Shades of SleepShades of Sleep10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Another blue ceiling, shadow-choked and unfamiliar,
stares back in sympathy - withered paint crackling
with unshed dust and old-man's tales of long ago,
a silent confidante with blown-bulb twilit wisdom -
It's comfort as cold as this half-empty bed.
Cataleptic - a midnight-waker with four hours lost
and the ceiling is shadow-smothered, blue gone grey
like old-man's ashes spread out over this dark grave
of a room - dust unto dust in the throat, and coughing
with all the enthusiasm of russian roulette.
Pull the trigger on the TV remote to no effect -
3am and the damn thing's still dead, the traitor
with screen black like a post-midnight moodswing,
mourning the absence of love, laughter, light-bulbs
and illumination lost to night's darkened thoughts.
No time for sleep, but dreaming away of such escape -
a 5am fugue with pre-dawn gloom glaring intensely.
Black goes to grey and then back to the familiar view
of weeping cracks in the sarcophagus ceiling above -
tortured eyes read their decay
Draw me as I amDraw me as I am10 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
When I was younger I thought death was an end, but now I think it is a process. I see this in the conversion of mourner's black to a trite fashion statement, in wisdom replaced by progress. It is a searching in the sand for words that might save you, while stones fall and understanding departs. It is knowing that most of my grandchildren's generation will not recognise the reference to which I allude, let alone its significance.
The gas heater flickers; orange light beneath plastic coals provides a comforting illusion. No more cinders, no more black dust coating every surface. I suppose I should be grateful.
On the television a man grins inanely. His wife competently organises around his bumbling ineptness. His children sigh and look embarrassed, or resigned.
"That's what it's like now, see?" I say to the ghost in the chair by the fireplace.
"What's that, Dad?" my daughter Alison asks from the kitchen, where no doubt she is planning my week very efficiently. The effective career mum, a
MatthewThe silhouette in the back seat seems to say,Matthew4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
what's a few more miles per hour?
Jesus, there ain't any cops around at two AM.
The needle on that glowing green dial shivers, taunting.
After forty days of temptation in the desert,
I turned his breath bitter and blue from nicotine.
The illuminated cone of open road chokes the windshield
And he cranks the gas, feeling his back press against the seat.
A rush of lines and blue-grey pavement.
His fists were scarred, probably thought even Behemoth
was wary of his mirrored sunglasses.
And he thinks: bitch, you're gone,
You're all gone.
Bet you didn't say your prayers right.
He grips the cracked leather steering wheel
Cranks up the radio,
His feet brush crumpled cans
Of beer and Diet Coke
And he feels them holy.
I made him proud of that stain on the wall;
Made his fists bruised from scrubbing and scrubbing.
He stops when it gets light,
Wheels kicking up dust under the dead tree,
Bone-white, like fingers in the sun.
The dust scratches his lungs t
Field Notes.Field Notes8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I snap: a sling-shot
of sinew, tendons whipped
to joints that buckle in lines as cleanly creased
as an origami crane. Poised on a tripod of paper tips,
I anticipate the wind but there is only steel
shearing bone and then it all unfolds
with a scritch-scratch and tickle
of segmented limbs sprouting,
barbed as berry-canes.
once fed on your skin;
sipped at honeyed pores
with a thousand tiny, hollow tongues
and those words you said, the ones that closed
like fists to cinch me mute but for this
thin-bodied whine: please
don't ever speak
They're predicting swarms
this summer: better batten down the hatches,
Sgt. DivineSgt. Divine10 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
A few of the men say this used to be a church, but it's hard to tell anything in this storm. We are pinned under a black and violent sky that has held us inside this crumbling room since we arrived yesterday morning. The water slides along the cracked ceiling and bombards us from different spots.
Captain tells us to keep our weapons dry, but he knows it's impossible. The floor clutches our boots with three inches of sucking wet mud. If the wind ever dies down we'll have a better look around this old place, but for now we just listen as it batters the trees into the stone.
None of us know how long we have to wait here. Captain says we are to protect this structure so our side can launch rockets from it if the war ever begins. Barnes says there isn't going to be a war. He says neither side is willing to start it; but here we are, drenched and freezing, just in case.
In the brief moments when the wind and rain pause we can hear the water trickling down through
"ocean hunger""ocean hunger"11 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
The inky mass opened its many mouths; they gaped and retreated. The water always looked like a trained dolphin pulling itself through its daily routine, wanting only to be fed.
Camille wanted to sacrifice herself every day, that desire never left her. Beside that wide oceanic arm, she was less than a microbe, a speck. The water owned her. She was its possession. She owed it to the river, to feed it. And often the fall looked more inviting than a chocolate cake or a feather bed.
