling an unknown cosmos
in the mash
and into you and me and every one of us
waiting for the crashing of the planet-moon
that wafts above you, too ghostly and unreal
or the hand on your elbow from a child
too lite to ripple your nerves like knowing
or a kiss from a face that puzzles in darkness
too warm to survive another night of this,
and waiting, long, for the drip that soothes
the sleeping fear of this wakeless lot,
and waiting for the violent thrust
that knocks down your copper stills;
and proof is lost,
and love is real.
American Dream1American Dream3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
They brought America with them,
those Conquistadors who pillaged and destroyed,
who looted the very mountain rock and squandered
the lives of slaves in their silver mines.
America was the land they dreamed into existence,
They irrigated it with the blood of the many tribes
who had lived for centuries in a universe the invaders destroyed.
Their languages had saved the magical syllables of naming
for cities and tribes, forests, mountains and rivers,
entities they recognised. They had never aspired to name an entire world.
The demon invaders brought their magical beasts.
They seemed to merge with them, becoming
yet more like devils, with two heads and many limbs.
They trampled centuries of thriving culture under their fearsome hoofs.
They had enslaved fire too, containing it magic tools that destroyed
citadels with walls as thick as cliff faces, that shattered bodies
from afar, smashed the heart's cave, and tore off warriors' limbs
Of the few who survived, most died in pitiless slaver
anyoneanyone3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the coils are all snapping out blue fires and birth claps
and i'm witness to sleepless unraveling
of mercurial ribbons
from an old molten inkwell
it had baled up the past in a photolytic chronograph
of timelines and conjurys and tiny heart-stopped miniatures
in odd little moments - open mouths over empty tetsubin - watching frozen tines
that seem to haunt the same ungodly hour;
at long last, they've come unfurled
fainting the phantom gallery
of weightless skulls
and lipstick buttons
and powder white magic stockings
this version of Ending.
i will not mourn the colour-lines
that flow in wound-grooves and follow out gravity;
they're too soon, now, to remedy
and in the meantime
can love me.
XYXY- mandorla iXY3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Climbing new ladders
Into old doors,
Half alive with ghosts.
I smile like an unknowing
Sending out treasure-maps
In glass bottles,
Corked up and
I tried to tell you
In too many dreams:
Reappear in my bathroom sink,
I spoon my hand in
And cradle beast-bitten limbs
She once told me that water
Is like a slow-acid rot,
And a floor for coral-gardens.
Sedatephobia seldom, are they found alive / in diluted pantheonsSedatephobia3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a seraph, clear and present / crippled in the matter-stream
fugitive from nitrogen / who was it that first told me
our words don't ever matter / that our song must peal away?
ComforterComforter3 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
(the triple lunes that
synaesthesiasynaesthesia3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the actualities are not lost on me.
but i grow these cathodes
for a reason;
why the dreammaker
with shocking orange orisons
and sung with
and why you lent your
to those rapists and angry pin harpies
and why i feel so desperate
for the sun exchange.
Doorways haikuthe graveyard behindDoorways haiku3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
myself in the foreground
before me the sea
Island BoyClean-smiling, eyes rising from theIsland Boy3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
dark Caribbean depths, throwing ropes
with far strong strokes. You arrest me.
Moons pull and waves fade, but all attest
to this: that sunshine-crinkled faces and
freedom-filled embraces are calm blue bays.
My sloop is rough, wind-ragged sails sagging,
but deep in the cracks of the horizon, I see
palm trees, and underneath, ghost crabs grazing.
Grandmother's HouseThe smell of hot concrete rising from the sidewalkGrandmother's House2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and the tar on the wooden bridge
The sound of trains coming and going
So close that the small house was rattled
It was always summer, there.
Screen doors and a small rotator fan were enough
to keep out the mild heat of June
The train whistles sang me to sleep at night
With their wistful traveling tune
It was always summer, then.
Dirty LaundryThis may take all nightDirty Laundry3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Folding dirty laundry,
Been airing for months
Sort it into piles with names
I will need more than a roll of change and a cigarette
chokechoke3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I've added nothing to [your] nothing;
the complexus came complete.
