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Alien Sunset

Sharpened tips, needles
trip into the clouds.

Your efficient mystery misses
sights and sounds, then and now

Scratchy haze, you can't say
that something feels different.

Watch your wishes, waste the time - yours and mine
late to find you can't move your old ways.

Prestigious in places where your face is
is erased like your figure, silent bell
cracked to tell what the rain can deliver.
 
Regrets

The
man
I had
hoped I'd be
would have fought harder;
so I lost,
defaulted,
but
still.​
 
Dietary Restrictions

I can't talk to you, to any of you
because I live behind a wall
none of you can see.

It's a soft wall. If
I press against it, my hand
moving outward slows,

as if it is thrust
into an emotional taffy—soft,
resilient, difficult

to press through.
I can only touch you, if at all,
on the other side

of a sweet, sticky paste
that tastes good when licked off
one's fingers, but

leaves my touch, your touch,
coated with a saccharine goo.
This is why

I may sometimes seem distant—
for I am always trying to strip the sugar
of interpersonal relationships off

my spastic and diabetic limbs.
 
he writes in threes
walls, sweets I got
a needle baby

self-timer close your eyes
its easier
for both of us

don't delete don't delete
god this is painful
muscle tight

song low
I have your injection
ready with the return

into the walls
a window into the window
a syringe

step in lovely man
closer
 
annaswirls said:
he writes in threes
walls, sweets I got
a needle baby

self-timer close your eyes
its easier
for both of us

don't delete don't delete
god this is painful
muscle tight

song low
I have your injection
ready with the return

into the walls
a window into the window
a syringe

step in lovely man
closer
Click to expand...

OMG!! annaswirls! As I live and breath. <huge bear hug!>
 
GuiltyPleasure said:
OMG!! annaswirls! As I live and breath. <huge bear hug!>
Click to expand...

sweet of you to remember, greet
breathe and
live
all in one stroke

would stay and play but this choke chain
tight holds me safe
I might go for the throat
and have to be put down

besides all of the pussies and realistic looking
dildos turn me near out of my mind

remember when wicked eve posted the crucifix dildo
on Christmas morning 2003
in my father's den
looking for a message
from my man
sometimes I still wake up
looking
 
friendship isn't love,
though I suppose it could be,
given time and literature

but I am happy enough to stroke
the ghosts of words
left here like

the spoor of some lost animal

I used to be accustomed to
reading its tracks

as it walked its curious
path through life

from its wanderings I learned

many things, learned a little how others
fumbled their way
through this garden of experience

so much that I want to cast these tracks
in plaster, to preserve their beauty,
their truth, the precise way

I learn from them
about the wind, the rain, our language,

our so isolated kind
 
Poets dream of Grecian urns,
marble friezes, whole
civilizations gone yet here
in the weave of a tapestry.

Bishops built sepulchers
Monuments to their vanity,
their stony likeness in stone
churches. The child in me

knits my fingers in the old
game of prayer and steeple,
wonders where are the people?
I kiss my mother, this Earth

that like you and me is dying.
I blow kisses to trees, the wind.
We are stardust, we will be
stars. Good enough for me.
 
Sideways

An odd lot, thrown together by happenstance
yet nothing much happened. These days
things seems to be moving laterally rather
than vertically or to and fro.

Spectators squinting through binary spectacles
at a menu with too small a font for this dim
light although maybe it's not just the light
as wine dark is overflowing its glassy seas .

No longer stars of the firmament, nor even
supporting planets, more like asteroids,
planetary debris from too many close
encounters, caught in an ever tightening belt
even if not much is stirring down there
as entropy finishes the desert course.
 
It's difficult to live
with nature sometimes
one shakes it off like so many
raindrops. Turn up the heat
and warm the limbs
if one can though sometimes
it's an avalanche. Dear

Mother cannot sustain blow
after blow. Eventually she shudders
and mountains fall onto villages,
swallow them whole. A volcano
purges ash and lava until only
artifacts remain and people
like us imagine what was,
what might have been.
 
They're giving
all stomach, breath
for that moment
if you're lucky
full of eyes
look inside.
 
I write live

my soul hides
not yet sure if
what's out
there, is truly
true.

I slither alone
the outpost of
this daily route. seeking

solitude

a shelter, if you must.
Children
grow
outspoken, go, grow
up. They
see not what's behind
only, their destiny.

As Moms grow old.
washing, cleaning,
protecting
innocence, futures
forloom.

Flounder or flourish
kids live and forget
forgo-ing into the

future
forgetting
the past...

I write live,

living in this
dear, precious moment.
Love, passion...
know not, I am mom.

I am the lady who gets
things done. Takes care
of everything
while my life,
my future

flows into
another day,
another moment of
laundry, dishes
cooking
cleaning the house

as I slowly
disappear
I write
I think
I

plan, another day
moment

another dream

of writing a path
foraging into
my destiny
a day, a second

a silent, unspoken

moment
of merriment
me,
me

me ....

