Undressing PoetryShe clothes herself in poetry,Undressing Poetry2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
seals her skin within the verse.
Each line becomes another garment
that conceals her fixed form's curvature,
but peels away when read.
Last night I dissected a stanza,
clamped it tight between my teeth
and tugged it down her legs.
Her body breathes warm and sweet,
speckled red like a summer strawberry field.
I sucked the juice from her lines and
spit the punctuation like seeds.
My lips mouthed the shape of her words
as my skin grew more sticky with
every splash of imagery dripping down my chin.
I peeled apart her soft pages
with sticky, pink fingertips that left them
clinging to my skin.
A single flawless line remained
between the cloak of poetry, her and me,
so we spoke the words in unison,
revealing everything and setting her verse free.
cwe're travelingc2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
at the speed of light
and we won't stop for nothing
(there are no br(e)akes
in this vehicle called life)
so let's keep going until we can
reach the far edges of the universe
where the blackness seeps into your skin and
you passed the last star a couple thousand
light years ago;
and return home to each other as
old folks who've aged nothing but
gained knowledge of all the
mousetraps of the cosmos
Creationism She took the clay into her hands and rolled it around. If she closed her eyes and concentrated, she could feel the imperfections in the little sphere, but she would never think to smooth them out. It was the little things that gave each of her creations character.Creationism3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
This particular ball gave way to spiky tips and deep depressions. She held it up and blew on it to speed its drying. When it was ready, she brought out the paints. The low parts became blue and fluid, and the spiky places turned gray. But she didn't stop there. The in between places were painted green and brown, and she came away a little and painted white puffy shapes. And then she waited.
For a long time, nothing happened. Then there was movement, but still she was disappointed. This one didn't glow the way some of her creations did. She moved in for a closer look at the globe. Perhaps she could figure out what had gone wrong.
How To Ask Someone To Let You Love ThemI think you keep secrets under your skinHow To Ask Someone To Let You Love Them2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like trees keep rings and do not know it,
like the sea teems,
like dark and quiet space
keeps every ray of light
the stars whispered to one another
when they were still young
and dying to make love.
I think you keep secrets in you
like the desert keeps sands,
like sleep keeps dreams,
like cities keep sleepless people
and people looking for sleepless people
to fall asleep with.
I think you keep secrets
like secrets like to be kept,
and I want to learn them all.
Crayon ChildYounger Me,Crayon Child2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
still fending off nightmares
with plastic swords
and MONSTER-B-GONE lights.
I was rarely gentle with you.
I blistered our hands with blacktop;
I choked our sandals with mulch.
Yet you remained untouched
by life's failures and faults,
only marred on the skin
by two frolic-scars.
There are seven chin stitches
from a monkey bar mishap,
and three on your upper lip
from disgruntled floor tiles.
But that never halted
your gap-toothed grins.
I fought by your side
during alien invasions,
where broccoli trees swayed
beneath the 1% lowfat Milky Way.
We cradled dirt-stained snowmen
that lasted weeks in the freezer,
and attacked Georgia fireflies
with an army of pickle jars.
I cried when we ate mushrooms
(they taste of rubber and disease)
but gorged on knock-knock jokes
(the cheesier, the better).
We scrawled our promises in crayon
because chalk never stayed;
we composed cricket concertos
and moonbeam serenades.
Dear muse... this is farewell,
we have waltzed the years away.
THAT POEM (Writer's Block)I sat down at my computer last Thursday nightTHAT POEM (Writer's Block)2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
with the full intention of writing THAT POEM. Oh, don't
play dumb. You know what THAT POEM is. We all know
what THAT POEM is. You with the cigarette train-tracks
charting your eternal drift to nowhere
on the insides of your arms, you
with the sludge of alcohol dripping thick & brown through
veins swollen & slow & pussy as zombies, you
with the eight children whose faces you can't remember
& the husband in the Hamptons whose name you sometimes forget
& the lover who never seems to come around as much as you pay him to you
all know what THAT POEM
is. It's the rhythm beating a dull staccato in your skull
when you've taken something to take the edge off, the weary shadows sinking senseless
into the black-slung cradles hiding underneath your
bloodshot eyes. It's the weight of the gun & the way its metal feels
when you push it against the squelching skin of your skull not to kill yourself, just to feel it,
to know you could. This wa
The Rumour of IcarusIcarusThe Rumour of Icarus3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
there is a rumour that your father killed you, that
he bent your wings until they broke and then
told you, "Fly."
If this rumour is true, then it lives in the throats of
those fragile boys who wear your death like Cain's mark,
whose tender hands split like swollen tomatoes when
they pluck strangled seabirds, whose
arms slump beneath the weight of their father's genius.
And this rumour lives on
the under-skin of their eyelids so that when they die
or simply sleep
they dream of their fathers
or maybe just of Daedalus, standing with
his hands full of feathers and wax,
their blood-flecked down under his fingernails.
your face is gone, icarus, you are a warning & a tragedy &
the patron saint of boys who will not listen but also you are a god, icarus,
a god to these boys and still, when you fell
said Bruegel in oils, Auden and Williams in verse
no one gave a damn.
they also say that your father strained the sunlight into an amphora
and told you, "Dri
still,"i want grandchildren."still,2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that car ride ruined some things
threw a wine bottle at the wall
15 years sitting
it was good enough or
it wasn't good enough
all the silence forced
my pride to jump out the window
if any rested in her
she showed it off like a speech bubble
tied it to her teeth
slammed it in the door
had it under her pillow for months
and years and years and years
there was no statement
there was no outstretched hand
just steering wheel clenching
knuckles white and jaw taut
(all because who i bed was not her mindful of
i still think i'm a tumor
she shows it off like a speeding ticket
i put a pin through it
i put it on her sweater
she never wears it
Spelling CountsThe line read:Spelling Counts2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"Fallow your heart",
I wondered what more there was to say.
