TruthFrom darkness fall to blazing light ,unravel flesh from burning core .
To feel the grip of mortal sin and want this life no more.
To find inside the truest path as night envelops soul.
Shed history like reptiles skin and watch your life unfold.
Like particle we float in beam from density were broken.
From quivering lip truths manna flows as prophecy is spoken.
The dreamer finds himself awake as signs and numbers fall in place
And imperfections reign within transforms itself from vile to grace.
Dread the flow of sand and time all you who read my testament.
For Satans rise is coming soon as planets move the firmament.
As water flows from fingertips verdict strips you from your lies.
So choose you well your fellowship or walk eternal fire.
© 2007 Alexandra
10 Ways to Annoy Edward Cullen10 Ways to Annoy Edward CullenMore Like This
10. Sing Discovery Channel by the Bloodhound Gang in your head whenever he is near.
9. Hotwire his Volvo and take it on a joyride.
8. Tell him the relationship he is having with Bella is practically paedophilia and he could be sent to jail for it.
7. Ask how Tanya is.
6. End every argument with Bite me, Edward.
5. Call him Romeo both behind his back and to his face.
4. Whenever he complains or argues, reply with What are you gonna do Edward? Go to Italy?
3. Tell him his hair isnt bronze, its ginger, and he should stop denying himself hes a ranga.
2. Whenever he leaves a room or says goodbye, get down on your knees and beg him not to go, not again.
And the Number One way to annoy Edward Cullen?
1. Take his silver cell phone and change the ringtone to Like a Virgin by Madonna.
time in betweensitting in trafficMore Like This
2 listeners have called into
the radio station
their report was a car
stuck in a tree
the dj's on the air
the callers swore
to the car being
in a tree going
north on highway 94
that particular highway
did not run north
i knew that
the dj's knew that
the reporter who
was sent there
and found nothing
knew that too
2 more listeners
have called in
they are swearing
of the car in the tree
on the highway
that doesn't run
i rolled down the window
to breathe in the fresh air
it could be worse
i could be in a tree
on a road
with no direction
expansionmemories...More Like This
are slightly, (or mightily), built upon as time goes by;
that's what we do with what we did.
whether those recollections have collected
added details along the way,
we often do not know - ourselves.
these things don't make those things less treasured -
no, not less, but more.
tales are told, and in their telling,
(in)advertant lies cause normal swelling.
llp - dec'09 - dA
A moment in timeI do not want to capture the worldMore Like This
In a thick glass snow globe
By crystallising a moment in time
It would distort, it must distort
But so often I am dragged
To that loathsome depth
So often I trap the world
Eyes, brain, fingers, pen
It's unfair, it's so unfair
That I pin it
Sprawled and helpless
Without mercy, I dissect
And it becomes tainted
The whole vast bright world
Reduced to a stuttering rhythm
Anaesthetised with cotton wool
And splinters of ice
Bound to do my bidding,
Tell the story I think it should
I will look back, I must look back
Not with shame but with remorse
At how callously I fouled those worlds
By snaring them in words
Life is for the living
Not for the world
To be road hauled
With shiny string
Behind the lumbering
And her innocent sin
Forgive me for my snapshots
For all the harm they've done
For KevinMore Like This
What dreams may lie under surface of a frozen star?
Once turned supernova evidence comes painfully late .
For the light that we see is but luminance turned memory,
slipped though our hands forever .
© 2007 Alexandra
Funeral of misplaced wantAlas my love its come to pass I've tired of our idle song.More Like This
I euthanize my failing hope give it to naught where it belongs.
Thou love me not, we know this truth. I finally acquiesce to fate.
I thousand lies I told myself to ease the bruise I contemplate.
Dust to dust no divine spark to bring the miracle to life.
Ill begotten travesty I see it now from empty height.
Were your silken words of truth, your actions louder they would speak.
I lay to rest my orphaned heart to walk my freedoms lonely street.
© 2009 Alexandra
Ritual Killing of my Child SibRitual killing of my child siblingMore Like This
He charged me like a one-ton bull,
deranged, afraid, eager.
