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

on its own

her hand

  empty of companionship

finds a pocket to

hide in

her hand

  exhausted and

  supine

lounges in longing

her hand

  hopeful for

  love in the night

lights a new candle

her hand will be

beautiful enough

on its own

  when i find it

yellows

i need more yellows in my room,

something just short of fire

maybe i’ll buy some paint and

go full-on vertical Pollock

i’ll splash these walls and pull out

the chaotic gardens within me

    cursed be these

    sudden doldrums,

    always so

    unsightly grey

fourteen people walked by the

window, i kept the tally

fourteen times i prayed that the

doorbell wouldn’t ring

these are passing moments,

they usually are ( i’m losing it )

    blessed be these

    oscillations,

    never so alive

    in a grave

i’ll be a dead body for someone

to bury, find me a pretty field

with black-eyed susans and

buttercups, trees with canaries

the more yellows the better,

such a pleasant smiling color

    idle now, these

    limbic rituals,

    the cause and cure

    the same

shadows - part 1 (my photos)

eclectic shadows

upon me ~

foreign tongues

taste me ~

their licks are

smooth as fog

invading shadows

cover and penetrate

finding new ways

to overtake,

overflow...

  enter and

  consume

groups of shadows

emerging like guests

cautiously coming

halfway through the

door,

entertained by this

host and

invited to stay

shadow, shadow

devour me whole...

your silky sexuality

has become my

craving

i am unburied,

naked

and unknowing

now ~

   willing to do

      anything

slither (my photos)

your

  cursing

    blush

your

  flailing

    tongue

the bed the couch

the carpet

are all drenched

with you

and i am spent,

recuperating in this

not-so-flattering

position

as the word

love

slithers back into

this room we’ve

smeared with

lust

THIS IS A PSA...

This blog is nsfw and 18+ and has a “sensitive content warning” on it for a reason...

however, i am posting this as an additional warning for some visitors who might be offended by my upcoming posts, especially if you have arrived here from my tumblr site and i haven’t already spoken to you 

there will be artistic male nudity (mine) involved with some poems, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING pornographic, ever, however, i have been experimenting with photography and lighting and shadow play and i intend to include them with my writing

if this is something that might offend you, please scroll past, don’t visit those posts, or just ignore... 

but, this is my blog, my personal playground, my artistic outlet, and i choose to do it

the goal is to emphasize the poems with the photography

it will be tastefully done

~ thank you as always for being here~ mike

vacant arrangements

the face in front of me

becomes

the face on a screen

her skin, now the

secret touch of

aluminosilicate glass

her body, out of view,

now the naked shape

of my wild imagination

  must we all be

  a part of these

  vacant arrangements

  must we all be

  bodies by bytes

  in this hell-spun web

i will pull her out,

we will touch and

we will kiss

  whenever this world is

  real again

today

i will say less

to see more

no tongue shall

get in the way

eyes will absorb,

ears will take in,

nose and mouth

will smell and taste

existence

come rain

come sun

come wind or

gentle breeze

i ask nothing of

anyone

or anything

i am here

without judgement,

without opinion

only

to accept

grey day

man on a bench

tosses bread to the pigeons

with lethargic flicks of the wrist,

an end-of-the-day hunch

and bent bones that are

bothered and beat

  there is a hell relieved

  upon passing

  but what about this

  unfair season

  of decay

  the wilting before

  the final

  fall

man on a bench

gets up and walks away

pigeons scatter

things continue

fair or

not

little sinners

the things i’ve seen

do not hold up

to her

eyes

the icy greens and blues

of arctic waters,

but piercingly warm

thin lips,

perfect lips,

the lightest kissably pink

of lips

and off the slope

of unseasoned cheeks

in long slow shapes

of   S

her insouciant hair flows

  what it would be to

  kiss that dimpled chin,

  to nuzzle upon that

  pale neck and breast

  my thoughts are

  little sinners that

  run up to me asking

  if its ok to stay and play

  i tell them yes

  since they asked me

  nicely

  and she is surely

  someone we may

  never meet

my last Amen

you, damnation

my eternal punishment

the beads i pray upon

disintegrate before my

last Amen

the flowers i arrange

upon your altar

burst asunder

below your breath

i am bled for your demons

deboned by your butchers

thrown as scraps to Cerberus

  and you, who cares not,

  carry conflict as a shield

  to my weary resolution

deny me with malice;

