Shades of SleepShades of Sleep11 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
Sgt. DivineSgt. Divine11 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'12 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
Draw me as I amDraw me as I am11 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
Field Notes.Field Notes9 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,
MatthewThe silhouette in the back seat seems to say,Matthew5 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
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
ParamnesiaI've tasted the richness and emptinessParamnesia3 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.
JutThose precious bones of yoursJut4 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,20124 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.
The goodnight gardenI'm surroundedThe goodnight garden3 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.
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.
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.
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 fumus4 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.
Betrayal of a GiantThe birth of a God,Betrayal of a Giant3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Drawing a path of saffron jewels and nymphs,
covering the bloody land unfolding under his feet,
The static pulse of cheering in his ears,
Those who feared and hid for so long,
Pounding in his chest as he celebrates,
As he rejoices for his well deserved faith
Let if evolve, let it pray
Then let it burn, let it drag
The birth of a tyrant,
The one who carried their world on his shoulders,
Adored for a day, massacred the next,
Sincerely believing in the flames of their eyes,
The praises they sang for his simple breaths
Crushed under their unworthy, viscous words,
Stabbed by the arrogance of their thirst.
The death of a story,
And another will sit on his golden throne,
Drowning in the love of those he once fed,
He will stand, and build and share,
Until another giant enters the arena.
This is how Gods live and die,
This is the circle that will forever remain.
And they will live through the pages,
Teaching us their sordid lessons of humility.
But history is eagerly forgott
Delusions of referenceIf most of those un-named thingsDelusions of reference5 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
PaperchainsI recognise the core,Paperchains4 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Floating beneath the everchanging surface,
The different dream dialects shifting into
Pseudo-nostalgic alphabet soups,
Spelling out anagrams that are moved by
Ouija magic plucked from light ether:
Oh these messages from ice-blue ghosts.
It's always there,
At the back of your mind,
The map of destiny,
We know how it will end up
But we pat it down,
Pat it down,
Pat the motherfucking daisies down,
Push them back into their seeds!
We let those wonderland dreams
Flitter on the backs of hummingbird wings,
Let the mysteries stay for a while
Until we can use more than 10% of our brains,
Until Darwin has resurrected,
Until religion kills our bodies and souls,
Until all the flowers are demoted from their duty
As gramophones or conduit-televisions for God's
LilaSometimesLila6 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
AllegoryYes, it is WinterAllegory2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The chilly afternoon is
neon-orange is the temporary paint
that floods the far corner of the sky.
You watch me
and I notice the
in your eyes
in their magical bubbles.
pinches the floral silk
scarf of my
Never againIt was the last day on Earth/ and I spent all that I was worth/ on analgesics and fireworks/ so I could conjure/ a vision of your face; via the consensus of embers and neon against the deep, blackbones of space -Never again6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The only thing that can be taught/ here, on the last day of Earth/ is that Valentine teaches tautology/ and that all I am is but minus a million/ inside a shade of vermillion and always a hundred hearts too short.
You are the end of me, on this last day on Earth -
DecapointI'm estranged from the core,Decapoint4 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.
Don't fall in loveI'm sunkDon't fall in love6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
With poison darts;
The mercurial blood-sap.
Flying pigsSomething always brings me backFlying pigs3 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.