For all this pathic humming,
one hundred watts,
a pyre of withering
to the clock-lyric,
for hungry dream theorists,
i'm no more solid than a fist of pure thought,
a bleak syrup folding across the eye-burn brilliance
of the real and actual Cynosure;
I've dug through miles of experimental gist
for the throat in your song,
diving for the chromosphere of the Precedent Star
where breath first meets with broken phantasma,
where I was given semblance
by the moth eaten coverlet.
My amygdala oracle
should be disallowed from speaking.
She has a sort of prideful spite
of my touch; I need to gag her disbelief,
make her feel the depetaling rapture
of cruciation, something uncontained
by these leaky gourds,
I want to break it open, egg or specter,
it doesn't matter!
There must be freedom for the milk of angry hornets,
Always ThereYoung limbs litheAlways There3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Yet his face is furrowed with
Worry; a flood too deep for his tip-toe
stance to allow breath - Yet,
His eyes are wide in wonder
(when freed from fear)
Secretly treasured; taken out
and viewed apart from pain
He feels as small as he seems
He dreams of a time large enough
to escape this shaken place
He knows his weakness well
Bathed in reminders of failings - all
Too close to home
Love... he wonders; a word on TV
Movie romances; staged for those with money,
in pockets without holes
Curiosity entices him every now and then
The reflection changes with time
He dares a glimpse, ...Now he is gray
Eyes open wide in wonder,
The child is still
learning to swima shudder in me like the rattlelearning to swim3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of an abacus, gagging from
the tentacles of recall,
of body parts never used for their
intent and purpose, choking on
the anguish of smoke
meant for the purification,
to shed all I know, in a solitude
I can no longer deny,
throwing my breath, suturing shut
the way back to the last thing
I saw or thought or said-
there are nights when my tongue
becomes a sea cucumber,
and I forget to breathe
when it's time, will I remember
in the ruin of my reflections
that I used to breathe underwater,
to discover that it was always
little else, and do I want to know;
the current takes me where the river bends,
perhaps that's really what death is...
learning to swim all over again
dead1.dead11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
i hear these words
and something happens
in the yard;
it doesn't fit
i see it squeeze
into the slits
beneath your shirt.
i feel it fly the smooth
from off your back. it turns
and hides behind the acres,
of jagged rooftops,
kept far and safe
has left the limb
as light would leave
i’m staring into its absence
and some new kind of animal is made;
its reversal is alive.
it doesn't move or breathe.
the park is wintered over, and i don’t go.
are all gone.
and when they do come back, they never change
from birth to birth,
a clan of inbred
with felt umbrella
that don’t remember
who i was.
one last thought of your last thought
and all the rest become their graves.
nothing i remember, now
will reach the earth.
i have no bottom ground,
the narrow knots of wood
that span and hoard and cup my self
are laughing into holes;
jamaisthe truth, as staunch and without ornamentjamais3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as I can make it,
is that I did not want your love,
your voice rattling like the hoary whispers
your dreams (rustling like cattails
and half-extended to meet mine)
were as foreign to me
as moonlight, concealed
in its various robes.
your sucking fireflies,
neon mothish words meant to draw me in,
flurried uselessly about me.
but now that your attempted eloquence
is more akin to the wick of a lamp,
charred and drowning in oil,
I may vaguely nod my head.
HollowdaysShortened dim days and long starless nightsHollowdays2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The wellspring, the windchimes, the starlings
Dreary tunes about razorblades, and ash, and bone
The lost man's song, the October sonata
The walkingman shoeheels clack empty sidewalks
Past blank storefronts and soapsmeared windows.
Summer is a distant fire, muted by mist, fog,
Hollow days are here again.
Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skiesGrass Angel2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams
except this one.
This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.
I'm going outside to make a grass angel.
NovemberNovember 1stNovember4 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
some night, orange and distant, has apparently transcended necessity. the rare morning light beams down in slats from the blinds like an alien invasion; was i returned just now? have i awoken the galaxy of sound and weight? my newly discovered body, oddly ancient, rolls off in search of feet; my mind still distilling dreams, obsessing on photo-flashes of past lives in the vain attempt to explicate the curious thrall that had me believing in words. i listen for the hum of breathing at 900MHz, then turn towards a door in search of a known world to apprehend, a name to pretend.
horizon light breaks
parches dusk of old plashets
leaving space to lade
my usual walk in the park: secluding nature into myself like secret charms in a box, watching the trees foiling off as incompatible matter in some new cold-ache reality, avoiding the human animals as if a plague of angry virus gods would leap off of their busy fa