ElsewhereI do not cede your life to you.Elsewhere by spoems
All things begin in my aching bed.
Baristas, starmen, nothing has survived the light.
The living lose their space to me.
The last fond ritual before the ghosts will be allowed their speech
is the moment that I really live, when I breed all neurotic wants at once:
to king, to beggar, to whore out every figure
yet to be betrayed by gross approximation
and dumbly muddled by these dumb fingers.
The all important touch is just a disillusioned brute
hanging like an ugly halo around an arbitrary mass
that hosts your hidden magic.
And I kill the world to have it.
What bizarre and dissolute intelligence births itself in a hot smear of thought,
infests the throbbing slums of my sentience with ideas,
hungers and machinates for a free and unkempt soul,
reams into the deep darknet to damn my lazy search for hell,
or no, but to illuminate this damning of my design
and uncouple me from centuries of tiresome ontologies?
I’ve waited for the searing sign to emblaze
RetirementThe pecan tree looms like a ghast above the trailRetirement by spoems
waiting to collapse and crush someone’s skull.
It’s fruitless and frozen in the throes of a last hurrah,
unmoved and unmoving, a fitting bride for fire.
I wonder when they’ll cut it down?
I am a wretched effigy
pining for the arborist to cull me from the path.
I’m still leftover from the bloom
frankly splayed upon the bosom
of this great interminable happening.
All that is animate is my nonnecessity.
I can no longer rise above the level of my eyes.
The tendons are frayed and salt-encrusted
sail boat lines brittling in the Gulf.
The bones grow blond and discontented.
Tell me, why should I ever move again?
The wind will list southward and find its way
to cool the cracks in this rainless mud.
The planet will bring news of the coming brood,
drench the veins with a violent pace
and I will finally be replaced.
Business TripI’ll never make the drive west to San FranBusiness Trip by spoems
like a psychedelic troubadour
a zealous eremite on a mad mad dash
a pilgrimage through the Sonoran holy desert
those hipsters lounging outside City Light Books
cream in their wares about.
No, it’ll be this lonely business
pragmatically jetting over grave errors
of character and wind wrinkled hillsides
everyone circling the same 25K miles
half-dead asleep on these very wings!
All the while, trying to forget
what the world remembers to forget;
this is what you wanted.
languageI see herlanguage by spoems
in the tiniest of things
I know the world
on her lips and cheeks -
a myriad of flights
with the artless peace
what she is
looking for -
in her eyes.
I took offMy day off.I took off by spoems
I stand in sunlight
I can watch it being day.
The mud is soft and cool at home.
I'd bury well without a casket,
I’ll be a naked pill for earth.
I build a garden box from wood,
smash my thumb.
too late for lettuce.
I had a premonition
I would live like this.
No one will remember me.
I’ll forget by Tuesday.
The me in meaningSome days I need distractionsThe me in meaning by leyghan
to breakwater loneliness
and startle me into some feeling that doesn't undress me
Some days I entertain taboos
pretend I'm stranger to my life, play tag with identities
of course, no matter what I do I'm always it
Some days I feel you
your touch salves the sear of hunger
but only for a while
contentment is a bird that rarely sings
Some days I dream
breathe my meaning into being
wake the universe inside
Some days I write
don'tstopand when it starts, she's fine, she'sdon'tstop by Rhapsodomancy
a fox in her ribcage that catches
at airshadows and
tells her when to smile. she's breathing.
when it starts, her
thought-fox has too many legs;
claws; fur is stuck in thick
clumps in the spaces between her teeth and her lungs are
[her ribs crack] she is being torn
the fox screams
she is breaking and she smiles and she picks up the
light, by the windowsill;
she takes the sun in both hands and swallows it. cries.
the neighbours close their curtains.
[a fox in her chest, snarling.] full of fire,
ablaze and she is full of fury, stinking bile and fury,
she wants the whole
world to come crashing through the roof
into her living room; she wants to
hurt it. smash her
though its bones and oh god
she is still holding the knife, earth
remembering the rainthere is the joy of missingremembering the rain by antonfrost
what often returns.
i miss the scent
and sound of the rain.
the birds were mostly quiet
and they watched it,
a shimmering curtain of distance,
waiting to sing again, uninterrupted.
in their careless ways
from the dusky shelters they had built
a precious few
were out in it.
the deer were in the woods,
indifferent in their delicate sadness.
rain calls out in an old sound;
we regret ourselves
in our small bodies.
rain always returns.
i can trust the seasons
and the trees that flag them down.
the earth negotiates its tilt
with the sun.
the birds writhe motionless
as the earth moves beneath them,
brings them back.
those of us that stay put
know the pleasure
of watching a return.
the river and lake
depart and return all at once,
a big sleeping rain,
from the sky.
with the world here
there is joy in missing
what often returns.
FlavourTaste the words beforeFlavour by Amberous
you serve them up; please season
with thought and reason.
exsanguinationI've lived a small life,exsanguination by Blueskye27
my dreams few and hollow,
strangled by fear
you were a vision full-blown,
hope I loved
truly and deeply
and I never had the courage
to tell you
Launching The Titanic, 1911Never did any of us see the like!Launching The Titanic, 1911 by AlecBell
And every one of us was part of it,
the biggest ship in the world, built in
Harland's Belfast Yard. This was the day when
all our sweat and effort would sweep down
the slipway and cannon into the sea.
We'd been greasing for days, and fitting
the hundreds of tons of chains that would brake
her progress as she hit the water. Twenty-six thousand tons
of steel girders and plate, best part of half a mile long,
as tall as a cathedral. And we built her,
the biggest ship in the world.
True enough, the masters and the bosses set us on,
and she'd been plotted and planned piece by piece
at a thousand and more drawing boards in Belfast,
Glasgow and London. Hundreds had laboured
near the Clyde to smelt the steel, and forge it into
the huge plates our cranes lifted into place, while
we used sledge hammers to bash the bright
vermillion rivets into the seams, watching as
they cooled to angry ruby and sulky black.
That's real engineering for you, The mind of the design
|my favorite dA poetry|