But she wouldn't jump, because then what would Harold do? He was not self-sufficient. His existence depended on her.
The river just kept shimmying along, through the track it had worn deep. No seagulls circled the water here. It was a no man's land of beaches that stunk like an collection of fish markets. Down below were stretches of salt and pepper sand with rubbish buried beneath like ostrich eggs. Some houses and buildings that replaced trees were fastened on the vast hills on either side of the river, attach
The Hard Work of PoetryPoets are constantly crippled, creatively. It's the way it works. You write a line and, just now, right now, it seems like it's the best line in the world to date. It's a shiny, beautiful line, a thought, an image so remarkably profound that you are in awe of yourself, or (if you are a seasoned poet) in awe of that angelic being which sits on high in your mind and occasionally drops little scraps of poetic manna into your head. Now, you only need to write a poem around it.The Hard Work of Poetry5 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Because the poem takes over, sprouts a million legs and scurries in directions you had no real intention of it going and now the Wondrous Line of Glory and Poetic Win doesn't fit. You have to either change it or take it out and save it for another poem. Or make it a haiku-like short poem on its own, so all those other words don't assault it again. If you're an experienced poet, you'll probably just store it in a .txt file or on a post-it note somewhere and lament it until you're old and nothing matte
JutThose precious bones of yoursJut3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Are ever-melting in a makeshift graveyard
That I've constructed for you,
In a plane of spiritual-coordination:
The centre of my mind.
Rose campions bend their way
Through the rusty arches of this cemetery's gate,
I roll below all of it,
This place is my only halo.
I remember the terrible beauty,
Synonymous to love:
If it were a colour,
Turkish delight sky,
It'd be the backdrop that coated out those days.
Stupid webs of tragic romance
My memory often mythologising
And utilising Monet's lens,
Yet in reality there I was
Raging out of imaginary bird cages,
Sickly oblivious to your purple poison,
And like always so childish in my thirst for curiosities and mysteries,
Just begging for a broken heart.
2012The sections are scattered,20123 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Little secret crumbs
That we all miss,
That we all misplace.
I've always been a curious person,
An eye-hole watcher,
A treasure hunter,
The jigsaw queen!
Before I found a womb to grow in
I lived there
Where all the pieces fit,
Whole as a fresh egg
Sitting in a Cleopatra milk-bath.
There I was,
How they tinkle in my mind
Like an old music box,
A cuckoo clock,
Or a midnight owl,
Hooting out old skeleton songs
Into a surreal forever
Fitting into micro moments
Of déjà vu.
YogaShe goes to sleep late.Yoga2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
She sits alone,
Listening to ambient-drone
In her midnight-blue room.
The desk lamp is a small star
In the corner of her dark universe.
She searches Wikipedia
For shades of blue.
She falls in love with
Celeste, cornflower, cyan,
Electric, Indigo, Iris, Maya,
Powder, Sky, Tiffany and Turquoise.
Awe-stricken by their
And the vacuum it creates
In her solar plexus.
She unfolds like a flower.
She imagines herself opening up,
A bouquet of dreams:
Also like a fluffy, white lamb
Beneath a beautifully crafted
And bejewelled sacrificial dagger.
In her mind she pinches
The petals of a thousand sherbet-coloured blooms,
Their biology presses back.
They do not bruise.
“What kind of
Do they practice?”
She wakes up late.
Flying pigsSomething always brings me backFlying pigs2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
To a place
Where dreams are manufactured,
I live in this fragmented space,
Almost every single day,
My understanding is not whole,
Nor will it ever be.
These feelings swim
In the same pool
As our instincts,
We know without
Formerly being told.
But what is becoming clear:
Is without some kind of love,
God or reality does not exist,
And we do not live with our souls,
But with the limitations of
Our mortal minds.
Delusions of referenceIf most of those un-named thingsDelusions of reference4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Only exist in theory,
Please count me out
Please spare me
And the empty devices.
I won't apologise:
My heart likes to wander
In my sleep;
She knows my distant memories,
Before and After
I search for something
That is not
That is not blue,
That is made of
I must be a strange kind of pantheist
With a Sagittal plane
That dips into a
God's nucleic acid
Eden coated pills,
And rose briar scented
LilaSometimesLila5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and cannot believe
I am still alive,
as pendants unhinge
like exhumed coffins;
These arcane excursions
have me reading
of all the forgotten names
set in the finery
like the iron-lace
open and close
inside of me
and I am back where
ParamnesiaI've tasted the richness and emptinessParamnesia2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Hacked my way through abstract forests,
Somehow it all made sense.
A scene gets deleted,
I'm looking out and watching myself
Walk backwards like a Hollywood ghoul:
I hear you say,
"Only hummingbirds can fly that way".
