the daughter universeLonely men, I’ve noticed, will pay off their little housesthe daughter universe by spoems
and live in them by themselves until they burn down
from a dead gas pilot and 80’s paperback philosophy.
In other words, out on one hundred highway north at dusk,
which is a daylight’s ride from the sack, the dunes simply
spill out on the road; the crazy thing being, nobody’s worried.
Keep driving until the damn thing just ends at the last rogue pier
on the island’s tip. There’s a dark night beach on the right
and if you wade into the waves, about 130 feet, east by northeast,
you’ll find a miraculous shoal where the salt from a trillion graves
will wash up on your thighs and the moon searches the dark pitch
of water like a frantic mother. Pick any wave and follow it fondly
until you forget of me,
AlchemyInside these walls, I wait past dark.Alchemy by spoems
The shadows steep and over-brew
long before I move a bone;
I’ll never return to mother’s moon.
Star and night, my bench flakes off
cicada shells and sunflower wilt.
By Venus light, it’s a driftwood throne,
an old carob bullet firing straight for the sun.
The air like ink collects and cools:
it is the black throat where braying forms,
and where shady gardens melt and pool;
absorbing the ghosts of cigarette-waft.
These onyx planets swell and bloom,
and metabolise like sheer witchspells -
I turn these crystals to my core
And try unlearn this spiderweb gloom.
Former days contort through tremulous fisheyes
relapse at the bottom of two emptied mugs.
My disfigured mass quakes in its past,
crumples like a demon husk, roadkilled in a dream.
How many molts with their veiny dead hues
do souls need traverse, an urbanex sulking
through concrete petals, ’till our sin
becomes sarcoline, an imperceptible solute?
Electromagnetic eyes to lick
workshopThe hearth in your denim pocket,workshop by spoems
quietus and earthen floor
windows settle nostalgic dust
and hold outcroppings through their pores:
maps, manuals, flightless single wings
awaiting consequence, a bloodless chore
in the future you have willed the world
for those of us who still remain
workless as the dead.
workingI wakeworking by spoems
on the end.
each blade of body
greys like cedar
from their sleep
with a cruel child’s
yet god, buddha,
or the last aching
offers up a salve
at our Mass of the Unnamed:
in the early grave
souls high kites with holessouls are high kites with holes, the sky is like a crystal ballsouls high kites with holes by spoems
Blue sky harrow:
How lost for adjectives
To break our fast up there
Sugar, tea, and birdsong?
Of course, kites, souls
Curiosities, wind being free
While we, ground strung Gullivers
Flat beneath the
Of the wolcen burnspot
What do I call myself?
My sex deliquesced
An epicene, I'm a lover of honey bees
A curling fern:
We slip around like
In Lilliput ponds.
We dive in as
The tadpoles stop
At the empty
Of an underwater statue-
Arms like levers:
Blackening the coats
And peeling back
Stripping time of
We see the sky
Where it is skyless;
It remains an opal;
In the bowl
SequencesAs the phlegmatic constructs of subconscious minds express themselves through dreams, the spectres of his emotions arose from a well inside of me of which I knew neither meaning, origin, nor bottom, (perhaps it was my "love" for him, if I knew to call it that) and the causes of his sorrow were made aware to me with the same chimeric tantalizing of labyrinth playgrounds and ships marooned at sea, and these glimpses of insuperable disappointment brought me not pain but the diaphanous memory of it, and I knew that I was dreaming and if I wished, I could awake, but I remained asleep, and similarly to a child who dreams of falling and awakens on the floor beside his bed, I was plummeting into emotional territory still unexplored during my waking hours, and when I lifted my eyes onto his I felt, finally, not with the vicissitudes of my heart nor with the frozen sequence of my logic, but with myself, my whole self, and I was honest, and I was living from within.Sequences by archelyxs
Restraintnow they are free(Restraint by archelyxs
a fluid free
like a susurrus clapping free
with swollen ankles, they are free
& svelte, a New York paper & coffee free
taking over the morning after gone laughing free
the freedom they know is a paradoxical free
an it's hard to get by, but I still believe free
a plastic & platonic, swimming in an eye free
of structure & salinity, what a relief, free
of the circuit they run never used to be free
but now it's a pointilist, particle free
room of four windows, no walls are free
to diminish them now, they are free
as a banging heart is free
)are you free too?
I'm free like you.
autoA breath crawls here, towards the beginning of hair and shoulder,auto by archelyxs
where collarbones flow over a slide of espresso and cinnamon
and swell over a swollen seacoast, resting on swimming, audible glands.
You wash the matter off and get to deep air; now,
run along now, run under rivers that continue alongside frothy eyelashes.
More light than life can stay. It can't reflect that it lives longer.
A moist and whispering returning drowns aboard a home
behind an electric company that conceals the words.
