Archive for October, 2012

when you see things at night

from that pointed edge of eye,

lack of concentration makes you

fall,

with split dusty lip

blood in a trickle,

there are things that need

to bite to eat,

so hold your breath

and let a simple fear grow,

lurking in the doorway

bareheaded prowler of the night,

heart a ticking clock

raising a clamor

no mortal creature approaches,

mopping blood on paper tissue

red stain dropped scented a plenty,

he has strayed from his paradise

and i am to be his chalice,

teeth and lips taste my flesh,

memories blend and blur,

heart slows to a dull stutter,

revelations pause and pass,

i will go to earth

a blacken chrysalis

and raise my fear another day

 

wish a word she held

stuck to lips like annoying bit

of damaged skin

those feelings,

bound her to the ground

leaden weights of perfect love,

we he would say

his way to think a solution

including her in all but answer,

a thread of words

a string of verbal saliva,

without meaning or power

it was always his way,

why does it turn out like this,

within four walls and shingle roof,

men again provocative and arrogant,

she had known another before

but could not stop herself

women are suckers for this

this routine of men needing as he did,

wish been granted she moved again,

located keys to the sedan he said she

could not drive,

and headed out,

a single emotion clutched her heart

freedom

 

 

thanks to the Sunday Whirl and words for the prompt http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2012/10/28/wordle-80/

Posted: October 28, 2012 in Uncategorized

deep and intense blog with photographs that just eat into you

Taylor Jorjorian

“Tongue Overture “

Photograph by Taylor J.

Photographic Surreal Impressionism

Photo created using the “Liberum” method, which is based on the philosophy that one can make photographs with the same artistic freedom that a painter or sculptor has by focusing more on creating what is in front of the camera.

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i have long fingers

yet cannot gouge my eyes

remove them from my face

place them blinking on sticks,

to see myself,

would i seem more different than by reflection

could i gaze past that aura of mine,

with crooked nose and empty sockets,

eyebrows that move often with emotion,

cheeks still broad enough with flesh

to make a face round,

hair never fashioned in any style,

attraction is a composite

would i say i was handsome or defined,

i had drunk from the social nectar

but did not conform to tradition,

i would not be photogenic

or adorn glossy magazines,

lips that kiss and hold the most warmth,

are the best feature,

once cracked and pale with cigarettes and ale

now are more fulfilled,

age has grey iodized me

salt tainted beard and hair,

my face would not be Che on t-shirts,

yet i am loved by one

her opinion will be different,

her eyes another perspective,

as she holds my face and kisses

i know something must be right,

not adonis  in any way,

frame too large for that,

my flesh more distorted than a Bacon nude,

i have found a home in myself

that was difficult to find,

but do not expect too many images of me

as i wish to stay away

 

 

Posted: October 25, 2012 in Uncategorized

A great piece from Kate Gale

Kate Gale: A Mind Never Dormant

October 24, 2012

Nourishment. That’s what writers want. Let’s face it, that’s what we all want. We grow up with whatever attention we get from our parents. Then we become adolescents and at that stage, we yearn for attention. We yearn for people to listen to us. To understand us. To realize how completely unique we are. To realize how important our ideas are, the stuff we’re doing. And have sex with us.

If we grow up to become doctors, lawyers, or to work in finance, here’s what we get.

Paychecks, yes, money. That’s something most poets will never see and can’t even imagine.

Respect! That’s something poets don’t even dream of.

Nice houses. Yes, successful people get to live indoors and it doesn’t rain on them.

Kids going to private schools and then to nice colleges.

Friends with money and nice houses, so you can visit them.

Retirement. You…

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your own dust smothers

the rarest and surest gleams,

eyelids in dusk and darkness,

shadows wake and sing,

bright trails from space

died from the sky

falling coarse upon the ground,

seek relief in mysterious flesh

passion an avid substance,

subtle things come on wings,

as she listened to a telephone ring,

no other fabric torn

i won’t see granite over your head,

answer,voices, emotions decorate brow,

with poets wit summoned

a smile on face and companion soul,

he would return on that tree lined

road spiral towards the hill,

often misted by winter chimneys,

prayers had know their place

he lived and would love again

survivors all,

the mine in ruins

 

nudity dark and profound

thighs run with dregs of wine,

face and lips lift to light,

pour handful of tablets

into palm and fern fingers

from the cabinet,

her happening not vague or bland

she was on a road of melancholy thoughts

no guide or shelter,

emptied glass of bristle bent toothbrushes,

rinsed and drank,

clasped in different thoughts,

skin of breasts still dreaming

it was a blue shine happening,

she could not remember

if she locked handle on the door,

anger had stirred the piercing arrow

no horror in or upon her,

she now smiled,

he would be left with her frantic perfume

as returning to his job,

salesman dialing pointless nine to four,

ache and throbs descend,

she was not impulsive or feeble

the cafe had been a good place

where they had kissed in a moments flutter,

ease lifted torment

clarity cast it’s leaf litter,

in the sun she shall be now

assured of what went before,

be able to tell her friends

that shadow had gone,

her beauty could bite and gnaw

at the most innocent man

and score his heart with deepest feeling,

despite water and medicinal taste,

in her mouth salted peanuts,

close her eyes,

nourished by how jealousy mocks,

dresses and goes out,

covering those sky burnt eyes