The air has shrunk

Coughing out the lightness in

smoke and spiral motes of dust

mutable bed and our body acquisitions

cuttlefish ass damp from before

if I was not so ignorant

i would feel again

the tapestry of tattoos on her flank

precise inks more trustworthy

than my cock of threat

in denial and veiled seduction

pressed against her

the hum of bee air conditioning

positioning for me with rump pressure

she felt I could make her sparkle and shine

instead that tremored gasp

returning to her back

looking with a certain knowing

that I was a flake

who would leave and  betray

adding to that pile of detritus

and awful decay that was her life

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erection day

pricks modelled in clay
stout phalluses
to be glazed and painted
with words of policy,
many tongues will lick
thinking of some turbulent heart
that some powers will be given
in a seminal dream
like acid secreted
it burns,
those who believe
and have believed,
that we all can’t thrive
on stolen sleep
it is someone elses
pillow where early a.m
through a struggle of dream
we drool and wait expectantly,
overbaked clay shatters
prick pieces fall
wild men
brought to the fold
herded in clusters
by the rich vanity of the absolute,
it is an end
those birthed in soil
not in the womb of privilege
will take up the hope
and unfurl a phallus of flesh

203

beat me at the 4a.m read

i see a page that gives
words once as progeny
becoming blue scented nothing,
perched over it
in a damp saffron autumn
umbrella a discreet protection,
i had bathed in those dreams
yearning to be magellan
seeking
beyond the evil trolls,
petals in the forest
delicate uncut,
giving kisses on the souls
which resonate to those who are dead,
strawberry meadows
by the river
tiny seeded red,
dont go asleep
or you will miss
the elephants post themselves
about the pillar,
returning the hopeless
as is the passionate,
consuming beyond sainthood and glory,
arriving back
to a turned page
with fingers that have ancient tremors

when foxes come

swallowing moonlight
with half naked humility,
aftertaste of unpleasant cloud
the day would sacrifice me,
me a host to the yellow sun
wrapped in a fleece
of further understanding,
a measure to the international indifference
patron to the act of ignorance,
this is a race, our race
spend life in an aggrieved chokehold
as time seeps the stupid sore
picked at by eager interference,
of state
in desperate need of rescue

ticking

ticking

only asses and chickens
claw at the dirt
spreading a mess
soiled by their own entrapment
it would be unforgiving
when the foxes come

sunday whirl

je suis charlie

in those glancing shadows
of inky truth and pattern
there would be no ennui,

condemn not capitulate

to the bugle call of atrocity,
it is only anarchy
not religion,
that has to be illustrated

by pencil sharp sword

render and portray
a prophets wisdom abused
to generate and perpetuate
a list of abhorrent terror
activated by those
with misguided sense of being

steady hand describes

that no single act
will be unaccounted

a channel for truth

that should not be
a satirists end

#je suis charlie
#je suis ahmed

sunday whirl

other than inward

alone on a dreams forgotten shore
that stray thundering sea
reached towards the sky

wind creased and folded grass,
elemental human hearts
away from pale insignificance
chime together

the fire has not vanished
silent dune blue air,
these memories will scar

and no holy intervention
can claim a dedicated tear

sigh and embrace
an eloquent arrival of intimacy
ripe silent love

ingest the once plain indifference
short breath saliva glisten

someone else can trace you
by indentation in the sand
and what sea birds say
in discordant voice

sunday whirl

gradual decline

defined and documented
blue binding no longer black
posey vest and wrist restraints,
in this bed unable to move
she was selfless in her care
and he so sure of fear,
shifting his backside slightly
legs splinted with sticks,
they had not spoken since
was it love
his mind versed it against
that boiling sensation in his gut
acidic rot sure it would calm,
she believed in the
discernment of spirits
and that sweet ignatian way,
will , desire whatever,
time had no identity any more,
clocks calendar all abandoned burned
ashes to choke his chest
and close his eyes,
she would face the flames one day
of his wrath or something more,
for now his lot
was on this mattress ,
wounded with pride and body
he could not polarize his thoughts
to agree with hers,
all joy had left him
swept away in blood pain and tears,
waiting for the next moment of torture

180

 

 

NPD_logo_colour_landscape

spanked by unicorns

image

weirdly on her knees
her eye caught a rainbow
arched over neighboring building,
she stayed there,
gray water in bowl<

washing her husbands parts
limp fleshy lumps
snagging ring on hair
they once gave satisfaction
flannel moved
in automation,

her way
he rocked eyes vague
lost in freeway lane,
heavy traffic
mustang span out
through windshield
facing east
as it lifted
sounds of glass and metal
grated paint
flaked onto barrier,

she had a fantasy
to be over that rainbow
in fairytale world
away from grime and sadness
her limit
bend to be willing
being spanked
no penetration,

punished for the ghost
of husband in a mustang
a grain of hope
as he tried slurred speech,

she rode unicorns
just in case

phantoms from a shotglass

crushed bullet amalgam

would never ease the nerve

raw taunted,

mouth spoke sore words

unrefined as love in three acts,

barefoot bluejacket

you were not the trash

he put you out to be,

sawdust blonde balance

to a natural face,

you liked the Dodge

and sat beside

in that vacant vinyl caress

of a hot summers day,

gravel churned

tires burned dark streaks

towards the center of town,

how could she cheat,

love was like tentacles

suctioned about your every part,

nothing more would be said,

slowing close to a rusted wire fence,

a gathering

barbecue sausage and steaks,

pain eased that moment

no notices given

what you brought her here for,

it was the brick

that found it’s way into the hand

a scream

she grasped his arm

that lashed the brick

across a cheekbone splitting,

falling ,

people running from the house,

let it go she cried

bullet powdered jaw ached

fleet embrace

behind dust and exhaust

a man lay

pouring blood,

did he deserve ,

he was unsure

but when you love

in darker ways

it has to happen

131

sunday whirl

 

 

 

and you know how to bake

around the mouth

cakemix stolen from the bowl

a taste of the unbaked

sweeter than expected,

holding back the urge

to lick lips noisily ,

washed it away

as a drunkard would

bottle sloshed whiskey

turned burnt caramel,

bowl slipped from edge

of table with enormous shatter,

pieces glazed

spread as his foot got cut

spilled as a sacrifice

for he was a prophet

born in anticipation

growing to expectation,

the world full of paraphernalia

that only a poet mends,

blood painted in circles,

scratching balls in shorts,

where was the thunder

to his profanity,

his stem to water

those fragrant vaginal daisies

errors and promises,

love had entered an interval,

trumps inflated cotton,

she came to see

shaking head

ash fell from her cigarette,

they had binds

beyond gold bands

and a chapel promise,

no atomic desolation would separate

leave it she would say

taking his hand

led to another room

more doors away from

the violent splatter on the walls

best to ignore

her voice sleepy not unsound

sat limply hung out to dry,

she stood adjusted nightgown,

it would be clean,

and wounds heal

maybe the interval was over

beat, poetry , poem

dVersePoets

wordle, sound, war

Sunday Whirl

A poem for dVersePoets and Sunday Whirl , dVerse needed a beat sound and i hope i hit the notes