Willing FleshFlesh the means, spirit the end,Willing Flesh4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
yet still the unintended. While deep
embedded in the pulsing rhythms
of the body's routine life, it transcends
physicality, flourishing in realities
never imagined before. Spirit is the key
to unlock the heavy door, to make
the great discovery of joy.
the end and also everythingthe end and also everything4 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
than nights or vessels
the wind is
all there ever is
it comes: the universe
is not adding
light to darkness
we are the shadows
we'll leave the outside
from one to One.
Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skiesGrass Angel4 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.
forget about meforget about me4 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,
in the night between kneeholes.
now accepting applications...the smoke beneath your bed finally finds younow accepting applications...9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
staring crooked in broken mirrors
for the fire of your former features
forever and ember
still breath and false starts
'til it whispers
the universe is big business
but the fact of (the) matter is
it desires you deposit d.n.a.
demanding genetic building blocks
on which to lay its foundation
and though the future of father's daughters
the sun set's assured
I'm eagerly anticipating the arrival
of the non-linear one-liner
yes it all implodes in infinity
but buildings retain their names anyway
mountains and their silhouettes sit still
yet oppose portraits on general principal
the stars think they're brilliant
the general population favors vague impressions
most allow the words
(to escape unnoticed)
PastThick mist tucked into old hills,Past4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
heavy and slumbering;
the tattered clouds gone lavender.
I won't tell you how beautiful it is.
I will only say, I am going home.
RecessionA man on fire walked calmly out of the building, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the bricks, pound the pavement, skin a cat or two. I saw what he was thinking, it formed a black cloud above his head.Recession4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He thought of old photographs and wicker furniture, of how dark it was inside for all of those plants to thrive. He thought of chances taken and opportunities missed. The monologue in his burning head was a constant buzzing fly, a death rattle.
Old TV shows, bad poetry, seasons, songs and metalworks; nothing could shut out the memories or calm the storm inside. Treading water, he wished that he could fly again. Over the horizon he walked, never seeing the starving child scuffling along behind.
A man on fire disappeared from the picture plane today, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the road, Jack, make tracks, don't step on a crack. Leaving dust and ash, smoke-feathers and birthday candles, he receded.
SuffocationI found a vintage denim jacketSuffocation3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the bottom of my mother's closet,
underneath a black-and-white montage
of shoebox photographs with burned edges.
Like she had been trying to asphyxiate
the memory of my father
but kept coming up for air.
MorphologyMorphology4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
See for yourself.
Strip the pinbones to their teeth.
Use a microtome to thin each veil; engram to sacromere to the chest-pulp of chromatin,
You will find the same sweet euphonies:
Filatures spinning bliss from irrationals,
Rose-cloud billows from bluebird mandibles,
Shinplaster brewed to a platinum tea.
All that I'm made of,
Whatever you need.
futilitarianfutilitarian4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is a wound;
Meditation on ThoughtBegin the quiet storm of fidgeting,Meditation on Thought4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a drum, a drum:
fingers through hair,
the insides of my lids.
My mind grows scrublands.
"What do you mean?" and,
"What do I mean?"
I tend slowly toward the abstract.
Pine trees sprout from my hair,
a forest of church steeples.
Whippoorwill am I,
and my fingers stretch
to build me bridges of stone,
a whole cathedral of bone archways.
My Michelangelo eyes sit restless
in a face of white and green marble.
The smallest drop of rain
against the window
and my thoughts collapse
I must begin again.
There is a secret
as the drops of water
roll down the glass.
ActorsIt's always been a mystery to me how in England even the most insulated of buildings somehow manage to be damp. The wooden bench that I was sitting on seemed to be creaking in protest like the sturdy planks of a ship, and if I could have rowed away on it, I would have. It was freezing that most intemperate of months, May, and in London the air was thick with the scent of despair and black pessimism that infuses the English daily. I'd never wanted more to be back in New York.Actors3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
In fact, my very soul seemed damp, almost as if it was outside in the rain that streaked down the windows of the court-room, slug-trails of moisture that came down and down in an endless flurry like an army of small, crystal-clear pods. The thought occurred that perhaps all the scientists in America were looking in the wrong place for UFOs when they searched the skies it was entirely possible that they could be carried in water, in the rain itself. However, freezing as I was, at least I wasn't bored.
