Happy New Year to everyone, I will continue this blog after New Years , more nsfw erotic poetry posts coming also, Enjoy and be safe, and thank you as always for visiting this site

nameless poisons

the world didn’t need me today,

it was palpable upon waking

so i’m writing this to you

through a prism of despair

 ( this is not the way

   they advertised it to be )

where are you?

my nursery, nebula

the vastness of you

i no longer search for

i am aging,

spiral to elliptical

as nameless poisons

attack the bliss

and interruptions

steal the kisses

  of love

... where are you?

(my image)

4 N 24

axis, mine

around which

impulse must be subdued

propulsion against gravity

( anything away )

maintaining shallow orbit

in happy

peach skin horizon

gift tranquilizer,

serotonin

  hide in the darkness

  behind each blink

  before collapse,

  implosion

  the spirit core

  vindicated

(my image)

the Giver

live a little longer

let dying come slow

and never go down

by the river

the wind still reeks

of the blood that flows

the flowers all have

withered

i forget the names

there have been so many

that never came back

from the river

his, they scream

as their lives are taken

but he calls himself

  the Giver

eventually they come

spirits from the woods

their heads and limbs

in the river

their torsos rot

without a grave

mounds of flesh just

withered

on the longest nights

his laughter haunts

and we hide in this city

by the river

praying a little longer

that dying will come slow

and our lives are never taken

by the Giver

hibernation

through the door to

sit by the window,

leave the window to

travel through the mirror

( the passersby

  sense the mood inside

    they whisper

    without knowing

  rumors, apprehensions

  secrets like

  flags in the front yard

  waving in full sight

  but silent )

i delve into,

i challenge the immutable,

i suffer the change

and adapt, until i

leave the mirror

to look out the window,

then leave the window

to walk out the door

(image from erebussociety.tumblr.com)

except for 2

the scene

is black and white

all of its contents

the rain

the streetlight

the small flowers by

  the curb

the moon in the puddle

the bus stop

even his hand

  and her

cheek underneath

everything shaded

left and right from grey

all but

the freshest green of

his words

  i love you

and the

shiny-wet red of

her accepting

heart

lost and found

head in midnight’s

box of lost and found,

unsure of what i’m

even looking for

i want to wear

something old

to return that

lost feeling of youth

i want to read

an old love letter

to remember the

force of blushing

i want to find

something i’ve forgotten

so this heart can

again be surprised

my passwords have expired,

my keys don’t fit the locks

“... anymore” is becoming

too common a phrase

and this night just

keeps getting darker

(image altered from original)

all silence

all silence as one

like a pack of waiting wolves

encircling

useless negotiations

making them salivate

and getting me nowhere

i know the time is coming

  the pouncing upon

  the ripping to shreds

i’ve bled to their gnashing before

  they know my taste

  and they are hungry

(image from mirrorsinner on tumblr)

- of us

draw out the marrow

  belly of the bone

turning hollow and dry

last vestiges of renewal

  terminated mitosis

ebb and flow to empty

cue the sullen choir

  echo of the swaying dirge

soft eyes and reverberations

close the book of us

  lay this love to rest

release, as

  butterflies, memories

(Butterflies I by SeraphimStock on deviantart.com)

nightmare

stirred

in late night womb

umbilical venom

  tainted at the source

  of dream

burning within

spiraling fall

from red to black,

  the tarred heart

translucent prison

of body,

leak of fear -

the unsealed fontanelle

  where is my savior,

  the radiant hands

  that proffer salvation

begging for a beat,

the stillborn arrives

in a mess of birth

and mourning sun  

(image from mymodernmet.com)

empty corner

i gave him the only

dollar in my wallet

i can’t imagine the

corner being very

generous anymore

with most people

now going cashless

but he was new,

half-a-beard younger than

Sal with the brown pants

(that’s what Sal’s sign said,

 “hi i’m Sal

  with the brown pants

  can you please help”)

i saw him again today

but my wallet was empty,

the State salary has me

living tight and lean,

there’s not a lot of room

for extras

  but, i am rich

  in poems and silence

i wonder if he

writes at night,

scribbling sufferings

far worse than 

i’ve ever known

on scraps of cardboard

or those collected

dollars he

eventually must spend

i always thought

Sal’s sign was

concisely poetic,

11 words...

  a greeting

  a proper noun

  a description

  a cry for help

all invoking

a visceral response

i can’t imagine

being on this corner...

or any corner...

