[x]

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,
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 golden
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 sea
------------

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 the
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,
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,
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 loves
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;
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
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,
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

PositiveLeft to me, your worst historian,
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.

Cupping RiceShe collects the rice after weddings
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

The WorkersTheir happiness was amputated upon waking,

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 orbit
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.

Browse More Like This

Download File
TXT, 523 bytes more ▶

More from ~pomohippie7

Abalone and IreEven when the heartache is over
You will still be here
Grinding and throbbing in my bones
And within the oyster shell
That is my heart,
Lined with ire like abalone

GluttonThe lines of impunity have been crossed
Without a careless misstep
And the responsibility is oppressive;
Force-swallowing a glut of melancholy
Makes the satiety all the more cloying.

FacetsHere are the traps I've sprung
Though I've fallen in love
With all your facets
And faces shown
Dirty and dull
The brilliant light
And the pigments of your iris
Arrests the strollings
Of a conscious mind
Hell-bent on the carnage
And the slaughter
Of what's enshrined
In the carved catacombs
Of my crux

UnclaspedHe unclasped me
By the way of vodka and rum
My jaw first then tongue
And I professed an inoculation
For his skin and the lace,
The scratch of hours in waste.
As my fingers undid themselves
To touch his startled frame
The whiplash that ensued
Cloistered me again.
His bare skin thrummed
In syncopation
With the rain
Upon the glass
As he asked
"Is there more?"

The MartyrIs that you
My skin and bone stalker?
Oh, how your flesh is in want
Of a beautiful martyrdom
And our silence rectifies this.
Peeling back the ply layers
In satin-shimmering sheets
Reveals a blinding bandage wrap
And the nails in your mouth
(Sucking out the iron to fortify
The caustic, slipshod nerve
Needed to be the sacrifice)
We will use to pillow
And prop you up
Under that lineal briar crown

DivorceLove me until I'm bored
So I can make a scene of it;
I want to be willing to throw
Plates and juxtaposed phrases
In your face
Into the face of
Your snuff-noose compassion.
Please
Smother yourself
With your reverse-spined spite
So I won't be able do it for us-
I would make too clean of a job of it

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#Poetrys-Renaissance
The Movement of Poetry!

#Prosepoetry-Elegance
for excellent writing

#Word-Smiths

#WritersInk
What's your story?

#Tomes-and-Grimoires
literature, poetry, writings!

#LivingLiterature
Let Your Literature Live

#Scribes-Are-Beckoned
For the zestier writers...

#21st-Century-Artist
21st Century Artist

Show all (16)

Details

Submitted: November 7, 2012
File Size: 523 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 17
Favourites: 18 [who?]
Views: 254 (0 today)
Downloads: 4 (0 today)

[x]

In Totality

by ~pomohippie7, Nov 7, 2012, 8:30:33 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

In totality I find inebriation-
A snick of latches undone
The stitch-heavy cloth
Sighing, whispering off
And boots dropped like thunder
The lightning dry because
Our skin is sweat-bare
As from an impersonal fever.
Savoring your whiskey breath
That starts in the crux of my shoulder
Rolling up my décolletage
I labor to find your beginning
Wanting to uncoil the storm

In Totalityby ~pomohippie7

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

This piece was a winner for EliteLiterature's Literature of the Week spot. Thank you!

[link]
Thank you to *glossolalias for the suggested improvements!
© 2005-2012 Jessica Thompson. All rights reserved. All work displayed here is of my own creation and may not be used in any way, shape, or form without my direct written consent.

*glossolalias Dec 6, 2012

oh goodness. i am going to begin by saying, this critique is going to be a lot of love and a few little gripes. i adore this poem; you have a way of capturing sensuality and twining it with these raw, almost animalistic emotions. this one in particular is so flawed and human and beautiful: the essence of a bad relationship.

there is one thing about this poem that i think could be improved upon, and it's this line: "Undulating up my décolletage "

undulating. what a cumbersome, unrhythmic, unpleasant word. the poem has this gorgeous (if natural) cadence up to this point, and then this line completely throws it. it's regained in the last lines, but it's the word "undulating" that really kills it for me, especially beside décolletage, which is a delicate word on its own, but in combination, the two play off each other poorly.

otherwise, beautiful. x) nicely done.

~pomohippie7 Dec 7, 2012 Writer

I have followed your suggestion. I have put 'rolling' in place up 'undulating' I think it does flow better. hank you so much for the help and for the favorite!

*glossolalias Dec 7, 2012

you're welcome! and yes, rolling does work much better.

*archelyxs Nov 23, 2012

"I labor to find your beginning
Wanting to uncoil the storm"
This is stunning, love.
I missed you and your work. I hope all is well

~pomohippie7 Nov 24, 2012 Writer

Thank you so much for your kind words, lovely.

I am so glad to hear from you; it's been way too long. Are you well? Things are a little boring on my end but they say no news is good news.

*KaitForest Nov 16, 2012 Writer

this is beautiful

~pomohippie7 Nov 16, 2012 Writer

Thank you so much for your kind words and the favorite.

*KaitForest Nov 16, 2012 Writer

of course!

*KaitForest Nov 16, 2012 Writer

I labor to find your beginning
Wanting to uncoil the storm

several bits in this i just want to keep reading, they are so perfectly composed
and striking

`dreamsinstatic Nov 16, 2012 Professional Writer

Your fantastic work has been featured in Friday Night Features.

More from ~pomohippie7

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

In Totality

In Totalityby ~pomohippie7

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style