Don't believe for them. They are craven and overconfident
and they run fast. They always get away.
that autumn windI saw you today. You were gathering pebblesthat autumn wind by archelyxs
by the water's edge and I watched you,
thinking about how to approach you
in a way that would be comely,
that could make you smile,
appropriately, in such a way that
you would let me pass between your fingers
and sink into the river, for you had me
stoic and certain, taken into
the consonant sounds in your name
into the bends of your wrists into
your valley into your mind
and wind and I was
all hubris and moxie, having tasted freedom
before the hurricane hit, you dislodged me and like so
the pebbles fell from your bony hands
back into the water and I could have said something
to make you smile but instead I walked away.
a poem about hipsters drinking teago where your humansong is a contagion of conversation that flutters in through irona poem about hipsters drinking tea by archelyxs
windows and snatches the dusty, defenestrated voices
go where unmuttered comments unstuttered stitch together dresses scratch together
stolen pens and coffee grounds are sleeping quickly
go to perpetuate your stereotypes all in one nightstudy and get stoned and eat three
bowls of Easy Mac I haven't named my bowl yet, it's three a.m. on the quad and the
swing is creaking
go where the Iliad bestows kisses on Libra who once copied great novels verbatim onto
seminar tables and made chai for me last Wednesday evening
go and decorate Blithewood with saxophone song and end each sentence with another form
quadrantidsyou wake up early & the dawn tellsquadrantids by archelyxs
you what the neutrinos mean
and with a sickening crunch
your tarnished shade climbs to the underground,
the creationists' thinktank of pianosong & sorrow
where the lifeblood is a barricade
where the lethargy tastes fine & becomes addictive
where the children have cosmic dreams instead of memory
where you're with me like you were supposed to be
and all the collective setting suns
can't bring darkness upon the light you give me
The deliveryI attach feeling to color and fall in love with the weatherThe delivery by archelyxs
for it contains all beautiful things: symmetry and citrus,
the summers that become more and more opiatic as the chords
fall further away. I am never even there to pluck the strings.
My lover laughs melodically under his cotton blanket
and his skin tastes like plums and seltzer, the wrinkles in his smile
holding all the zip and fructose I need on these short days.
The telephone rings and it's my apostasy tempo allegro
returning me to memory's calderas, cloudy and dreamlike,
pressing me deeper into them and therefore sustaining them.
But I can subsist on photosynthesis; for so long that love
endures here, this is the only place I want to be.
Coupletthis automation mechanism is only speculative;Couplet by archelyxs
life and death are two cosmic mutations
BannersThe people at the rally for the real hold banners;Banners by archelyxs
the people have nets on their shoulders::
a caricature, for sure.
I'm like a swottish floozy with a cup of chai for the falling.
I'm a feature of the landscape and skirmishesdisassociate fixation,
I'm an anti-heroine to yell into telling the honey-eyed hipsters where the swelling
The people at the rally are basically feeling, exercized into the amalgamated soup of meaning.
I want to be considered but
::I'm not ready to find out,
I'm not ready to find out.
|my favorite dA poetry|
Little GirlLittle girl,
You've been hurt.
Betrayed by those who should have been the most loyal,
hurt by those who should have loved you,
scarred by most everyone
you ever met.
I know the shadows in your heart,
how they obfuscate every minute
of your life.
Nightmare paths in forests of wakefulness.
Deep in the woods.
One day, you will learn to walk.
One day, you will learn to run.
You will be unable to move,
You're eyes flitting frenetically,
in the headlights of your sudden life.
It will be OK.
Take that step off of that ledge that seems so terribly,
Do the unthinkable,
Take his hands,
I know where you fall,
in the end,
when you resist.
Half your years gone.
Half of your life in Your Hell,
bringing him with you,
pulling on his hand,
nails so deep they draw blood and scar.
You know you don't scar the ones who matter most.
they don't matter any more.
RivalryHello there sir! If I could just show you here,
a painting by none other than myself – glorious!
I have painted for many a rich man like yourself.
Take in my colours, the way the light soars on down
and perfectly lights my subjects face – superb!
I am a perfect candidate for your choosing right here!
Hello good sir, I am but mediocre in this craft
I have little knowledge of drawing the hills, however,
my skills in anatomy and hands are showing through.
Please pick my work, I only strive to improve.
What nonsense this boy speaks! His art is worth nothing.
Compare his forehead to mine, what do you see?
I have lines which show my effort and wisdom, him?
As blank as his mind - you need a real artist
who's art you can hang proudly and not be disgraced!
Look at the canvases alongside and see who is the best!
Excuse me sir, you're not being fair! For you were me once.
My spirit would be lifted, I assure you I am worth-
Come here my good sir, leave this fraud behind.
Name That BabyI'm gonna lay it on the table
Do the tell
Get the spelling right
Got called "depressed"
Took it up to "manic"
Bipolar in the head
And they said --
"Make it longer,
On taking pills,
To flatten my hills
Knock out the frills,
I got double-damned.
'Cause a this shit --
Father dies in a pool
Mother dies too,
In love with a fool
Mother let days pass,
No food or water
How did she last?
I closed her eyes,
They felt alive,
Like little butterflies.
Hector also dies,
Left alone by
The very unwise,
Young white cats
Die like that.
Spat out with
All the cancer-dead
She too went back.
And nothing stopped.
I saw them all
Saw them all day,
Blood and flood
Not from me
Not my feed
Just these -- "things."
Small cold voices
In my ear
None could hear.
Little people sat
And they stood
And they spun,
In colorful fun
They had their run,