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becoming undonethe rain is
to swallow like foam-lipped ocean;
a silent drowning like the sinking of
the moon on the horizon
like the way strangers disappear--
we never see them slip away;
droplets into cracked ground, they are
into the wall of water--
the rush of nature
the breath of her
scented in the best
oh, but that's the sunrise--
the beginning dressed
in a brighter end.
rhythmic rain and words for dead treesthis funeral-black night begins with
piano notes soft as the rain soaking
leisurely into wood thirsty for the
warm essence of
evoke dead writers with
vintage typewriters, faded
ink stamping out new stories
from old wounds the way
the poets do, old poets with
sliding down a fogged window
leaving behind a clear trail--
the way to see out
into the natural world waiting. alive.
to the trees breathing
sweet wooden beings--
they rattle rain-streaked glass
with their oxygen-laced wind.
the shades are drawn at three in the afternoondysphoria presses the resplendent
from the mind, sweeping
through consciousness drowsy as a cloud
heavy with rain--
and even the pain is dull, uninteresting
gray is the sky, is the trees, is the smell
of home to the half-closed eyes.
there a vacancy takes hold, setting
feet to tread in dragging reluctance
through life, lips pulled into a polite smile
to shake hands with the living.
Impression Vhe wasn't afraid of the bottom of the lake
the fish are the size of whales down
there in the deep. hate is love
when you are buried in the murk.
these things he said to me
--we sitting, listening--
in a boat floating far above the
the lake is full of sky: clouds, day
bright blueness and sun
to the one who sees
he said all this to me as I sat quietly next to her
"How long ago did your husband drown?"
streamI believe it is best heard: https://soundcloud.com/gravitycorner/stream-1
let me be honest with you
I am small enough to fit into pockets and be forgotten
tangled up in the loose ends of jeans
quieter than the twinkle of coins against keys
is how small I am
to every hand I've been in
and there are not many I let hold me
in this form because honestly
I said I would be honest
I am so much larger than pocket change
or I try to be
far away and expansive
somewhere where you
one cereal box over
not hiding from your grasping grasp
I want you to
take me away and
spend me to fill you
but looking closely into my
window to my naked soul
is not a glance I offer
(I think the ground is the only one to stare so deeply)
is my honesty laid out like
bread crumbs to the universe,
me, brimming with its nature
a nature in you too
but even with this, vastnes
written on sugar cane paperI left when the cows came home
escaped on a dusty bus headed for
the sun with passengers
comfortable in slumber by the
large windows scratched by
time and wild children
stuck in an ever-moving inside
I had this dream folded in my suitcase
light for traveling
and this man
with all the roads of the world carved into his face
laughed at the little all that I carried, he laughed
deepening the paths he footed
with a suitcase dragging
in his once young, white-knuckled hands
now sat in his lap trembling from heavy incredulity
my naivety, to him, amusing but lighting
his once dull, resigned eyes
your entitlementsgolden hour lovers
in lieu, lament
on essence of opiate summers
upon wet roads of a subterranean pandora
Ophelia with crimson epiphanies
senses the grey blaze tides
to you, bereaved orphan,
windows of lost causes and solemn mantras
seas of callous ether,
the birth of struggle,
the primordial existence,
unchanging and starved of
the patterns of wisdom
desire in minor keyif only i were strings on your guitar,
to be touched and teased
till tremendous tremolo echoed
in these hollowing bones
fretting for your affectionate fingers to thrum
percussion gently along this rough curvature
my unvarnished body, natural concavities
resonating the rhythm of your sweet phalangeal beats
the heat, in each of your lovely palms, washing over me -
bending me, until i sing into the void
an anthem only yours
give me a voice
pluck calloused, never callously,
the notes growing slowly outward
from this sonorous garden,
my musical soul
sighs a song for you
each note hung, neatly strung, and laced
through my being -
would you find them all for me?
could you release each one,
with the delicate strums from your easy hands?
arpeggiate me amorously
away into the evening
until my frame is fully known
and the very molecules in me hum
as those caressed in your guitar
gently balanced upon your knee
the strings of which you touch and tease
and strum the love
You Need A New MusePoets, if your muse smells like eggnog, boiled eggs, fresh eggs,
or any sort of egg at all: get a new muse. If your muse makes sounds-
chomping or mewing, smacking, or worse, slurping - when she eats
animal crackers: you need a new muse. If she’s that sloppy gal that
downs a pint and hollers, “Freebird” at the bar, you know where I’m going with this:
you need a new muse. And trust me, pudding, when your muse misquotes
Bill Cosby while eating jello, you're going to wish you had gotten yourself
that new muse.
