[x]

Achromatic Dreamstoday, god gave me present.

-
i.

stilted windows, white bones
decaying lungs and my mind races
at the rate of a lone moth's jaded wings

we taste better alone

ii.

clemency is earned
by the damned, by the damned
arbitrary sacrifices

we belong to nobody

iii.

and she bowed with artless grace
kissed the sky, shed stardust tears
choked on angelic moonshine

we draw our own constellations
-

today, i gave god presence.

la fille aux cheveux de linwe are currently in A minor,
but watch out for the key change in
eight measures
(it will hit you like
a ton of bricks when you hear my
F's and C's go sharp - they will stab
you in the chest and twist into your
gut like a knife)
i am a pitterpattering bell chime
in the wind, echoing across the hall
and down the stairs to your seashell ears
and my fingers are aching as they fly
across the keys
   my lungs are squeezing out every
particle of air that can be salvaged from my body
but this is something like flying because
    they can hear me from three miles away
even though my voice is so small and there is
        nothing that could stop me from growing
   wings and leaving this place behind
(but sometimes i am grounded by the roars of the sea)

BeatI wonder if Bukowski -
when compared to writers -
felt like just a man.

Gypsy CaravanThe gypsy caravan
Rocks on the down-trodden path
To the bustling Saint Petersburg
And the mystical Moscow.
Their heretical legacy
Follows the hooves of their horses
And the nomads keep wandering
To their hearts whims and wiles

The freedom they fancy
And the strength of their backs
Propel them further to their next controversial act
They're outcasts of society
Victims of prejudice
But they keep on their roaming
For they may never come back

The slaughter of their children
Encouraged by Saint Peter
Gives them a thirst for justice
And hope for the future
Their story is legendary
And every Catholics fear
The gypsy caravan keep

Steadfast EndeavorThe silent breath of paper walls narrate
The evenings worth naught but your husky hands,
These fingers carve on blood-red stone for late
Was love to try your hollow soul demand.

On cobwebbed rooftops slide the needle rain
To blind thine eyes as dull as blackened snow.
None languid more than chimes unstrung, contained
Beyond your weary feet where hatred grows.

I understand, far more than words defined
In every tongue, effete, but play this song,
No dance upon your lips is less divine
Than love to never change. Those scars begone.

When next you wake, beside you I'll remain,
Alone, you never shall be cold again.

something in the oceanthere's something in the
ocean that demands a
eulogy, something loud
and commandeering.
bit by bit he is losing his
mind in this heat and the
weather fluctuations
have him tossing and
turning in the middle
of the night. he tells me

that the moon no longer
brings him good tidings
(he would never admit it
but the only news he
receives nowadays is
from the sun). he knows
he is the last of all the
ponds, pools, lagoons,
waterfalls and riverbanks,
and he also knows
that he can be easily
forgotten. at his request

i describe in vivid words
and colors his rippling tides,
roaring cries and shimmering
clear skin. he insists i

some revolutionsIn the running water I list the ways I'd be changed
if I weren't born among angels.

She developed alongside me as a lotus flower develops its sunrise
contained in the gentle palm of resurgence dropping echoes
with each pink triangle falling in sequence until the light
had pinched time off the ancient face of the clock.

fireweedi have planted my city heart in the dust
and set it aflame.
my new one can taste the wind's origins,
it knows how to ponder heavy thoughts with dark clouds,
it knows the motives behind the rain drop's dances.

--

the sun was eating my skin but
no matter, i can regrow.
i could feel the quivering earth in the bees' hum and
the rhythm of each passing second in the ants' march.
i wanted to tell you i love you because
in all the beautiful expanses of raw earth and passion i have never seen a face so fine.

--

it is four at dawn and the world is tumbling,
lights and numbers are exploding,
we are dying,
time is not waiting.

Our FaithOur Faith is the ironic nonbeliever
in anything beyond this earthly flesh.
She writes about the future as a lost bohemian utopia,
a place her starving readers need,
we who have known
in our deepest parts a feeling
like forgetting how to climb stairs
mid-step,
we who have dreamt of mattresses
on deflated inflatable beds, weekend eyes gummy,
mouths sticky and full of a taste we can't spit out
while we wait for more time
and for the train to arrive, finally.

Our Faith writes a someday like cheesecake in our mouths,
thick and real as childhood dreams of flying,
and when we're waiting for nights of humid neon freedom,
waiting to r

b. 1954He was born to Elvis' first dreamy hit
& a mother who preferred it to the soft
thumpthump heartbeat of her infant.

He was born to a world suffering
the high-pitched paranoia of racism,
the tight lows of war ad nauseam,
the slow slaps of McCarthyism.

He was born to a family familiar
with the thrilling thwack of ringed
fingers on flesh, to a father
who fled the frenzy in favor
of that mellow bass at death.

He was born the first son
and assumed the lead, progressed
from child to man at percussive speed;
Papa was a father long before me,
playing mother as well for siblings in need.