Fallow your heart, leave it
empty and waiting for a season
so love can grow, nourished,
in a replenished, whole ground.
Fallow your heart so it does not become
Worn and barren with overuse.
The line read "fallow your heart",
but the poem, overworked,
meant only "follow".
Please remember that spelling counts.
Noticed in CommittingI started committing suicides. They were small at first, but more grandiose as the months passed.Noticed in Committing2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
At first, I came up with basics: wrist slashing, hanging, overdose, jumping off a building, and stepping off in front of bus. They were all very mundane, really, and if not done properly you just end up living very, very painfully. It was after those routine ways to snuff oneself that I began to get creative.
There was going into a biker bar nude and starting fights with drunk bikers. And when I say "fights", I mean with a knife in my hand. That was a fun night. Everyone was freaked out and angry at the same time. They all wanted to kill me, but they didn't want to touch me either. Eventually, though, they did.
Oh, another good one was sneaking into one of those giant dump trucks at a quarry and letting them dump tons of excavated rocks on me. The driver of the loader always sees you just as it's too late and tries to stop the load.
The nature of inspirationWhen was the last timeThe nature of inspiration2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
You heard the word 'erection' in poetry?
I think it was a while back
Between the pages
I mean "humans" don't even play
Or just rise to the thirteen year old tree-house
Inside us all
Where politeness is a foul facade
And we aren't afraid of our fingers.
We prioritise the silhouettes
The way pressing pen into paper
Made us so
And out of
Inspiration isn't a pretty, pristine river...
And it's about time we became
It's about time
We let up
And let it
Burn us up
Turn us on
Turn us up
Our wobbly bits
Into an aphrodisiac
So if there's any P.S.
Poetry can teach you
the word 'erection'.
Let Me Down GentlyI never said I was an angel,Let Me Down Gently2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'm a feather on its wing,
so when you let me drift
on the next western current,
let me fall slowly down,
I promise I'll land softly,
though you will not find me
where you left me.
etch-a-sketchhe wrote his suicide note on an etch-a-sketch board.etch-a-sketch3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
elmo-red frame, golden paint drawing out the classy cursive logo, white bottle-cap knobs, and a fake digital screen.
a child's dream.
it took him six hours to revisit his childhood for the last time.
[it didn't take that long because he didn't know what to say, but because he wanted to finally do something right.]
he carefully turned each knob, forming darkened pixels into letters, letters into words, and words into spider-silk-thin sentences that would rip and fade, just as spider webs did.
his words faded a bit when you accidentally knocked it off his dresser so you could take it to the funeral.
faded a bit when you went over that speed bump on the road and the little board bounced around a bit in the car.
faded a bit when you walked over to his open casket and dropped it next to his mortician-treated body.
faded a bit when the mini-crane dropped the casket into the grave just a moment too early, and so the death-box shook like a f
Girl, Fifteen, To A Lover She'll Never MeetThursday nights are silver screened.Girl, Fifteen, To A Lover She'll Never Meet3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
At nine, it's time once again to air
the prelude to a dream.
I wait, eyes square, for the immaculate
contours of your face to appear:
the features of a lover I'll never meet.
It seems strange to say
(a kind of admission of defeat),
but to be honest I'm OK
with the pause, rewind, replay
that makes up our relationship.
You have to admit,
knowing I'd never flip
channels or walk out when
you're in a scene
is a devotion, of sorts.
I expect nothing in return.
I know you know nothing of me.
But I can't help but love you;
your close-ups, your scripted smile,
the way you lean towards the screen
of your plastic box and speak
only and always to me.
How could I not - a lonely girl,
curled on the sofa - have eyes
only for you? Think of it
(as I do) as a healthy obsession.
Because it's true, I'll say it,
I think you're perfection.
But don't worry: I'm OK with only
watching from afar, only dreaming
of a touch or a kiss. It's enough
for me just to see you on screen
Exhume and InhaleI have tasted God, he tasted of sweet wineExhume and Inhale3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and sandalwood, the deep forest you lay down
in the moss and twigs, scattered like finger-bones,
your spine ripped out, curved like a bow.
I couldn't find your heart, trembling
against the opened cage of your ribs,
under the gently speaking rustle,
leaves unfurling, the dance of sunlight
slinking between your vertebrae:
piccolo skims and birchskin shaves.
I fled. Your right shoulder blade beckoned still,
unfolding like the slow feathers of a wing,
your wrist flung out, palm
up, gasped my name,
but I could not stay, only
strained your skin with oleander tea,
drifted, drifted with the tumbleweed,
the blind breath of the wind:
and I had tasted God, birdsong on my tongue,
soaring, sweeping, sweet and free.
beta physicsi.beta physics2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the rain wrapped impatience around your roof,
bored through the wood like a thousand million termites
(or one you-sized termite, blind, breathless)
and seeped from the cold clockwork like battery acid.
you lived in a widow's closet -
a house swarmed with antiques
that collapsed in their own gravity
and combusted -
and then you lived in widow's charcoal.
"galaxies are either lovers or termites," she mused.
(earlier, her fingernails bored into my back
Hubble's thousand million stars, all drops of acid
branding my spine.)
"they are drawn to each other for years
and in an instant, once together,
eat themselves alive."