If she begins to insist on beginning debates with “irregardless,”
you won't need a dictionary to tell that you need a new muse. Even brings
to question your rhyme scheme or does not know how to tell you
she set the table in iambic pentameter, seriously, you need
a new muse. If you can’t get her to write you letters, but can’t break her
from sending four-page texts, then it’s time to call in a new muse. If she doesn’t know
Pestilenceall of God’s children sleep
together and count the falling sheep,
stars nestled in their eyes as they
prey upon the crumbling walls;
God loves all his children and I am
the orphan with an asphalt blanket;
clouds scorn me and I mourn
their wasted hatred
(my eyes, my broken plastic
looking glasses; my hands,
termite ridden and frost bitten;
my heart, worm holed and
what’s there behind these echoed
words? divisions of another from
a better time, I have begun to live
and lie with no consequence
because that little toxic feeling
floating in my chest likes to
poison everyone I’ve ever met,
and I’d rather be asleep within
the hearth: cinder baby never
voiced the ugly truth
for fear of rejection
my addict voice pleads
for the wrong redemption
a dream that
I was unattainable
and I had a reason
to wake up
oh, my god cries like dad did
the day I broke his heart;
heaven looks like home but I
am hell-sent and gravity-bent,
After a Blue Sundayi.
The week slips hard
rolling in upon itself
to pull me under;
hardly a victim, more so:
a participant lacking
I clutch at taupe walls,
boring walls that do much more
a hangover than breaking
The after-break, break:
realizing my solitude
undoes me quicker
than your infidelity;
than her scent on your body
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,
Why this wisdom, now?
The cosmic clown who wrote this song
does not annotate our endings with an epilogue.
I do not see the irony in celebrating
your new found space.
There is no iconicity,
no special shape
that serves the world
as you did serve,
to bend and writhe the streets
into a wellspring, a circuitr
syracuseListen to the audio version for the full effect, pretty please.
cloudshot sky like an oil painting and i am watching the
darling, i will swim for you
and swallow every whitecap.
i will pluck myself a coat of pelican wings,
sew them up with salt and spray--
become icarus for you.
you are calling me across the waves, love--
but you pull against the ache
in my bones, the hollow--
the clawing out for unseen sunsets and unturned tides.
i hear you, love
give me time.
i will always listen.
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 the dancers threading grace
between their fingertips—
until I dress in the heaviness,
a sarong of heat.
pseudo-taoistic tendencieshere, to live in obsolete measurements of stasis
and find solace in the way time bends in sweet detriment of itself
to listen, enlivened
by the sound of ten thousand and one parched persian tongues
rasping of emancipation
from the underbellies of our mirrored drunkards
where the universe is felt
and God is swallowed:
on her salted fountains
on his derelict fingers tracing unadorned love
on another woman's hipbones
an elephant's dying breath, and
the smell of climax and unsettled wombs
felt, and tasted:
in hospital tubes
failure of recognition
the partisans of our cause and command
the ebb and flow of our saturated, wrinkled seas
you taught me
the only time impossible is applicable
is when i iterate how broken this feels (i am)
superseding god has now become second-nature
and wisdom only found on the gravebed of noetic trees
pure, unadulterated peace.
I wrote you a poem.
skeleton smile-- moonbeams
drip from your unharnessed
habilitations; you speak and
ravens tear through your throat
(I will be there) you are
a catalyst whose ghost eyes
died for a better day
unaware promise bearer, take
me away. as you live these
beautiful vanities, take me
somewhere refined and romantic
like the lies you languish, where
a heavy heart weighs up to
primed and pruned, I am
a seedling: an exaltation to
all that is you
we both cry the same kind
of quiet, and whisper the same brand
of please-don’t-listen-close; I
just want to leave before I break
when you [do it first] decide there is
a life worth more than the scars
I bear (though I mostly want to ask
does it ever go away?)
churning repetitions of an
unmentioned time, I carry you
within my mouth; tucked away and
slowly disintegrating the things
I barely speak:
(you saw more of me than either of us
could admit) the time for letting go
has passed me by
Dreams of realityA pair of eyes;
Open and stare through the lights,
Into the darkness of doom.
And yet they smile,
Yet they smile.
A drop of tear;
Seeps through the garden of death;
Falls to the mortal soil.
Dreams and desires will blend again,
To render the roses alive.
I am floating through a vision.
Like ripples, floating through the pond of life.
Can reality be so real?
Let me drown again,
Into the silence of familiar noise.
As I wander through the lanes of reason and passion.
The flame of hope burns bright,
Drenched in the colors of freedom.
So let my dreams unravel my soul,
As darkness fades away;
And let mortality draw me closer to destiny.
As these pair of eyes,
Open to stare through the lights again.
Is this reality?
Can reality be so real?
Time passes by, as the eyes keep staring;
Staring at the distant lights;
Staring beyond the distant skies.
What do they see?
What do they long?
What do they desire?
Then the skies will break down;
White lightning striking the dreamy clouds.
Moments will tur
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More