Clandestine mind cryptDreams come back in fractions,Clandestine mind crypt4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
They flitter on the backs
Of messenger doves,
Like pieces of sun
Hitting portions of wave.
A parallel sting
That travels close to the thanatology,
That runs through my breast,
Come dream or life -
It sends psychic impulses
Like kisses on an envelope
Sent off to a dead lover,
Like electrical devices
Plunged into a full
What mad fish
Dare to swim there
Alongside the impression
Of long expired stars
That blink on
The flat cauldronesque
My twin's face
In the temporary grave of ocean,
Like a disintegrating mermaid,
A terrible narcissist
As baby flowers
That never really
Reaching but never
Grasping the surface.
Is the tub
Really just a
We are the Word ThievesWe writers are criminals.We are the Word Thieves5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
But we are the best kind of criminals.
We steal words.
We'll never be punished, for we are always needed. Whether through the speech of ever deceitful humans, or through the mute tongues of print and screen, we will always be there, working our many-pronged magic. Our swords are constantly out, skewering towards the alphabet with such regularity that the words stand proud, only to bow to our will, bleeding emotion to our clients.
For we are the Word Thieves, and the words are our quarry.
Even if the censors come and try to clamp us down, we'll disappear into the shadows and reveal our true beauty. It is here we show how we don't need a wave from a wand or a wish from the human mind to transform into our heart's desires, when all the answers can be written in a twist of a pen.
And when we transform, we rule Heaven and Earth.
We are the pirates that traverse the word-filled seas, setting sail with the wind and waves. Through storm and sun, our sail is splashed w
Drown MondaysThe best way I foundDrown Mondays4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to catch my seven-twenty train
is to miss the seven-o-five, be late
and grow a glut of yin
from the corpses of yangs
drown mondays to breathe tuesdays
but I nibbled cake and kept it too;
I caught the seven-o-five
and the hands fell off the clock,
fell off my wristwatch
She StaysI walk along the pier, your hand in mine, the sun setting beautifully into the grey sea. The mist gently drifts over the water, betraying the cold of winter. I don't mind, though. I only have to look at you, and I feel warm.She Stays3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It's tough not to sound soppy.
Honestly, I'm not used to having this. I'll never really be used to it. I'd been lonely for a long time before I met you. I didn't think I'd have the kind of relationship that you watch on the cinema screens or read about in novels. I genuinely thought I'd be alone forever.
How wrong I was.
You smiled at me as I walked into Falmer bar and we made eye contact. I returned the gesture nonchalantly. It had been a hard day so far four hours of academic obligations back to back. Getting up for 10am was still a struggle, even in my third year.
Your smile stuck in my head as I faced away from you, leaning against the bar counter. I ordered a portion of cheesy chips and walked through to the sofas in the back bar, grateful for an oppo
standing in a broken playground.Under the overcast sky,standing in a broken playground.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I walk through the park
near my house.
Neglected and overgrown,
weeds break through gravel
crunching beneath my feet.
The air sings
a faint squeaking of aged metal;
a rusted roundabout turning in the wind,
pushed by phantom hands.
under a weed of oxides
it might crumble with a gentle touch.
It's strange that in so close a place
I should feel so far away.
Distant. My mind is lost
in sunny days and happy smiles;
in frayed and faded dreams.
Breathing chilled air,
daydreams and nostalgia.
Sunlight hot in the sky
illuminating emerald grass.
Rainbows of painted wood
and plastic, smooth to touch.
A foreign memory
of this cold wasteland.
Do I really remember this place
bright and new?
The high noon alight with laughter
and joyous screams, little people
running over wood-chips -
old bark flying past.
Sailing through the air, ever higher
and down again; teasing the ground.
When was it that I was small?
This place is not
the happy haven it used to be;
Thom And The BikersThat thundered crescendo maulsThom And The Bikers4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
those natural sounds more diverse and prolific than silence,
leaving the bruised ear to discover a muted state of shock,
The detonated eardrum stilled. Whitman sought the road
he dreamed all his Americans might tread, a road leading them
to the spaciousness of spirit, transmuted to fit
the form of humanity, heroic in the face of fate's immensity.