But seventeen came swiftly, and brought a new

senselesslisten for the
sound of light,
a luminous
hum it could be
the last
thing you ever
taste -

let the noise pervade
your lips tasting
the vibration of
decibels,
unfurling
bitter screams;

listen for the
expanse of
linoleum, cold
floor fingers wafting the
perfume of floorboards

blue eyes gripping
the grass
intertwined,
wisps of wistful
gazes searching for
remnants of the scent
to pool in your
palms

reach for
the white
noise
static scatter -
electric mind reaching
for reason, for
sense

IRT Sunflower SutraManufactured corpses
     scattered disrepair
   shattered
     alone
    sullen
     decaying
With tree root wires,
     rebar
     pipes
    trunk of oil drums
    leaves of scrap paper and foil
Leaking batteries, a head of a doll, a broken glass
    I raise
Here's to you, the fallen, forgotten
To you, returning to the soil from whence you came
I raise this shattered glass to your shattered window, long dead

scar-litthe scar-lit passageways
of my throat twisting
and turning as the storm
of sound drums its way
through

edgy glass voices cutting
through tissue, exposing
bare throats that dangle,
helpless, in front of
helpless eyes

my voice
flooding my mouth
drowning my tongue
tasting the rawness
of the words

strange how blood tastes
so dead when we need it
to stay alive
strange how it pounds
through my ears until
even i can't hear
my own words
anymore

speech in its natural habitat

the scar-lit passageways
of my throat
dyed scarlet
and yet i am still
unheard

Hokkaido at NightThe Betula trees have ossified again
that the wild dogs may take to their bases
with delight
ring-barking them in the winter-night
all mad-eyed, saliva-jawed and rabid.

The mottled coats of the hounds
shimmer under a waning moon
that has petrified
in the black-snowed feckless sky
a distant, wood-grained-stony bowl of ginko, sluiced
and facular.

Saru River is whispering her stories
in Epicurean logic
or Pagan shorthand,
tales of being a widow
all her particles run diligent and singular
and the riverbed
runs short of breath
flowing low on jutted memories,

above, in the wash, nocturnal catfish are seized
in spasms of pure being
spotted

motionthis is an essay
on the shared body;
a brief emission;
some kind of fragrance,
or gathering. this is
illumination, here,
moulded into the shape of
the sky.

ice cannot be sustained
and every angel
has ash in her pocket.
i have often wondered,
do dead men
refuse to speak
ill of the living?

time. time. time.
we follow the sun
snaking across the horizon.
if you put your ear
to my mouth, you might
hear the sound of the sea -

- because within the night
there are horses, and
within the horses there is
a lonely star.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 275 bytes more ▶

More from ~anotherforestfire

collide with meO, virgin ghost
collide with me
my eye is open, I am your target
I am
take me to your home, I take you into me
your cathedral is my spine
you are the lighthouse in my ashen ocean
black from my mind, turn on your light
I beg to lap you up like new milk

cage, burn, I do not knowRest your wicker head, baby
But don't catch fire in my arms
If the moon falls apart, catch its pieces
And I'll read them to you like fortunes or luck
Your skin opens up and I capture what's inside
I know not to look, like a child sweating shame
Is it my fault that my hands are the gentle cuts
That unlock this cage?

I cannot weave into you
Your beadwork is enchanting
And I drown
In you, there are pages I cannot turn
And at my touch, I'm afraid they will only burn

NirvanaCast your oracle, whale bones
Crash from the azure
Into white splashing cobalt
Thunderheads, tell me lies

Wildfire old soul screaming for the earth
I climb colossi to hang from the redwood
Let me fall through paradise
And find Nirvāṇa

DolorousEtch into my blackened vodka bones
Dig me a well, my doll
Watch for snakes in the deep

The water is cold and so run my eyes
Take me, Deity. Take me to the window, my doll
Let the laugh walk over the sill

I keep you to myself, I keep you for myself
Beg the morning light to give me rest, my doll
I beg my eyes do not open

Let my regrets hold you tall
Dig me a well, my doll
Bury my secrets in the deep

the boy with a sun for a heartI speak in tongues because I cannot breathe your air
Like the moon stripping glory from the sun
I can never give you what you're used to
Feeding on the soil at your feet
Hoping for a chance to kiss your knees

Will my rib cage full of sodden hoarding
Be worthy of your scintillation?
I'm a wooden house
Filled with plastic diamonds in the south
Burning in your gentle heat
Melting on my tarnished knees

a drug or choosingYour oily prints upon my eyes
Blessed art thou
You bleed through the cracks in my walls
Eyes, pores in every centimeter of wallpaper
Watching me sleep, watching my night-mare
The horse running from the fire-like river
Pouring down the mountain to the plains below
Engulfing my atmosphere in golden red smoke
I am not addicted

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#Writers-Guild-DA
writers everywhere

#LooseLacesPoetry
Poetry Feeds Our Souls

#Writing-to-Live
because words are necessary....

#Word-Smiths

#Heart-of-Poetry
Support, inspire, encourage.

#Magick-Works

Details

Submitted: August 19, 2012
File Size: 275 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 9
Favourites: 17 [who?]
Views: 132 (0 today)
Downloads: 5 (0 today)

[x]

Sirenum scopuli

by ~anotherforestfire, Aug 19, 2012, 12:56:41 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

_{my bed hangs like cliffs
sharp edges under tide
two pearls, golden lined
on black, she sings me home
raptured, like gnosis
faded on wine}

Sirenum scopuliby ~anotherforestfire

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2012-2013 ~anotherforestfire

_{and you sang
sail to me, sail to me
let me enfold you}

~~love 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*Mrs-Freestar-Bul Oct 16, 2012 Writer

Your poems really make me wish I could write as beautifully as you do

Reply

~anotherforestfire Oct 18, 2012

no way! you are a really great writer

Reply

*Mrs-Freestar-Bul Oct 19, 2012 Writer

Reply

~doublethefun Aug 19, 2012

this is entrancing! I absolutely love it

Reply

~anotherforestfire Aug 20, 2012

thank you!

Reply

~anapests-and-ink Aug 19, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I feel enraptured. The rhythm alone is seductive. Beautiful.

Reply

~anotherforestfire Aug 20, 2012

well thanks very much!

Reply

Mood: Joy

`scarletwave Aug 19, 2012 Professional General Artist

Wow, this is honest and seductive. Well done.

Jen

Reply

~anotherforestfire Aug 20, 2012

thanks so much!

Reply

Previous
Next