  this speck of soul

  flutters away

  unsettled

returned

they say

the impact of love

will change everything

i lost myself

in the drowning sips,

the thin distance

between them

  i wanted to be

  a tiny poet

  in a quiet world

  in a stupor of

  vague existence

  but i’ve come home

  to your side

and what love is this

so strong and bright,

what gypsy wind

freed you upon me

with the daylight

dimming

and everything

changing

O, what love is this

one empty chair

i have a small table

i have two chairs,

  one is always empty

maybe she keeps me

in a book as a

single flattened flower

or

maybe she’s indignant...

our memories like

agitated hornets in her hair

i feel a certain blue

one that’s distant

one that deepens into

the gone of black

but i’m still as high as

the moon for her

and just...

and just as

stone-cold lonely

(“Conversation” by Zack Zdral on fravery.tumblr.com)

once was

once was the moment pretty,

our toes sunk into the evening grass

looking at you, feeling the forceful

pressure of love, like accelerating

the car into an incline, and just as

thrill-full

your voice arousing giddy, a sugar-

candy tingling high; in my palm i

squashed the tender flower’s

blooming for monstrously disrupting

the sweetest tunes of you

softness in your whisper, my little

mouse in a corner, said timidly to

me, come closer, enough for skin

here and skin there to giggle at its

first touch

falling for you was i, the child,

rolling down the hillside laughing, 

hair a mess, filled with leaves the

color of cheeks blushing, the

November sun sinking, and once

intangible bliss

i cannot explain

the misery of

not having you

my therapist, the/rapist

how many questions

do you want answered

these are statements

facts

periods at the end of

each sentence

and yet,

the hand holds the knife

prying at the edges of

this hermetically sealed

head,

a beggar starving for

food from the can

or

am i the whore

paying you

for this night

lying here vulnerable,

your favorite position

between

the answer... NO

and the next probing

question

when will you be

satisfied

when you say,

  time’s up

or,

  that’s all the time

  we have today

Cotard’s delusion

had you been alive like me

you’d have known

the death of all things

as your friendly equal

the smile hello

indistinguishable from

the smile goodbye

the dragged step

too shallow for shadow

the continuous exhale

the unfeeling

  i had fingers

  until i chewed them off

  i had a tongue

  until i pulled it out

  and now i have this

  unneeded heart

  dripping in my hands

i feed my

numb comfort

unloved

sleep into burial

at last, home

flood

i will cover her

flood the face

    with kisses

uncuff the rapture

    of a body

    held prisoner

    by the fear

    of letting go

and enter her

    slowly

    ever so

    slowly

enough to fill

    the empty

    spaces

    she has left

    open

    for no one

    in the world

    to see

    but me

rat king’s squeal

thoughts get tangled

as they scurry the field

in panicked directions

the only voice comes

as a rat king’s squeal

confused and desperate

between the layers

of disdain and admiration

that exist between us

the individual is lost

in amalgamated summaries

that somehow

rise to the top

classifieds and obituaries

artisan

god-like creature

shapeshifter

  ; but not one

    can bury the past

what’s your penance

preacher

alchemist

soothsayer

  ; admit your guilty

    ambitions

i need something

much simpler with

my morning coffee

i miss the newspapers

          the classifieds

          the obituaries

in black and white

what’s for sale

what’s dead

tendons and corrosion

the southbound lanes of the

bridge are closed

its worn out tendons have

given way

the exterior cracks and flakes

over the river

corrosion festers and is

staying for awhile

as do we, crack and flake

and wear away

our construction, flawed and

exposed, susceptible

the weathering will continue

in forms and fits

as must we, temporarily close

for repairs