But instead of waving a red gold embroidered capote,
I held a weed-whacker in my dream,
blades whirling full speed.
It was difficult at first to stay still
while metal ground on flesh, then bone,
his blood spurting out covering
my face in warmth as I stood unblinking,
but grew easier until all that was left to cut
For a moment all was still -
the smell of rusted metal fresh
with blood clung to the air,
the sound of gnashing steel and breaking bone
drummed in my ear, and
breath froze in my mouth.
The tool felt weightless in my hands
and effortless to control,
as if this act had been the estocada, death blow,
releasing my tension,
allowing me to slacken my white knuckled grip
on the hilt of my weapon.
Little brother's face was contorted in pain but also
in relief as though he simultaneously feared and craved
this end, as if it were his own release
or escape from whatever anxieti
the line to read and travelTo live is to travel. To let go of the known in search of one's true home.More Like This
Most of the time I see my home in open spaces, only for a moment or two at a time, but long enough to believe it exists. A glimpse of pale creamy sky punched by a slow sun above the oily waterfront, the moon coming out of the clouds just above the top of mountain in a moment before the scene shifts, the sunset above a thick hunter green forest where you can smell the chill in the air through the window glass. There is always a promise of familiarity and there is always a promise of losing the ambiguity of spaces and distances. The only way to find your home is to lose one.
The language works in the same way.
Before the Greek alphabet there were no vowels. The words were almost mysteries offering only a possibility of a meaning. They were a sacrament for themselves. The meaning was out there. They held the power of transformation, making the alchemy alive in the mind of the reader, calling for taking chances whil
van Gogh, the Orient: A LamentMore Like This
When van Gogh lost his soul
'twas no bushy-eyed barbarian
babbling about bushido
that enthralled him, but
a docile geisha's pallid wrist,
in his whisky
of cherry blossom
in his soul.
when van Gogh lost his mind
to a gunshot,
'twas no starry-eyed samurai
supplicating for seppuku
that pulled the trigger, but
a dying puppy's whimper,
storms of samsara hanging
by a whisker
of dead sunflowers
in his mind.
in this space I knowRecords should be keptMore Like This
of ghastly forms, pixelized
a painting in our digital museum
of everyday life
Paintings and dolls come alive at midnight
ghastly forms come alive when they like
and they die when they like and resurrect
sometimes in illicit tryst with a stranger
who might be a savior or more likely not.
I may not have fallen in love
cause I find rising in love more appealing
but some of us do fall, with no love
and that well of self-pity is deep.
You may not have understood
it's a trial by fire
but wet nevertheless
not because of the rain
I have witnessed fiery angels
climbing up my spinal stairway
many of them fell
and now when the earth is still dry
in the tonal heat of october's end
I see I have failed, too.
Fallen like the shadows
closely tied to ground
I may not deserve anything more
ignored the auspices, ignored the forebodings
erecting pyramids of stern illusions
predicting all facets of ifs and if anys
in vain, as in vein
The Marble and The EdgeAt three, my wide eyes watchedMore Like This
as a marble rolled across the table,
its path illuminated by the light
from the window -
(light still entered that house then)
rolled and eventually lost
its grounding, fell like a misguided Columbus
off the edge, rolled under the radiator,
hot to touch and growling.
Then Christmas and the wrapping paper
strewn about the apartment, blood on the carpet.
I never could remember what happened
between the before and after,
but I remember the dark, frantic motion,
the lullaby siren.
While they methodically separated
shirt from body, bone from flesh,
my hand remained in hers.
We rolled steadily forward, away from the edge,
that precarious edge that my mother fell off of, and my father,
the man she rolled under.
50/50, the professionals say, my prophesy.
DNA-crossed, predisposed to insanity: a father
on the edge of schizophrenia and a great
grandmother who was in constant fear of the rabbits.
(They listened to her every word.)
Oh, and any moment I could st
Amorous TranscendenceYes, yes, I know you will believe me when I sayMore Like This
the dandelions will soon explode
and all the little girls will attack the sun
and, most importantly, that my fingers
will soon become dizzy from running in circles over your skin.
