|There's so much great stuff out there!|
Private NicholsBlond rapt lightningPrivate Nichols by pomohippie7
Striking omnipotent sand
Creates the glass and jars
Meant for disposal;
A raw tank-roar
Signals the vacuum of healing-
The mortar shells are missing their mark.
Stars, looking like salt-crust
Those pearls of begrudging wisdom
Quiver a Mores code-
The ozone fizzles the signal.
The sea spits
And it spatters my face
As obvious as any insult.
The dereliction of response time
Will go down in my jacket:
Time served, out on good behavior.
Momma, MyselfShe's the type of womanMomma, Myself by pomohippie7
To smoke as she cooks;
It diffuses into the steam-
I am never quite sure
If it's char I smell
Or her cigarette.
Her breasts sway loose
Inside her diaphanous
Shirts and caftans
All the slopes and
Pseudo-curl curves of her body
Somehow I know this
And it makes me focus
On the clean half moons
At the end of her hands
Liberating fruits from
Their tight rinds-
A jovial curse uttered
When they are found
To be too ripe.
The frizz-halo of her hair
She looks out the window
As if for some solution
To strike the glass
Like a Mid-Summer rain
Her hands enveloped
In a scrim of soap-lace
The question comes to her
If there could have been
But I clearly remember
There were never ashes in my comfort.
FluxTo know how tender and vulnerableFlux by pomohippie7
Everything is, is a mistake-
Curling up into the black sack
That is yourself
Creates a bellow-suck wheeze
The cacophonous collapse
No one wants to hear;
It is much too familiar.
The Interloper ElopesHe doesn't likeThe Interloper Elopes by pomohippie7
The sense in my eyes
That stab of recognition-
They're meant to be shut
Like a house against Winter;
There can be no recognition
In such a dead place.
As in a Kama-Sutra pose
He reaches down to dig
Into his mosaic strata
A nebulous place I'm not welcome.
I'm torn from the tapestry
Of dopamine filaments-
All that is left
Is under my nails
That peel back under
This chemical punishment.
A breech, a schism
All I need is one more reaction
To crack like a china plate;
I want to ask him
Eat the dust and shards
Make cuts, tears, render a response
Beyond shutting the door.
Death is FemaleThere is somethingDeath is Female by pomohippie7
Distinctively Female about death
A slickness, a sticky-sweet smell
Of flowers blistering in a bouquet-
With a two trunked pith
And pistoning black columns
She is driven, driven
Pale and driven as a horse,
To contract, to expel
Across the gauzy curtain.
UntitledIn the dank haze-heat of the nightUntitled by pomohippie7
Orbed fireflies bounce and list behind
Cobwebs of fog and this mist-lace
Makes it hard to see
Their idiot visual Morse code:
Cue CardWe are in love in this old black and white-Cue Card by pomohippie7
The reel flickers, the corrosion is too much
And I can't forget the words I'm meant to say.
There is a panic-drop out in this empty,
My co-star has receded out of scope
Leaving me with bitter ash paper; the dialogue is illegible.
An aqua-underwater atmosphere resonates in this place
Letting the uncertain light give me your lines and delineations.
Can I take your picture? Let me make you a celluloid god.
AviaryI've often longed to be a songbirdAviary by pomohippie7
My calls all shivery and warbling-
Or I could always be a barn owl
With a sweet Norma Jeane heart-shape face...
These are the utterances I make to myself
Before I really am awake
In the mornings of high Spring flourish;
Tomorrow, just maybe, I will want to be
A hummingbird, just to feel it's exhaustion.
PompeiiI will lay my body at the base of your columnsPompeii by pomohippie7
Waiting for the flaking of your warpaint;
This could make all the difference.
The whore-babble language of your oracle
Heard from the great taproot
Tastes like sodden wool in another's mouth
This is what I have to say in the dark
With your hand smothering my hip and side
Like a cloud meant for Pompeii,
And the fires are never drenched.
I have collected your warpaint
Swept and scooped from the base
In flakes no bigger than glitter
To adhere to myself
Like sticky snails to leaves.
The eternal tremors will knock them free.
dream snarewrap a violin stringdream snare by Leukippos
around your neck,
tie it in a boat knot
to the feather of
a broken dream catcher.
wake up, covered in mussels
while killer whale teeth
grow from your wrists.
fil(l)edthey chipped away at you,fil(l)ed by Lissomer
clasping you tight with
ceramic grasps and art class
filing you down,
filling you up;
trying to make you
they gasp, reflect
edit, edit, edit,
unmask your already
for the sake of perfection
in hale exhalations.
lurks a step from
and you're not quite sure
whether their machinations,
their clutching neophiliac
search for the ideal
has made you greater
all the moonAll the moonall the moon by LancelotPrice
is always there
Sometimes parts are shadowed
Just because you can't see it all
doesn't mean that it's not all there
Just because that we're all crazy
doesn't mean that we're not real
doesn't mean that what we kill
will not stay dead
Lancelot Price 2014 September 8
Proximitiesit's the anglesProximities by FritoB
the adjacency that eyes find
relative to each other
here and there,
and it's where the meeting words touch
and adjust the irises slightly askew:
mouths and pupils like wind and kites
among sunrise and sunset and sundown
and phases of the moon up and down;
in this primitive planet of air
all cerulean and water vapor puffed
or perhaps you and I, in my mind,
every day like boats in squalls.
eyes shift at words
and drift and touching and never touching, they
never making a scratch
and inertia tows them away,
until they reach,
so sweetly from the sails,
some prouder wind or word rising
to carry them to,
or at least keep the rest
i may start going to church,
kneeling in some great house
to remind myself,
to ask some omniscient wonder:
what color jacket did I like
ten years ago?
what optometrist did I trust
so well ten years ago?
what on earth was I thinking
ten years ago?
letter to a birdthe last of the rooks comes into viewletter to a bird by ghostinafog
swaying in trash bag
meaning when it lands the leaves
will have to get up and change colour
but if it never does.
to keep traversing this shifting
it’s been a long road trip and you drink
and it numbs your heart
and it tastes like cinnamon
doesn’t mean that you don’t
if you land, i’ll morph
out of this household
to replace you,
pour into the desk
OctoberDreamcake slips down the slideOctober by Bark
Third eye sees, lips crack
All the buses are blue here
You dreamed of me last night
I watched you from a million
Yellow raincoat dancing
Mother sends her love, I send
All the pumpkins are blue here
Summer PortraitStraddle the bed corner,Summer Portrait by callerofcrows
summer resting between
your knobby spine
and thin, cotton tank-top.
Fingers, curled soft
on keys that beg for use
but there are droughts
likewise your head
is full of dust.
Crawl the length of the mattress.
Envy the flies,
their twenty-four hour lifespans,
obsessions with fluorescence.
(How can they find such purpose
while you can't?)
You are less a girl,
more a fish in the Mojave;
and close to dead.
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'And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.' -John Steinbeck
'Things are sweeter when they're lost. I know because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, Dot, and when I got it it turned to dust in my hands.' -F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned