Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Faint

Blue hued hands against pale white thighs
Veins pulsing purple the will to survive

Resting softly in the trickling end
Absolution for undefined sin

Rising from this warm nook, a hollow cough
Echoing the depths of an empty loft

Forging a path through an open door
Knowing there should have been more

Memories fade with each tear wept
Strong knees weaken with every step

Surroundings spin and all goes black
Falling forward instead of back

Stiff arms reach to embrace the floor
That's twice today, no wonder I'm sore

:)

Friday, October 22, 2010

Beneath the ocean of collective tears

Third story window hung
Drops of distilled love
Shatter pavement bound
Before the grand soak and dry
By the gale unwound
Wrung free flying
Circular patterns above
Turbulent waves of truth
Whirling hope sinks in silence
To broken coral collaborating
Elaborate reconstruction
Forsaking purpose and duty
Maintaining untouchable beauty

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

First rate hate

I grow weary at the outright ignorance and childishness that governs the hearts and minds of some people. Growth is not about textbook knowledge or being a better, stronger, kinder kind of person. Growth is what happens when you allow your life experience to fully manifest within you your unique way of being. Of being in the world amongst all the other creatures vying for a place in the survival of fittest. Of being in the world with all it's hardship and strife and agony, and injustice served in the greatest quantities in the most heartbreaking capacities and still being able to know joy and warmth and hope and love. Of being in the world and making the most of what it is to be a being in the world amongst all the other creatures in the world who are being with you, growing with you, dying with you, decaying with you, or unfortunately remaining stagnant right next to you.

I feel pity for those who stay locked inside of notions such as hate and envy and bitterness, because I know what it is to be that person, and because I know what it is to not be that person.

We all make mistakes. We all have regrets. We all form attachments. We all long. We all need. We all love. We all breathe. The same air.

I feel nothing but pity for those who can not appreciate the basic human right of every individual to seek and find happiness. I feel nothing but pity for those who would rather make it their life's purpose to tear others down and rip them apart instead of lifting them up and wishing for their well being as if it were their own. I don't envy these poor, sad souls the difficulty they will face in finding what they most truly desire while trapped in an oblivious world comprised of venom, malice, and self-destruction.

Hate is ugly and in a funny, almost hypocritical twist - I hate it.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Maqsoum

Beating it out on my bedpost
Three hundred times
The familar rythm echoes and soothes

teca-DUN-DUN-teca-tec-DUN-teca-tek

Three times ten is thirty
Thirty times ten is
Three zero zero
DUN-teca-teca-

Fuck.
Backwards.
Slow it down a second
Divide the rythm to singular heartbeats

teca
DUN
DUN
teca
tec
DUN
teca
tek

too slow to be comforting
kills the flow
ruins the math

Pause.
Breathe.
Focus.
Re-start.

If I make it to my goal
flawlessly
If I can go that long in perfection
If I can turn off the turmoil til I get there

Everything will be okay

teca-DUN-DUN-teca-tek-DUN-teca-tek
teca-DUN-DUN-teca-tek-DUN-teca-tek
teca-DUN-DUN-teca-tek-DUN-teca-tek

White out

Little gray oysters sunken like stones sing to me of their bittersweet plight.
Bright mums bloom against the backdrop of autumn's booming decay.
Dizzied am I in this twilight of unspoken things, carving love into heavy armor.

As pearls bubble to the surface of a snow covered shore.

Friday, October 15, 2010

The Abandonment of Mr. Frost's Famous Path

Three hundred sixty five days into the future or a thousand empty nights into the past.

The fuel that burns the fire of my dreaming is constant, even when in short supply.

Everything I've done that has not been to keep the kindling alive has been a futile effort to extinguish that eternal flame.

I'm not at a crossroads here. It's not even a fork in the wild woods. There's no untraversed path. There's no well worn road. I'm simply standing in an open space as violent winds force me to dance in their embrace.


Catfish whiskers

I will always be okay.
Just peachy.
a little fuzzy.
pit in the center.

Too much sugar made me vomit

Safety bored me to tears

I need to go noodling
in the murky depths again

Mount that great fish on my wall
Name him George.
After Georgia.
Where the peaches come from.

Then, at last, I'll sleep.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

The fine art of dandelion burning

I watched you morph
from your golden throne
Transcending to seed
by morning's light
Perfecting purity
to snowy white
Unable to pluck you
from your earthy perch
with roots of a silver birch
So illuminated by my flame
intent to populate in vain
Charred stump in my heart
You'll for ever remain

Monday, October 11, 2010

Raped

Father time runs his heavy, calloused hands across my once supple, lithe body. The dust of another era courses through my bloodstream. I force a futile cough in his face causing the corners of his mouth to move upward into a slow, certain grin. We do not speak as he winds a lock of my brittle hair through his fingers and leans forward to clamp the whole of my useless tongue between his stained and crumbling teeth.

Thick salty fluid fills my airway just as I release a guttural cry of pain. The scarlet hem of my life stains the very whites of his eyes. Fury envelopes the atmosphere around us. I remain defiant yet powerless, awaiting his next move. He loosens his grip on my scalp, but not without snatching away another small tuft of my identity in his palm. Staring tenderly into my eyes, as if searching the core of my soul, he licks his coarse, wiry fingertips to fervently wipe away the aftermath of my silent screaming with his fermented saliva; before it even had time enough to dry and cake in the creases and folds of my face.

A moment of peace in the midst of rage. A flicker of hope that he will finally show me the mercy I have long longed for and offer me the grace I have always craved. I imagine that if I can find a way to hold his gaze that it would be so for ever after.

Before I can finish the thought I am thrown backward into a cold concrete wall by the strength of his foot in my chest. The crackling sound of shattering ribs echos loudly up the dark and narrow passage. As I struggle to find breath his laughter fills my ears mocking my childish hope. His jagged nails pierce the center of my neck and tear through the paper-thin skin leading to my clavicle.

I drop to my knees as if to beg for an end but keep my eyes fixed on his, reminding him that I will never give up and tempting him to test me further. His jagged titanium nails rip through my sternum with great ease and fierce agony. I dare not look away. I dare not blink.

Swiftly he carries my limp and nearly lifeless body across a wide, quiet span of emptiness and lays me to rest in a bed of stargazer lilies while my beating heart is left exposed to the elements and the burning sun. With a soft kiss on my forehead and the gentle caress of his hand across my cheek he whispers that which I have always known, "This is how it must be."

I have been here for what seems an eternity now, with the disturbing comfort of those final words ricocheting relentlessly through every synapse and sinus in my skull. Alone, exposed, and praying for rain.

There has been an occasional passer-by who came along to poke and prod at the universe reflected within me. Always blinded by the darkness of the barren trees looming overhead or the brilliance of their own luminous ego, not one of these has yet to offer a genuine understanding or acceptance of my existence and only time has been willing to hold my hand in my most dire moments.

While I am content to stay here in the grasp of time's choke hold, Orion beckons to me and offers a mystical escape. Though I know his often deceitful nature, it is but his steady calling that keeps me breathing and hoping that there is more to living than enduring the torture of time's brutal tests while waiting for him to drop his final, most rapacious blow. There may well be an eternal love for a mortal soul hiding among that glorious belt of stars prancing about in the night sky for the lilies fresh bloom and the ether in my eyes, or perhaps it is already streaming from somewhere deep within me simply waiting to find another infinite helix to bind itself to.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Sweet well water in a tin cup

I'd like to say it was his eyes that first caught mine but it was something more.

Something undeniably undefinable.

Captivated completely by the hold his eyes held, I knew his arms could do as much.

Shaken to my center by that first unintended touch, I called him Jesus.

To be in his arms is to worship divinity, divine serenity.

I'd fear losing myself to it, but I fear I'm already too far gone for that.

Sweet Caronia

14th century vulgarity permeates my being here, now, then, and always. A melodious pour of words from a distant sister defining the beauty in the carrion of a murdered prey. Where there is overwhelming horror and terror in the eyes of every beholder, I suck in the foul stench with every breath and savor the beauty in the saccharine undertones laced throughout this vital air.

Choking on the maggots already at my throat I push another empty day into my self imposed clarity. Basic primal urges drive me onward. Primitive survival instincts lay the foundation for my every pleasure seeking endeavor. Surrounded by decay, in vulgar Latin terms, by my own caronia, and by that of the world which surrounds me. Emotion is the only notion of knowledge I will ever own.

Like the death of each spring flower, wilting in the summers heat, blowing away with autumn's breeze, and waiting for new life under winter's frozen, heartless palm I am incapable of escaping this rotting sphere. Wanting to wouldn't alter my fate of awareness.

It's not meant to be beautiful, it's not meant to be warm, it's not meant to be anything, to DO anything. It's just my soul, and it just is. Singing. Shrieking. Expanding. Shrinking. Loving. Waiting. Accepting. Seeking... safety. Sweet Caronia in a world of the same.