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
PatchI.Patch by onetwistedpoet
Moss underfoot springs back, covering tracks
So I'll follow discarded philosophies
littering your wake, no reason could ever
contain your butterfly steps
hanging branches will echo your passing
rustling with pleasure still,
your fingers tracing trembling tips
on the luckiest leaves you wonder past
squirrelling semi-precious gems in the boles
of trees you never knew I'd climb
seeking perspective, a lay of your land
Puzzling through pathways etched in your skin
first in red then white, sharp brambles rough bark
abstract map of the places I will follow you
criss-crossed cuneiform tattoo
So I'll plunge through the wild chasing your smile
canines glinting, fierce and free
DadYour head doctor said you are a type A personality.Dad by DefinitiveContent
I could've told you that -
But you like the sound of it coming from him
Because he's the professional –
He said rightly that you are unhappy.
Unhappy because you want to lead.
A nice way of saying you need to feel important -
As important, as you used to be.
You want to return to a former position.
Where you too, were an authority.
Because as a boss, you were on top
Depressed, you came to me and cried.
Physically cried, wanting nothing more than
To feel useful again.
I pushed you to get help -
And you did.
Thankfully, you actually listened.
I knew that when you started to mend.
Your type A personality -
Would assert itself again.
And because I love you,
I welcome it.
Even if it means that
Your feeling important -
Comes at my expense.
And because once more
Your life has some comforting
Kind of hierarchy – with you again
A boss, on top of something.
When you are pushed, to be with family.
Kneeling Glorydoesn’t matter anymore. There are twoKneeling Glory by MineralAccident
Possible explanations for why this happened.
You were a traveling light from a kneeling morning -
Your fingers struck me, and a new man answered, rising,
Together setting out.
You were the hope of an answer,
Spirit painted in a tall mirror,
Lonely, waiting for my prayer,
Waiting to make me forgive myself
And, laughing, kiss you through
The glass, hoping that by some magic
To make it tremble and break
Deadly joy, not trembling, exploding,
A mist of wings scented and barbed
With what was dead, inhaled as a fever
And, afraid of the begging softness, afraid
Of their influence, I lowered the lights,
Rolled you into the shadows, until I learned
How to celebrate beauty.
Or, it was that cold Lacey sidewalk
Yelling, striking a familiar drum beat
In my chest, when the right man answered.
She is the kneeling glory, rising
With me in the dark of every personal
Morning, kneeling at my side again
Every night I dim the color of my body
And slip si
LatinSometimes ILatin by sherbetblooms
Get to see
The leak of night-shine
That spills from you.
The turritopsis dohrnii
Where it hurts
The very most.
A dark tongue
Like the forgiving scratch
Of a kitten’s sandpaper-love.
It is a grit
That claws at my
I bury myself
The way I used to cover
I begged all the good spirits
And the great Mother
To cleanse, cleanse, cleanse
Like you used to
Like you did,
With the sweet, oily smell
Of baby shampoo.
For all the bad
In the world,
At least I can retreat,
Back into consoling memories
Of her soft hands,
And the contrast of
My father’s rough hands,
I will be forever
Journey of Bones, Part 1The sky is covered in clouds,Journey of Bones, Part 1 by substanceabuse
ash from burnt skin suits permeates the vapor,
turns it into a jaded shade of grey
as this man, made of nothing but bones and air
takes another step towards an end
that hasn't been written yet;
he knows where this story stops
but denial holds the power of
a thousand suns.
A great wave of wind-washed innocence
cascades through this atmosphere,
a thick and heavy layer of soot and sin.
Tangible fear decomposes,
individual patches of flesh, flayed and rotted;
motivation for every next step that this collage
of bones and purpose is compelled to take
despite all the creaking joints, thinned out
placeholder rib-caged heart palpitations,
he swears, he believes that God rests
in every single beat.
He believes the Lie.
The thickest sections of the sky open up,
a voice calls, tremors violently shake
a man, made of nothing but bones and delusions
as he steps into a forest full of hollowed tree trunks
and dense foliage, a canopy of orange to burgundy leaves
Journey of Bones, Part 2Street corners littered with effigiesJourney of Bones, Part 2 by substanceabuse
and cruci-fixed shells of the damned;
every step that this man (made of nothing but
scattered, fleshy fragments and bones) took
felt like an entire lifespan of effort.
A panorama of shrouded, dense shades of grey
began to settle like subtle lost histories
in the memories of each new generation,
links to idealized past pretenses moved
with the shades of this once busy, bustling
epicenter of time-lined epitomes,
windows of dust,
billboards of lust,
this meat-man wished his memories held more weight.
"Why, why was all this necessary?
When did disarray dissect the heart
of the center of my city?" he asked,
as he struggled to remember
if he ever even cared.
The inconsequence of questions felt like
helium laced, pure, penetrated ignorance.
Steps felt lighter, with every labored breath
he floated further and further until the city
became a muddled horizon
of blurred mountains and valleys;
he was never there, or was he?
It didn't matter, a faint light in t
|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,