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low Tlow T11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
i'm too soft and rotten
now
to enter
into anything:
closets, contracts,
secret orders'
sacred blood oaths,
or thresholds; a frozen inch of face
the same as light years, oceans,
never meeting
i'd rather brush my mind with pills
and stick these artifacts of wealth
hard inside your origins
and keep the grass
from living
long
turning over bucketsperhaps it isn't beautiful,turning over buckets1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
lying halfway underwater;
pouring your palladium hopes
down your hands
into buckets
looking full of shale and broken glass
half lighting whiskey-paper on fire
with that sun tossing in your chest
and all of you rattling
in this thin-skinned pineapple percussion,
the things you're so very sure of, sweltering under
callouses, under sea-
a kaleidoscopic mass of stinging cider-riviera
twisting into your human frame;
but when i say something of protests
you break in,
with too many pinecones waking in your chest, saying,
how lucky how
lucky we are
to be alive
oneThey were goldenone9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Pure
All those summers
Rolled into one
as I remember
Green and fresh
we innocently played
Everything was a game
and no one ever lost
of the seaof the seaof the sea9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
------------
I came upon an old tired city
on a coast of ocean
on a beach of old white sand
Caught between the forces and the forms
it aged as humans do
built and rebuilt
in different shapes
Events followed one another
and at a change
the humans fled
As life flees a body
and the mind dies
so the old city stands empty
Now it waits
ApsaraFind me sunken into theApsara5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
lotus field, bathing skin silvergreen,
waist-deep and pink
in sunset, and we will cry:
for three-faced elephants,
for rain,
for the dancers threading grace
between their fingertips—
until I dress in the heaviness,
a sarong of heat.
seekerI wander much through such old country,seeker6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
a ghost who's thinking of other ghosts,
missing them and their effects,
an exile from the present, and from past.
ExcusesI got the bread,Excuses6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
As you set the table.
Too much rain today,
Tea is running out.
I listened to the seagulls,
As you stared at the trees.
Maybe tomorrow
We could feel that way.
flameslost lovesflames11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
we call them flames because we burned
we were oxygen
we were fuel
and when the fuel was gone
we were ashes floating
rain took us down to earth
mushed remains together
and when the sun returned
the dry remains
piled into something that had never been
alone as something new
War PaintA bonfire burns winter;War Paint1 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
the man standing
and stoking the flames
drinks tea from a thermos.
The smoke is sweet
and toxic in equal amounts.
A woman watches
from her kitchen window,
naming the shapes she sees.
In the morning
the lost boys
paint their faces
with the fire pit
and battle
the men who burnt
their lost homes down.
(it is not a dream if it is everyday)i no longer have the gall(it is not a dream if it is everyday)5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
to write letters to my universe.
it’s stony quiet,
all around.
it’s possum eyes in headlights,
abandoned chandeliers
frozen
in Victrola dust.
some tireless pamphleteer
has wrecked this room
with motorized felicity!
there must be
at least
one bill for every breath,
paper
mountains
of indifference.
and now, i see
you are the same.
you’re no magic
planet. i will
get up,
some time tomorrow,
mid morning, when the bugs have died,
and drive to work
and i won’t think
there’s anything
that ever came
before that sun.
and there,
i’ll trade in shibboleths
and type in pointy let
PixieI never had enough faith in you,Pixie8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
my best postmodern pixie friend,
who presses herself against my shoulder
killing her fall with leaning.
You taught me something new
about anxiety today:
how to wake
up when it's morning, how to miss
dactylic illness with the parched
indelicacy of a crinkled sun.
In the eternal rendition you say
your name is always in the vocative
case, and only vocative:
says the girl
who taught a smaller girl to sing,
a girl of thirteen, with the same
nimble character we shared, the same
calderical eyes we shared.
The girl's voice
tumb
Cupping RiceShe collects the rice after weddingsCupping Rice2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Looking for prophecies in her cupped palms
Searching each grain for a story.
She thinks of the children they ought to have
And their names with deeper meanings:
Against birth, defender of man.
A blonde girl
And a precocious boy
Who she knows will one day learn
The language of suicide
Their starfish hands
Never to be the pickers of rice
PositiveLeft to me, your worst historian,Positive3 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
to pick up, in a daze, some depth of diction
I never found while you had lived
and I can only now pretend that words are capsules
of sanguinity, that they’ll unmask the symbologies
of sound that bore your binaries to their realms
like sacred dreams of Hypnos.
Regret’s a simple word.
I always thought of "A Separate Peace", and in those scenes
you were this Mozart in the rough, a perfect chord, one
which I would meekly channel through cracks of light
shown through the fist of my own interference,
steady indifference.
The WorkersTheir happiness was amputated upon waking,The Workers1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
before the first fibres of sunlight trickled across
the cities early morning traffic,
at the bus stop the flesh carved robots wait,
stone faced, briefcase-anchored
with black and grey suits they stare so straight
unblinking,
forming neat mechanical rows
ScorpioYou don't orbitScorpio9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
The way comets do,
You don't transform in reverse
Like a drying up pond,
You like to lay low
And special
Like a well,
As you tell me:
"I am a sign
That only lives once".
You see,
I cannot subtract you into negative nothings,
But my goodness have I ever had a hunger for it.
I used to have patience –
And now,
I simply cannot wait to archive this old winter
And live a golden summer under the sun
With you.
Londonthe city glowsLondon6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
bright copper, a scandal in
oil colours,
a luminous quivering waste
of fog and smoke.
I feel on my skin
the harsh glare of street lights,
a thick caking of
make-up, the lingering
sting
of a parting kiss.
these streets are a string
of catastrophes,
a bright orgiastic tumbling,
the future glinting red
in a wine glass.
Sta.sh
