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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.
BrayThe braying wind’s shrill echoBray by pomohippie7
From melting drift to hill
Shivering the quiet
And the crunch of boots
Upon half-dissolved snow becomes hypnotic.
You have weathered beautifully
Among the cur grasses and cattail reeds;
Whippoorwill calls provide your static.
The crunch and mire mean nothing to you.
Getting there and back again
Makes her prime, cherry
And still we thumbed out something more.
CRLiterature BOOK CLUB SchedulePlanning ahead when it comes to getting your read on? So are we! Here's the official schedule for the CRLiterature Book Club.CRLiterature BOOK CLUB Schedule by DrippingWords
Not sure what to expect from Book Club? Check out our Book Club Facts.
The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky
Host: DrippingWordsMid Month Discussion: Monday, September 15th
End of Month Journal: Sunday, September 28th
The Thing on the Doorstep and Oth
'Don't write poems about me.'I'd rather my name be written in'Don't write poems about me.' by Gay-Mountain
every bathroom stall in India,
America and Japan:
"Call for a good time."
I'm sure people would rather have the laugh
than the stone line of poetry
with my full name beneath it.
How could i not write the names of trees
and moths over and over:
the deaths head,
the white witch in the she-oak,
the broomsweet and the meadow?
The ArtistShe talked to rocks, asking them if they’d be happyThe Artist by Bark
To leave their home for her newest installation piece
She cried sometimes for no reason other than
She felt like having a good cry
Her house was covered in her students’ drawings
She said the best art was produced from innocence
She went mad once, and painted canvas after canvas
In furious strokes of black
The soft blue world of youth at last faded, she grew old
People shook their heads when they saw her
And whispered “poor dear” under their breath
But she was never poor
Her love for everything and everyone never died
It was swept in all directions like a summer breeze
Making people smile without knowing why
But the river rocks know
CreaturesNever was there a kissCreatures by FritoB
like catching a prairie creature's
sharing together a thousand visions:
of the wind,
the rich oceans of solitude spilling out, raucous and reckless,
of the tall summer's grass like mane struggling like waves to be free
from some tamer animal's back,
visions of rivers,
of stream-of-conscience creeks,
scribbling the plain margins in invisible ink
and o'er the passive lines of hay,
round stacks and bales a period in the day,
at sunset, a comma, a breath to take,
the sense of sentences of life going on without a final stop,
or time to catch a breath,
the collarbone of the earth,
small hills like a whispered hymn
in the everlasting pews of corn and wheat and hay,
the rows of crosses through the calender at end of day,
Colorado SpringsColorado Springs by thetaoofchaos
Vacate! And disentangle
from the old familiar shadow-works,
from slim Siamese deflecting light,
from facets miring in our clock-face
from the tribal hum of sheetrock,
recurrent trumpets maddening
our corners of the cosmic cog.
Separation is the rite of birth,
discovery and flight!
Head north and west, for higher sky
and find a porthole, red summer stone
where winds will rush through the fleshmaker’s mouth
slowing our feral, atomic brume
to the comfortable gait of gravitons
dangling just beneath our soles
in the Garden of the Gods.
143And Girl takes a breath. In. Out. In. Lungs catch and stutter and she moves from under the portico on steady legs. The light is calm and flat. Yellow blossoms spring from brown earth and delicate motes fall in an elaborate dance of everything. “Where is my brother . . .?” she whispers. Tones tilt-shift and light throws itself sideways. Hues come undone in bafflement, disjointed to the bone. Girl laughs. It was the Funeral House that did it, messed up the rendering leaving things thin. It kicked her in some way, watching the roof tiles slide. Made her smile. Girl clasped an ancient Oreo between her jaws and held on.143 by metamage
The house reared away from her laughter, a disembodied caretaker given notice of theft. The ancients of Funeral House, in their burrowed and dreaming nooks, slumbered on. Girl dropped adamantine thoughts at my feet and I came awake. The Old Ones fell from my hands into the crimson stellar sands.
Pearl thoughts, stitch-dropped and loose, touched my skin as my hand
to Morrison's beloveddearly Beloved,to Morrison's beloved by successwithhonor
you were an eighteen-year-old secret, molasses suckling shameless infant rage
burning black ash & brimstone in the annals of a shackled past,
rebuked like lost African melodies in the middle rites of passage.
Humanity found a mirror in its memory, birthed it in a colored stupor and wandered
the dark forest with iron eyes, sopping wet from baptismal frills
on the flesh and marrow stump of 124,
community house turned steeple turned lonesome coffin,
plywood captor of judgement.
Here Boy was shot, killed by a sideways glance
you made like a hymn from a cursed God, Sweet Home ringing in the ears
that made Kentucky chuckle at the harvest of your orchard bloom
and market price of family fruit.
What say you of death, the diaspora of life
or see you of hellish beauty in the sorrowed cesspools of sight?
history is a rabid dog tearing off the flesh of time until
there is nothing left but the dead, but the white bone;
your story is a people divorced from itself,
scattered bits of s
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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