... oh man...

poetry is worthless...

i wish i had a dollar...

avoidance

(Written in April 2021, backdated posting)

voices hushed

lips sealed tight

 

miserably, love

succumbs to silence

its a familiar crash

after the high, 

so damn high that

the loss of oxygen

knocks you out,

knocks you back down

into the dirt where

you belong

I am tired

I am weary

I prefer now to

lie on my back and

watch love float by,

watch others rise and fall

enjoying their sunshine gaiety

enjoying their turbulent rainfall

basking here, drowning here

avoiding all of it

myself

north on US98

(Written in April 2021, backdated posting)

heading north on US98 just 

over the small Kissimmee bridge 

and around the first bend

there, in the heavy marsh grass,

is a single black cow looking

modestly sad for some reason

as it chews and stares and

stares and chews and stares

at nothing really, just chewing

continuing by on this two-lane 

country road with nothing but

time, I am lost in my own state

of sad staring, at nothing really,

just thinking about how this

might be the last day that I

ever hear from her again, and

its because “love is a beautiful,

wondrous thing (but) I play games

in my head to ruin it”... yup, the

truest poem/thought I ever wrote

while reflecting upon all of my

fuckups... so long ago written

but so eternally true ~

~ hours have gone by now, and

I can’t... I can’t let this happen, 

not again dammit, not again, so

I message her back, and I do it

again until she finally answers;

this incredible woman, this pure

angel heart of a woman, this

precious gift of a woman finally

responds and gives me the 

chance I needed; we talk, for

the first time we actually talk

and a new connection is made

and a new beginning is started

the next day, heading north on

US98 just over the small

Kissimmee bridge and around

the first bend there, in the

heavy marsh grass, is a single

black cow looking fairly happy

for some reason as it chews and 

stares, at nothing really, and I

too happily stare, I stare at all of

this growing country openness

all around me, and I feel an

overwhelming sense of promise

and hope for things I just

couldn’t see yesterday

“love IS

a beautiful, wondrous thing”

(My photo north on US98)

erase me

(Written in April 2021, backdated posting)

start here

where you are

in my tangled abyss

climb up and out

faster now, hurry

backpedal, retreat

I’m closing up

eyes eclipsed

self-apocalypse

take the common paths

follow familiar voices

join the happy cities

erase me

forget everything

its already over

start again

wherever you are,

start again

(Image from fravery.tumblr.com)

ripples

ripples from the wake,

a noiseless imbalance

the rolling ricochet

barely disturbs

i too am here

absorbing, adjusting

just shy of idle

against the passing day

(My photo)

shutter “ click

camera intrusion

  } annihilators {

a different kind of bullet

  > penetrators <

shutter “ click

shutter “ click “ click 

(Rafael Salazar on fineartamerica.com)

voyeur steals innocence

  a downblouse ¥

  an upskirt ^

venomous ~ by ~ theft

victims ...   ...   ... desolate

(from theodysseyonline.com)

frisson

everyday

she seems prettier

  and that’s not just

  a sentence to

  start off this poem

  its a fact

proven by the endless

eyeball tests

i’ve conducted over time

her smile doesn’t just

walk by unnoticed

or leave forgotten

it rattles my stability

it trips my gait

it disrupts the cadence

  of an otherwise

  steady heart

waves, shivers, frisson;

