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Resolveat the entrance of this room, I found you
disquiet'd trance, it seemed to be
as I stared alone, I found you
a reverent and sparkling sea
presence and prescience
and cataclysmic deeds
arranging and designing
and reaching for a fee
I have to warn a peaceful man
that understanding things by hand
may lead to where we cannot go
and place a touch for those unknown
a straightened path of tidy stones
will never fill this Blood and Bones
a carousel of chains and locks
will drag the richness from the fog
plainwhat an empty vessel this chest contains
this bitter place, this guilt and shame.
opal streams and rolling seas
a hollow beat to mark the scenes
ProblematicPeers the mouse at the turning dial
A quest to fill, a journeyed pile
Arrested by the foundry walls
Attuned to ringing bells and calls
Shoestrings cart an empty love
And so instills a child's heart
Behind the place where nature grows
A caravan of headless hopes
Systemicof those residing within the unconscious
I envy your hopefulness
the youthful innocence
the careless adolecence
I envy your plight
I understand, that those that create
are more aware of what it means to destroy
who exist without
are more careful of what lies within
well, let's talk about absolutes
knowing and news
a jungle of truths
a heavy handed wisdom is required
when shoveling through facts
where is certainty?
it lies between the wild hands of lovers and stoic chests of fighters
grate on me
truth exists in more than the dreams of man
it resides in a spiral inside a maze
trapped there by a bargain
resilientdesponded by our ignorance and selfishness
pray that we keep the best on our lower left
and our exulted right out of sight
take care that names go unmistaken
and blame our piteous neighbors for the little peace they bring
Caged and bound we are servants to our masters
selected not elected
their judgments dragged down to hell by the gold in their pockets
weighted and drawn down to the deepest and darkest depths of the blood soaked seas
unable to see the pleas we make that shake the land
their Richter proof mansions
their lofty notions that distractions will buy us happiness and the television will supplement our hearts and families
education for assimilation
training robot armies
grey matter aside
we abide by the truths forced down to us
what choice is left in a silent protest?
I'm meeelllltingthis was a beautiful place once
there was honesty and there was life
then it rained from the sky
it soaked and tainted all it touched
who are we who took shelter from the storm
from the plague that separated mice from men
who are we who watched all around them die
and the people rejoiced
foolishly they exclaimed
clawing their way towards the heavens
clawing their way on top the bodies
"the plants will grow!"
...but seeds of evil...
"the plants will grow!!!"
randumbzzzthe rise and fall of ocean swells
your peircing eyes rebel
and cast an empty light
the beam cut through
a hole so deep that pain withdrew
and left a well so dry of tears
that empiness replaced my fears
or illuminated the vaccum
this lifeless place
it holds a home whose foundation crumbles
but yet was built with such obstinency
of confused bricks
and angery mortar
but framed with mild tepidation
and noted still that any kill will sear a mark upon my chest
and let the flesh exhaust it's need
afganiraqthere's bombs falling through the sky
and bullets flying through the air
and people yelling I'm not scared
upon their mighty thrones they bared
brandishing a button box
they sound a warning...
their tick and tock...
the clip and clop...
they ride in arrogence
let it rest
there's no danger
throw some money at the stranger
look, a heathy Ranger
he's not afraid to die.
his mom might miss him when he's gone
...but he'll belong
did his duty
served his country
3 billion supply
all for a lie
so why arnt our planes in the sky?
box cutter pilots... thats why
for hours they crammed the night before
the twin towers, they were headed for
john travolta taught them how
they just did it for the cow
betsy's worth a lot back home
nevermind the oil zone
a puppet for the 3
fates, they shout
and claim that sleeves of green
heaven that you seem
hinging on you faith
they control your faith,
in what you should believe,
they tell you what you need,
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
Makers Of The Cage. Holders Of The Key.Our eyes are the closest thing we have to freedom.
We see endless blue sky, and the stars beyond.
We see the beauty of the world.
We see our reflection in the mirror;
the reality, and the fantasy.
Our eyes see far and great.
But the rest of us cannot follow.
Our hands probe the steel bars around us.
Fumbling in the dark.
Cut by the sharp edges.
The bleeding never stops.
Our feet shuffle around.
Trying to go places.
But we walk in circles.
Our emotions go from red to blue;
orange to green;
yellow to purple,
mixing in a haze.
Our mind goes to dark places,
and only wanders deeper.
Oblivious to the place right next door.
It knows the freedom,
it knows the pit.
There are endless paths to take.
There's a cage we need to break.
There is a key ourselves create.
In our hands, it's never too late.
a cherry pit dog heart.she holds a cherry pit dog heart in her hand, arrhythmic
beats like children playing pots and pans in kitchens
mother builds from scratch, black bean soup prepared
for dinner by a creased artist; wisps of white
upon a grandfather's head remind his daughter's child
of winter as he talks of horses in cuba who scratch
their backs on wooden posts; the first time she eats
ox tail is at an uncle's funeral, sitting in the basement,
surrounded by her surname, wondering why everyone
seems so happy; her grandmother keeps having
that dream where she's cooking and pours hot oil
on the animal in the kitchen, singeing his skin—
she cries out at midnight, sobbing for her daughter;
black eyes watch as her child keeps growing,
inspecting her process for future improvements,
while she takes pride in getting her sleeve caught
on twigs as she runs through the forest; motherhood
enters her every so often, at times uninvited, but
never for her prince in white, the bundle curled up
on her bed, floating
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
a letterTo you I write, our humble guide of squaler
From glistening ivory towers to acid showers
I wish you'd see the beauty you devour
I don't understand it
the symbolistic beauty of it
the unending chains and derailed trains of thought
have parked themselves along side my mind
at the sight of another fight
at war with peace
why is conflict the only detergent for reason?
clean white sheets for peace
open air only when nobody's there
basking in the afterglow
of shattered souls that fall like snow
I sit and listen to the clouds
they drift on by
they've done us proud
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More