I feel it too
initial thrust
first separation
arc of intrusion
where your white words
rust from exposure
where your given body
adapts to the pangs
---
cylinder, silo
tempest confined
growl of composure
stirs of a goddess
the venom source
the covenant seal
unleashed with greed
unbound, undefended
(Image from chaosmagickapp.com)
the easy one in the way
always gets the bullet
a hammer rises in a
hand that
drives the nail home
the box of disintegration
lies snug in the womb
a wildflower rises above
random seed, no meaning
but beautiful
(Bullet-blood by aggrocat on deviantart.com)
I dwell in blooded sanctum
blinded by the poisoned vision
deafened by the moaning tone
vertigo and the eyes dilate
mutate and the heart implodes
body of wings body of light
drugged into a saved stupor
she falls from the skyless night
straight into this callous prison
(Image from vikikollerova.tumblr.com)
out of necessity
the vacant white
matte of a region
exposed expansive
with brutal simplicity
and blinding white
a mouth is numb
with its own hello
and polar bareness
hushed in the husk
of this barren land
that lost its need
(Image from classicalarchives.com)
I saw a leaf
fall from a tree today
and I felt its
fall to death
does it matter
how many leaves fall,
how many of us die
the tree will still stand
new leaves will return
brown gray and bare
will turn to
bright green fullness
a man walks by
and flicks a cigarette
near the trunk
he'll be falling
soon enough
I thought
his skin already
turning
and crisp
(From gify on pinterest.com)
it was a lost day
not many of most
and not the last one
ever to be had
swim to the side of
the frenzied sea to
neutral waters where we
bathe in acquiescence
bleed into the rill
these ancient heartaches
of longing and lull,
of feelings dissipating
bask in the life of
rare light and airiness,
take a fresh breath
and find the new day
(Image by Alessandro Puccinelli on hu.lumas.com)
it festers
and I let it,
I don’t know why
the suffering is a
stimulation,
self-flagellation
with word-whips
over and over again
arterial red
splits the skin
and I let it
I don’t know why
but the painful grin
is so addicting
this beats love to
a pulp every time,
bludgeoned back
into a corner
it festers there,
a veil of convulsing insanity
over a pretty dream
forever unrealized
(Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky on tumblr)
I won't be writing to my
forgotten home anymore
there's only one bottle left
and the previous messages
have remained unanswered
my hopes are floating
somewhere out there.
this is my place in life
barefooted, bare skinned
sun, wind and rain drenched
living off of mostly less of
this and that and whatever
the heart beats, the stomach
growls, the joints crack and
this humbled soul is at peace.
the last bottle will stay with
me and I will fill it with poems
and shells and sand and sea
my hair will grow, my beard
will fill out, my body will thin
I will succumb to time in time
and someone will find me with
the last bottle, already at home.
(Image from wallpaperflare.com)
its a long way from fingertip
to fingertip and back again,
storms of interference pollute
the proper circulation
obstruction at the synapse
no transmittal no connection
somatic numbness or decline
bulk withholding and betrayal
this is presymptomatic, actions
indicative of complications
fight the urge of amputations
to extremities and entanglements
its a long way from fingertip
to fingertip and back again,
this anatomy is atrocious and
becoming more of a nuisance
often enough
the heart is a medium
{except...} ... please
don't wake me up tonight
I'm in a dream
new star formation
soft pleasure
pulverize the language of
this little galaxy
in-( )-significance
words are abandoned
in the abundant light of
newly born emotions
don't give
Love a name here
just let it be
(Image from mirrorsinner.tumblr.com)
love's hands
are upon me
a massage of foot
and calf and thigh
and groin and belly
and breast and arm
and neck and head
I lie prone
I lie supine
I let it in
I let it devour me
such tender cruelty
this impassive overtaking;
I lick love's hands
the tongue tastes
the blood of two
(Image by Simone Angarano on eternalsatan.tumblr.com)
she sleeps, my world is quiet
vigilance is a struggle
against these turbulent hours
love rests, somewhere unseen
unknown
night keeps rising, a black flag
stout and stiff
a warning; come dawn
pray your soft eyes will awaken
and hers, sleeping so peacefully
my world
(Image from georgepratt.com)
poverty strikes the
unaware. joy is a loose
blindfold.
a child is happy
playing in the summer rain.
shoes getting wet. mother
worries.
up above reality
the dead attend funerals
for you and I. we call it
living.
one foot stuck in
traffic, one dangling from
the limb. a bird in smooth
flight never falters.
rush
river, rush on by. take this
mountain down one grain
at a time.
as humble as a
bee in its social rank, we
serve a purpose.
mostly
futile.
(Image from georgepratt.com)
old AC/DC brings a certain smell. Bon Scott's death. late 70's shag carpet and popcorn ceiling texture. I listened to Shot Down in Flames before asking Abbey out. not the best choice or decision. it didn't go well. I still remember her voice full of hesitations and stutters. I hope she's happy somewhere. I'm happy here right now.
I had a bike and a paper route. an MCS Spider and the Quad City News. the newspapers were rolled up and rubber banded and stacked in a wagon that I pulled around the neighborhood. no care was given while throwing them in the yards. some made the driveway. others made the grass. as long as the wagon was empty when I got home. fingers full of ink. adolescent sweat. a few dollars for some guitar strings and new picks.
his name was Steve Shue. he bought my first guitar from me. a dark woodgrain Gretsch with a black pickguard. I went out and bought my first Fender Strat. he set the guitar on fire one day to give it a "look". Steve wasn't right in the head. he swallowed a shotgun blast years later in an apartment. he was alone. my younger brother was the first to respond. he called me while he was on the way saying "hey, a call just came in, you'll never guess who just shot himself..." I guessed correctly. it was the first name I thought of.
dad called me "Michael" when I was in trouble. mom too. I knew it when I heard it. and most times I knew what I had done. I had 6th row seats to see Judas Priest but didn't get to go because I came home from the mall an hour late. Rob Halford rode his motorcycle on stage. my friends told me all about it. that one still stings a little. I learned how to play Living After Midnight on guitar. Our 8th grade band played it at parties, along with Hells Bells, Brown Sugar, Purple Haze, Fly By Night and others. we called ourselves The Living Legends. turns out, we were not.
reverse order
when the existing wound
fits nicely over the weapon
held innocently in hand
by an unknowing
consequence
before a single word is
spoken from the purest
mouth mute in the wind
so far away
impact
from lightning in a storm
charging above a heated sea
raging from the single flap
of a butterfly's wing
this is as is
and its already too late
because love and hate
are innate creatures
devoid of carbon
(Drawing by Anna Andura on saatchiart.com)