faltering dexterity

and the miserable dilemma

trying to decide if i should

spend my day in a 

constant state of arousal

still thinking about her

or just give in to the

refractory period

that’s necessary to

heal

repair

and be ready again

(painting by Monika Luniak on artfinder.com)

out-there girl

the out-there girl is

a woman now

and the tiny world from

her childhood is

too heavy to carry in

a willow basket

  so she drags it along

her scars have thinned

once thick with rage and

loathed reflections

they lie on her skin as

paraphrased reminders of

abandoned stories

  and nothing more

the out-there girl was

once a cry in a

curled-up corner of a

dollhouse room

behold this precious

woman now

calloused to a poise

and out there on her own

marbled utopia

they lied about

the chalk lines,

there were no

bodies in the streets

  the knives were dry,

  the bullets released

  had nowhere to go

the empty hands

that were reaching out

were filled with hands

that were pulling in

  and except for the tiny

  fires of prayer candles

  that marbled this

  strange utopia

  no one set a flame

  so nothing burned down

that bird that sang

(a rondeau  poem)

that bird that sang, from tree to tree

as happy as a bird could be

dancing, darting from limb to limb

before the storm came rolling in;

   O foul tempest, O cruelest siege!

branch upon branch, leaf upon leaf

did sway and swing, did crack beneath

the sweetest song, the softest hymn...

   that bird that sang

had i the strength i’d halt with ease

and cast that storm back out to sea

O swallowed sky, O swirling wind,

my pleasure’s lost as the hour dims;

i’m left to mourn with memories...

   that bird that sang

(Bird In The Storm by Topaz98 on imgur.com)

This is a heart felt thank you! to those of you who have visited this blog, I am very thankful for your time, and if you are celebrating... I wish you a safe and happy Thanksgiving Day!

climbers

we are climbing up

different mountains now

and i don’t know how

to get to you anymore

with all these clouds

between us and the

unknown grounds below

its a tricky love

and mostly one-sided,

from way over here

to you

way over there

i shout

and i know

that you only hear

the echo

  unaware of its

  source

but at least

you have something

  and i feel better

  letting it out

(photo from susie-moore.com)

sloven

in a corner

lost, unattainable

vibrating in his

tousled state

another dour dose

of reticence

bloats the belly and

burrows into bones

still sore from the fall

from a height that

friends once called

magnificent

  life that was

  organized

  and conquered

  and quite delicious

  trembles there

  lost in a corner

  disheveled

  tasteless

  and out of reach

lost in the smoke

wisp of a girl

thin, like a

four word sentence

and she’s messy

all the way down

to her untied sneakers

one foot smothering

a cigarette

into the ground

scanning the horizon

in slow motion

as she exhales

and then

as if answering a

question i never asked

she says, in a

voice of mixed calm

and frustration

  there are so many

  peaceful roads on earth

  i’m just trying to find

  one of them

shadows - part 2 (my photos)

keep the body

in motion

to keep the

shadows at bay

balled up tight like

a secret in a fist

will not

hide you

spread yourself

higher...

bend away from

this earth...

thrust forward

reach...

surpass...

there are no 

shadows

at the height

of existence

only

space

cooling winds

cooling November winds

are finally upon me

at last i’m freed from the

sticky mesh of those

dogged Summer months

wiping the stench of

sweat and breath with

warm hands that are

just as sweaty

has finally become

two hands in the air

and a head flung back

to enjoy the breeze

its the little things

  like smiling more often

  and opening the windows

  and women wearing sweaters

that change my mood

from gloom to gleam

and again,

that cooling breeze

finally

finally upon me

unkept

i’m not really sure

who’s been here

in my place

  the word unsaid

  left an empty bed

but under black light,

the semen

the saliva

in the closet,

tangled hangers

on the floor

in a vase

on the nightstand,

the beauty of

6 dead flowers

  its been many years

  and the dream

  never changes

the room

the promise,

unkept