You are binding stars to everything,
You tell me it is sunlight catching on dust
My self-taught body can utilise these fictions:
Irrational numbers which bend in arm-crooks,
Closing eye beams, who shrivel fjords
And shutter planets;
A wicked, living dissolution (without a will,
Defeats the twin which light has dreamed . . .
And now un-dreams.
I watch the untold eloquence of mind (we thought it chaos,
But it was freedom!)
The fonts and titles, the smiling spectres
Cataloged in gravities
Are now, themselves, in repossession.
Starting where we finished,
Humming backwards to the sun.
Per fumusPeople ask me all the time what Qaterpillar Magazine is about? I can easily say it is about beauty, but of course not everyone can relate to my idea of beauty. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. However, this got me thinking... what exactly is my take on beauty? Evidently, I am aware of the fact that I am attracted to certain genres and styles more than others, but I find that a lot of times the decision whether I like something or not doesn't come as a result of a cerebral analysis of what's in front of me, but rather as a gut feeling.Per fumus3 years ago in Editorial More Like This
A while back, shopping at a local store, the clerk gave me a sample of a perfume that I really loved. The scent got stuck in my mind and a little while after my boyfriend surprised me with that same perfume as a present. It wasn't long until this became my favorite scent. Of course, as a result, I almost ran out of it. A few days ago, while looking at the almost empty bottle, something occurred to me. Art to me is like perfume.
The goodnight gardenI'm surroundedThe goodnight garden2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Had I forgotten it was spring?
Have I encountered my own glistening
Sweeping hypnopompic mirrors,
I'm confused as confetti.
I echo through kaleidoscopes,
Enter diptychs, triptychs, photo frames,
I cannot escape.
I curl a fist that rape-kisses the glass,
It doesn't make a sound,
No-one breaks the emergency glass for me,
No-one hears a falling tree from their city apartments.
God tells me I'm close,
I taste him on my bitten tongue,
The surgeon tells me they cannot operate,
"Just fall like the petals do,
Just fall" they tell me.
Baby's meatMessages are streaked throughBaby's meat3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The dense awe
makes me want to leave
every task completed
and folded up like clean
Sometimes I wake
from autopilot mode,
startled like a
running into the undying ocean
only to collapse into it,
as the waves.
DecapointI'm estranged from the core,Decapoint3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A wildly delicate distillation
I try to relieve the pressure
With miniature prayer books,
Yesterday I even bought a Madonna and bambino
To share my grief
My haughtiness snuffed
The fireworks are fading in my memory,
As if drunk on stellate angels
Or beautiful men that resemble them
After wine on wine,
With those plastic bones
If I could pulverise your dreams
And add them to my moisturiser creams,
Pour them into precious gallipots,
As if a crypt for your ashes
And never ever
And never ever
Except for holy conversations
Until I die,
Until I'm dead.
Jay BirdThe night isJay Bird3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
For dirty lovers to
High serum troponin levels;
A kiss without a name.
We're too gone,
But you found the splinters of my character
Soaked through the ground of this reality
Into the upsidedown ponds of the next;
I've been scattered and thrown
Into different stages
Of the time-space continuum.
You convince me to come with you
In an old-language
Running over the topography of
And (y)our sadness
Consumes itself into
Warrants a rocking
Weak strainsI fall victim to those thingsWeak strains3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
That don't quite make sense:
The sky is assigned blue
And your irises the colour of tea,
Wholesome and warm,
With a glint of danger
That correspondes with your
They manage to
Slice me open
Stuffing some metaphysical aspect of me
With the weight of
Of wild flowers.
RoteSome kind ofRote5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Has powdered the room
In an old-time,
The sun filters through
A blushing keyhole
I shift through
Where the light
Does not reach.
I watch a Golden
Shrine play out
It's sepia theatre,
Behind a closed door
With a jewelled heart
For a handle.
You wont' find
But I can tell you:
It yawns a mandarin-black,
Closing in on a dusty alter,
Littered with dried up
TitrationsIf you want to connectTitrations4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The dots, you'll find
Just about any denominator
To hook around a bouquet of
Your own personal
That peak acute angles at you
As if from the leafy boughs
Of a lonely,
While you search
For universes in the
Blades of grass.
But she won't be there
Like the cloudless desert sky,
Thin as a whistle,
Screaming out in pain,
But you continue to love the never
The catecholamine chase
Is over now,
Mechanisms and Latin
And if I
Put the cherub
I'll have no wings
But reality's objective face.
This must be the last
Asteroid belt of poetry
From my blood,
But you are keen to tell me
It was never
Just a brooding slut
To the full moon.