 
The moneyness of money
Quicksilvers
Past pocket seams,
Dropping down chutes
Of earnest columned accounts.
Flame fed gingerbread
Can only stalk behind
Money's shredded math.
Accountancy at high noon
Cannot recoin it still.
Sir Isaac Newton whipped
Wildly at where it shoud be
As if quadrants could pin
Pirates to serve
God and monarchy.
The moneyness of money
Seeps from banks,
From jewels, from prison
Slaves, from every written word
Into the precious clouds
That rain or not. The moneyness
Of money is thirst.
 
The moneyness of money
Quicksilvers
Past pocket seams,
Dropping down chutes
Of earnest columned accounts.
Flame fed gingerbread
Can only stalk behind
Money's shredded math.
Accountancy at high noon
Cannot recoin it still.
Sir Isaac Newton whipped
Wildly at where it shoud be
As if quadrants could pin
Pirates to serve
God and monarchy.
The moneyness of money
Seeps from banks,
From jewels, from prison
Slaves, from every written word
Into the precious clouds
That rain or not. The moneyness
Of money is thirst.
 


Here I am writing live,


... ...



red
ribbon
a smile
a flourish of his whimsical
lip.
that solitary lip,
beckons


I see his smile,
Beckon


me. He needs,
me. Wants

an escape. Gingerbread
houses, hot
mountain waters, flow.
beckon .. me back

I see, I

want. He is the man

I've always
dreamed of.

Soft spoken as I whip


him. He wants
deserves

a good, hard
hard ...


hard

spanking.

I sit, want quietly
to sip,
serve
whisper...

lost wanton words
of our past, our history.
Yet, his solemn smile

beckons


against my soft, heated
flesh.

I am the master.


I want, need

to take, take

every soft morsel
of his soft,
silken flesh

tongue
lashes, dives
seeks that ever
present.. pastry

He is mine. I, his

walk away. Now
my mind. memories, dreams
tell me. This history is not for

you. ...

Yet,

we walk, take
whispered dreams
upon yesterday.


I want,
he needs.

together we take
dream, of ...

Demand

this moment. This
time together

taking, splurging, dreaming


as others do, except

we have only



have, now,
.

To dream
flourish

demand our time

for now. Here

and now ....



I dream, every day, hour

of our tie,

away.
Our time together

alone. Every, moment
second

plays upon om mind.
I love, you...
always
shall ...

Today
I wake up.Wake my children
up, for school. New day

yet, I dream, I
always

dream
of our
time. seconds spent. Hours
play out in y my mind. What

if. What would have happened

if ...

if

if ...


 
Flame fed gingerbread sets me afire,
make me gyre and gimbal,
arms akimbo,
Scooby doo,
yeah
 
absurd

dreams of satsumas with tiny hands
and melting dolls with eastern europian names
a white house turned shades of deep pink
and frantic games of musical chairs
where there are too many chairs
and not enough players
and the bobble-heads
are climbing on the table
looking for indian ropes suspended in disbelief
tricks to climb as floodwaters rise
above the chins of the serious children
reluctant to abandon their chairs
determined to go down with their rudderless captain...

i want to find rabbit holes
the temptation of glass-stoppered bottles
a choice to be made
the dichotomous dangers of eat and drink me's
perspective
fitting in
or not fitting
hand me a paddle
let me steer my dream-raft clear
of such badly sketched political metaphors
and wild queens shrieking
"Off with their heads!!"
 
Friday.
End of the week
or the day before Saturday?
Just another Ibuprofen
day.
Cold bitter dregs
on a sour stomach.
"It's what you do,"
she said.
"And it isn't going to change."
So I don't.
But I do
push away that thought
for tonight.
 
live write sparked by some advert and the words 'guilty edge'

this guilty edge
it gleams so wetly in the night
and though i try
it seems i can't get nuthin' right

the edge is honed
it beckons with a quiet breath
it calls my name
it calls for something more than death

it speaks release
it calls me with a siren's voice
and though i try
it seems i'm losing any choice

---------------------


okay, 'nuff of that. just wanted to play with that phrase 'guilty edge' for a minute
 
Angeline said:
Gevalt

Just reading about the Onegin Stanza is giving me headaches!
Click to expand...
Explanation

The form is Russian, so in English
It's difficult to make it work—
You cast for marlins, pull up dogfish
While free verse poets wink and smirk
At your attempts to make a poem
That still conforms to rules and forums
Devoted to verse purity.
(All verse is "purr," it seems to me.)
The form seems like an algorithm,
One with some oddly patterned rhymes
That shift like geologic time
But yet it's just a funky rhythm
With quatrains that move rhyme around
To generate a unique sound.
 
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