flocks droplike frostfall,
spent necks shouted down
past icicle sheets
around the surfaces of buildings.
those towers rise up in wrath,
grey whales from under earth
that spit waves from the windows
where we sit and watch the world.
like diabetic starlights, space rocks
shaven down to dullness and inedibility,
strung lines of flight held back, bent
against invisible seas. we will
be pushed by microbes
from mud-bottom graves
that send us all like zombies
the asylum is shut. the city
droops its eyes in daylight. God
takes all things back
through the windows of our behemoths.
ducks and doves and broadbills
hit like raindrops
upon the unforgiven ground.
blue sluicecast off care like blueblue sluice3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
snowfields into rigid water,
and wash with mud the thrust
of earth, our skin soft as salt mines.
built you are
of bitch and buttercream,
of soured elements in the blue
dot of a pin-prick spotlight
and windowed skull.
we can watch the fire fade
into a black rat canvas,
into blue gates that tumble up
and loose finger grooves,
smear eyes across your face like warpaint,
faster and faster,
momentum in the race to nowhere.
and once done, we turn,
we go aground and push
up the lines of blue backs
orbiting the moons of that
rising ass, around corners,
a shattered life in starshine,
beneath the dream
of every glance.
Christian WomenChristian Women9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
before me sit the Christian women, and I can see them
in my mind's eye upon their backs, husbands lunging on beds
between legs, for the primal craft of love lifted high and holy
toward something more than merely mortal
before me sit the Christian women
heads bowed, plump breasts bare and risen
for the lips of cradled infants
as prayer drips like lamb's blood from their mouths, saying
pass over us, for we have done well
before me sit the Christian women
and I am humbled, for I have
no equal aspiration
The Deviant ApparatusThe Deviant Apparatus9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Dreaming children, come in masses
Errant artists grow like grasses
Verity in our invention
Interred art, our loved detention
Are we now become a force
Nature of a deferred course
To paths less chosen, grander still
Always for those who wander will?
Reborn with each ingredient
The soul of every deviant
Come DeathEXT. CABIN IN SNOWFIELD - NIGHTCome Death4 years ago in Drama More Like This
Snow is falling in the winter of 1930 upon the exterior of a wood cabin set deep in a forested snowfield. We can hear the sounds of WIND and TREE BRANCHES RUSTLING as SHIPP begins to narrate.
Another one down.
A hole begins to burn in the side of the wall, spreading out quickly, almost as though it were paper, and we hear the FLAMES CRACKLING. Through the hole we see that Shipp sits at a desk inside, writing furiously with audible PEN SCRATCHES.
SHIPP (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Another one down...
Shipp's notebook has a variety of names written within it, some of which are crossed out. He crosses out the name "Justice Edward Terry Sanford".
SHIPP (V.O.) (CONT'D)
... and it still isn't enough.
Shipp slams the book closed.
EXT. FORESTED SNOWFIELD - NIGHT
Shipp, with a large canvas sack over his shoulder and a pistol in his hand, takes long, slow strides through the snow drifts, clearly deep in thought. We hear FL
The Little SpiritsThe Little Spirits9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a light touch from the nursery spirits
was all it took to make the child
there was a mother's mild gratitude, but now
the sprouted man bows
before the energies that burst
his first Salamander summer into bloom
sand castles stuck well with Undine dew
condensed in moats lined with Gnome stones.
Wisp light slipped between leaves,
between the silken Dryad-dresses
draped along canopy-trees
that hid Shade and his dreaming eye
Luna smiled on sleepy faces
and Jinn smoked the hearth fires, playing
breezes like long lullaby pipes
the sprouted man remembers laughter
in the lucent lightning strands
of summer stars,
his grownup eyes blown wide, love abundant
at the touch of little spirits on his skin
Raw Hailed as the weeperRaw6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that cries in your stead
Those Albatross claws ruptured my redd
Gone is my hollow
of prickly twine
Leaving its chill-
burrowed 'gainst spine
I'll be the lost one
seeped in the
for exit 165.in the outstretched wingspan offor exit 165.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
tuesday night you'll find them:
the foothills slumbering jagged under
sixteen inches of loose sand and
the city hushed and glowing, lines
of porchlights strung together in suburban rows like
beads on a chain
your house was cavernous hollow like a lung
the colors were dim and
jaundiced, a quiet rush of tepid water
bent the silence while thirty years of
smoking hung ownerless
in the air like the cling of a dead moths to a wall
you tell me of a dream that's vague like
clouds in the sky like
clouds in the sink with
your body limp and damp like
hot tea bags and
your face like spilled milk
all of my angles bisected by your limbs you say
you're frightened to nightmare
of rotary telephones and roadkill and
of a morning where there isn't any water left
to fish or bathe or drown in
of birds that
hang all over the mazarine sky like
tiny perforations in the
infinity of the skyline.