All the experts agree
it is quite possible that every citys
newspaper will scream at the top of its lungs
and decree a war on words,
but thank goodness we dont need those.
Surely it is only time until all the walls disintegrate
and reveal the vacuous voluptuaries,
and us, wide-eyed and bending
to the will of each others desire.
Dont breathe in
the wind carries the noxious scent of sweatshop romance.
Join me in the shelter of our bed,
let the air be filtered sweet with these twisted sheets.
Once the world is arrested by the universe
and charged with Grand Treason,
we will be left as testaments to amorous transcendence.
How Mothers Leave UsDecember dusk in Lawrence; longest night of the yearMore Like This
and lights go on above the blackened road.
Children's shrieks - praises to the sun god -
dwindle, are replaced by the murmur
of engines revving on the highway
just one block over.
My mother is finally dead.
In the deepening blue of night,
I wonder why I am still
there. It has been years, but the smell
of the place old cigarettes and Irish coffee
arrests me. A stucco painting of the Holy
Spirit represented by flames
atop the Disciples' heads looms
on the wall in the foyer.
I remember the sting
of the hardened plastic spatula, the one
with holes in the flat end;
she would say, "Discipline
is the only good thing this spoon does well."
And then I recall, as if it were playing out
in front of me, the strangest memory:
She standing over me, glass
cup with whiskey in her left hand,
ice clinking as her hand shakes,
that same utensil in her other,
the sickly smell of the smoke clinging to my nostrils,
In Our Own Vain ImageThe white picket fence in front of me was probably a little different from what most people dream of. There were slats missing, the remaining boards edged with rot and dulled from exposure to both age and the elements. The wide, gapped smile of a beggar. Weeds spilled through the mouldy cracks like the forgotten shreds of yesterday's lunch between yellowed teeth.More Like This
The garden was an unmanageable mess of weeds and towering long grass, the paving stones hidden from view by the clinging moss that covered every vulnerable surface. There were no paths cut through the overgrown vegetation, a sure sign that both man and animal had left Mother Nature to spread her roots among the reclaimed land.
The once curtained windows, like smashed views into the soul, offered shallow peeks of the interior. The ripped fabric hung from the window like old tears from the corner of a widow's eye. The formidable structure was dilapidated and leaning, the edge of the roof naked of slate tiles and hunched like an
Winter SolsticeWe thought it was the beginning of summerMore Like This
and it was the beginning of the dying of light
The sea was still too cold to swim
and you lacked courage to dive in.
I should have known back then
that the only water you dared look into
was the one which mirrored your own face.
But I could not let go of the beauty
that once inhabited your soul, I loved its trails.
From the other side of the cold blue mountain
I listened to our music of the spheres
as you pretended to hear it, too.
Summer passed and carried with its sands
those who I left along the way, the shells half-buried
rinsed by the sea which did not belong to me.
The sea called out for me, to sea I returned.
And then darkness came, the curtains closed
in squid ink black. The scent of incense killed
the dry scent of herbs on the altars that we
touched, of sticky wine drying on cold stone
of your heart. The forces that played our game
instead of us had no sense of humor, brought
no catharsis, only lunatic's violet ray of joy,
a potion of
writeThe wind picked up all I dropped,More Like This
lifting and throwing each seed
to find them homes where I couldn't,
where I didn't--
I didn't want them to
bury, feel trapped, not as I--
I wanted them
to fly up and far away, like I hadn't.
Like I wouldn't.
They'd find a good place to rest,
not a calculated plot of land,
not where I would shove them in the dirt,
with my fingers measuring how deep
to plant them so they would flourish,
They must be on their own.
Whether we'd meet again--
it didn't matter,
for I would walk down this path,
looking once over my shoulder
at what I left behind
knowing I'd never get them back
and if I did,
we'd both be changed.
I wouldn't look back again,
only straight, only forward,
as I skipped and tripped down
unpredictable roads holding
my pen and paper.