In California, the poet could but observe the progress
of this latter-day horde, deplore their defiant uniform of despair,
while envying their surrender to momentum.
Niu eoa EinEinNiu eoa Ein3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The world is still.
The deer perk their ears up at the crunch of snow under my fur-lined boots, curious. One paws at the ground nervously before taking flight across the open expanse, the herd following in his wake. They spring lightly over twisted roots and disappear in the fog. Another day, another place, perhaps I would follow, take thrill from the zeal of the hunt.
But today has a different purpose.
The World Tree towers no less than before; if anything, it is wider than I recall. The bough reaches into the very clouds, past hills, past mountains; perhaps even past stars. It matters not. I slide the pack from my shoulder, landing it with a heavy thump on the frozen ground, thundering across the silence. I leave it behind, save for Gungnir and a length of rope, padding my way to the Tree.
The bark is slightly warm something hums in the air and the silence returns when I remove my hand.
The Tree demands blood.
The blood has rushed and pooled into my fin
Going Under Sunlight sparkles high above meGoing Under4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
out of reach, rippling;
shimmering and fleeting like
a ribbon, beckoning.
Minute spheres of glass ascend,
resembling balloons escaping
from a child's careless grasp,
fading beyond sight.
My throat is sealed, invisible hands
compressing; my body accepts,
shifting to stone and dragging
The moment to act is long gone and I
let go, readily accepting and
no longer keen on clutching
to threads of time.
Silence suppresses me, my eyes
flicker then close dreamily as I
sink further into Death's
Shyi. You say that there's nothing to see, no story behind your walls of whitewash. You tell me everything without saying anything, because we never speak.Shy4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
ii. You never stop running, and your floor will never be my ceiling. Anyway, you'd never fall through. (They say I'm a little too good at this. I mean, I'm terrible at letting go. Maybe it's best I'll never catch you.) It's such a shame, seeing as I've been practicing.
iii. This is simple, unadulterated observation. I watch, you move. My gaze is objective; you're a work of art. (Or is it piece of work?)
iv. They say you're scarred but you hardly seem the broken type. They say you'd let me in if I braved your barriers.
v. You are the stranger on the sidewalk. You are the darling of the world. You are the center of the circle. You are shy. You span two years of unknowing, falling short of becoming everything.
vi. You have beautiful eyes for a boy.
Absolute HorizonMolly Steinberg can bend light. I would know. I'm dating her.Absolute Horizon4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I know what you're thinking. You think I'm calling her dense. Thick-headed. Stupid. She's not. Oh no, she is not.
She's smart; very smart, but in the worst way possible. She's pretty, athletic, popular, top of the line family, manipulative bitch extraordinaire. Molly Steinberg gets what she wants. And Molly Steinberg wants an A in science class.
It's easy to look at fools in love and think you'll never be like that. I know I thought that way once. But when the (ahem) perky cheerleader sidles up to you for a little help with Physics homework, well, you just don't say no. Not unless you're bent that way.
The redshifting of light probably should have clued me in that something was off a little bit here. But the gravitational time dilation was working in reverse an hour felt like minutes instead of vice versa. How am I supposed to run calculations with contradictory evidence like that?
BlinkBlinkBlink4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
said the boy with the camera
and this moment
will never know our names.
It will take your best parts -
the smile you saved for Sundays
with your good dress
knees pressed tight
against the resurrection,
hoping mother never guessed
what prayers were left
upon the altar;
the kisses gathered for your lover -
passion's flagrant promises,
not the chaste monsters
school girls dream of
while sweaty palms
pin wilting corsages to tulle.
delivered to the front door
at Christmas and graduations,
circuses disguised in boxes
and envelopes stuffed like dates,
all wrapped in heady silk;
and the tears
you thought everyone knew -
since gloves were small,
secrets that swore to leave
at pillow fights and seances
but never let you breathe.
like flash in an iris,
and the grain of paper
yellowing gently in the attic
like your heart's montage.