The Velveteen MassacreThe Velveteen Massacre11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Inebrious and suffocating,
the smoking reaper fills the sky.
The boundless confines of the beast
stagger amongst the growing gardens
of sawdust cadavers
that remain of the faithful.
My tiny nose, once pink,
may no longer nuzzle
at the soft cheeks of pretty dreams,
for all that's left to kiss
are the curious cotton corpses
beneath this blanket of blindness.
But button eyes cry no tears,
and no magic flowers sprout from hope.
There are no faeries
to kiss little rabbits,
and there is no easy end
to the death of lifelong dreams.
No, sweet child,
CoppersmithI caught a sun gold.Coppersmith3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Trembling old in my cupped palm, quiet copper,
as my rage on our queen, for so crippling me.
And how too did I rail
against you, Cyprian beloved?
Understand: I grow too old
for bows and arrows, Eros.
Morning Walk in AutumnThe marsh is half frozen,Morning Walk in Autumn3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
splays of ice scattered
over leaves and mud.
Reed tops coated in frost
bowing to the cold.
I walk over the creaking bridge
and think of autumn,
clutching in my stiff hand
three fallen branches
and dead leaves--
a brittle bouquet
for my vase--
their stillness says
I died to make all things new.
intrinsic, you go unnamedthe memory of your laugh is an oral traditionintrinsic, you go unnamed3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and I cannot release
the dust off my lungs
that you stirred from among long nights
and solemn books.
a philosophical question, innately unanswerable
and just as beautiful, you are
the denouement, fractal and convoluted;
like the Arabian nights
we were once. but you moved on,
petrichorNiobe weeps.petrichor3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.
some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.
listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.
The Farmers SonWe sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridgesThe Farmers Son3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like the smoke from some great unseen inferno,
the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to us
in low groans,
of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,
and there was flickering light from a candle,
and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspond
in some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythm
and I believed that part,
and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey day
and that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythms
or any question a farmers son could ever mutter,
and the wind slowed to a stillness
and the rain moved in and our voices gave way
to what my Father would call The Lords Music,
the pitter-patter of water
on the dry and flaking earth.
Even ThoughThere will be no caged fingers,Even Though3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
no tendons finely tuned to A from tension.
There will be no clenched teeth, gritting rosin,
to make the final singing note growl.
There will be unwinding bed-sheets,
hands slowly releasing the tuning pegs.
There will be slowly sliding scales
as the four limbs loosen past playing.
There will be a simple, quiet exit,
not to ovation, but to a hushed audience
who anticipate an encore,
even though it is uncertain.
The Thin HoursI.The Thin Hours3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Those of us here in this skeleton time,
this time of the year when the nights are thin
and dark, and dark with anxiety, peeling
as layers of an oyster shell, brittle and effaced
and somehow iridescent.
When the bell tolls out the time the sound is thin
and reaches into fractured air and softly
seeks the spaces between the atoms and
misses the vital Os and CO2s in a lasting,
failed pinball. The bell sound dies in
some space between midnight and thereafter,
and each tock tock of slipping cogs is
a repeat and not a moving on.
The air is filled with each dull sound,
each tock a repeat and a repeat again. And the
slip between this old year and the new is the
slip of ice on ice, a thing that will melt and
lose its meaning before the sun can rise.
These dead hours can spin out with
no regard for time, and
no regard for the drub of a beating heart
and no regard
none at all.
The moth at the window is a silent ghost, but
the wind has