Mother WarShes sitting at the window,More Like This
Shes staring out the door,
Shes pacing, pacing, pacing,
On the rug upon the floor,
And shes waiting, waiting, waiting,
To see her son once more.
Her smiles a cold, grim death mask,
Great holes are her mocking eyes,
Shes rocking, rocking, rocking,
With a face like winter skies,
And shes reading, reading, reading,
His letters filled with lies.
Mama cant you hear me?
Knockin at the door?
Mama cant you hear me?
Bangin on the floor?
Arent you longing, longing, longing,
To see the son that you adore?
I can hear them screaming,
In the trenches, fire rains/reigns,
There are grown men weeping,
Theyre broken and insane,
And Im crawling, crawling, crawling,
Through the mud and through the pain.
My smiles a poor dead rictus,
Nightmares lurch before my eyes,
Im rocking, rocking, rocking,
Beneath frozen, biting skies,
And Im watching, watching, watching,
shoulder to the wheel...perhaps, past a pointMore Like This
the rest is living lost,
our slipping away.
perhaps, the nearer i come
to that point,
avoidance, whatever the cost,
the price i must pay.
perhaps, the ability,
in our centric place,
to admit futility
perhaps, some (or all) is true,
then there is this,
potential of a soul,
evident in your face.
perhaps, for what i see in you,
for all of us,
so much to do...
i must continue.
llp - aug'09 - dA
Now ForeignYoure living in thick-skinned silence,More Like This
and I have used arrowheads and knives
carved from a mothers femur, struck it with flint
and jabbed it with a unicorns horn,
but it remains thick-skinned and
all around you, impenetrably yours
and as your guard dogs growling in slit voices,
your faded brick walls and your moats
that I slide into too easily, that I climb out of
but never to a spot safe for me from you.
My hands are trembling and made out of bulging knuckles
the same color as my face, the reflection of the moon,
they are as white as cauliflower cradled in warm leaves,
greenly gentle and covered in the dirt it came from,
and I am Columbus in the wrong continent,
I no longer know where I am and maybe
I am not supposed to be here, my flag
not quite right and your quiet stillness
is a final warning to those who no longer hold citizenship.
Weapons and OrgasmI taught a few kids how to use a chainsawMore Like This
They repaid me with human skulls
Disappointed to say the least
I expected ancient bark, with waterfalls of nectar
For some twisted reason,
we expose the murderous side when provided with weapons and orgasm
Slower. Slow: her.my chest crushes in on itself. something in there knocks randomly, it hurts, and I forget that I forgot (on purpose) those stupid pills. another reason to go back, maybe. no.no.no.no.no. they wont find any(no)thing wrong. yes, I can read the words on the screen, yes, I can hear the voice on the other end of the [life]line, yes, yes, yes. but none of it adds up, not even close, to the way two souls speak or sing or smother each other. maybe my soul, maybe my breath, my blood my bones/fingers/eyelashes/scent/thirst maybe one of those holds the strange language that can explain this. explain any-all-things.More Like This
//noise bores me now. lights have grown dimmer and colors not as vivid (thinks of synonym)-brilliant. the great ability of synonyms is, that no matter how many times you find a new word, it never reaches that potential that you had in mind. never. and in no time Im disgusted with the idea of everythingforever. I want nothing. I want to rid myself
IndigoShe stepped into the bath, feeling the water part, skimming up her leg as she sank back, watching the steam rise from the surface, tiny droplets swirling in the air, iridescent. She pressed the cold glass to her head, so cold against the hot water covering her, lapping over her shoulders covered by her dark hair. She tossed the cold vodka down her throat, listening to the ice chinking against the glass as the drink burned its way through her. The rhythmic dripping from the leaky tap, which usually irritated her, was surprisingly soothing so she concentrated on it watching the drips falling over her dark violet painted toes.More Like This
Setting the glass down on the floor she let her fingers, the last dry part of her, drift over the water, dipping in and under, disrupting her own reflection. She lifted her arm up watching the drips roll down, one in particular gliding from the tip of her of her middle finger, across her palm and wrist, following her purple veins till it came to rest on the inside c