Enraptured, embraced, enthralled watching lips,
each word is savored by my mental eye.
It's tracing the folds, the scars and the tips
unwilling to let part of you sound by.
Pupils locking as we share each other,
weathered hands illustrating, you impart
a personal secret like my brother;
your rich humanity anneals my heart,
an unfiltered flow achieved by so few
I rejoice entwined in contact with you.
Portraits of Euterpe and Melpomene adorn their domain.
Long, darkly colored tapestry rugs and old creaking,
varnished wooden floors. On tinted windows hang rich
cloth drapes and a small unobtrusive speaker in the corner.
The warm broth of a viola\'s sonority, the psalms of a Partita
ring forth, echoed from the hall, constructed accoustic perfection.
\"Oh,\" says one seraphim to another,
\"is there a concert today?\"
I am awash at the mere electric amplification of Pythagoras\' prayers
but the angels sit idle, laughing in untrained tongues,
telling jokes and flirting touches as a sweet miracle unfolds.
\"Who is playing
I was looking for you last night, holy Allen,
but I couldn\'t find you. You were not there.
Like every man I had many questions
and like every wanderer I had few answers.
I found no stars and I think that they were all dancing,
they must have been sweetening Nicole\'s coffee that night.
I searched the college campus and foreign local streets,
the convenience store, the grocery store. I even ventured
the lavatories of the rest stop off 295 -
I found wadded paper towels scattered across the floor,
no meaning, no message, no method.
In the playgrounds of my neighborhood I thought I heard singing,
Brett\'s humor in a holistic key,
Outside my window life is glittering,
an array of wonders that need no stars.
The air is invigorated and thick with dew.
The boys are tanned and glistening with sweat,
playing games with cocks and sports of chance.
The girls are beautiful and volumptious in dimmed lights
with cups of coffee and empty shotglasses in hand.
The cracks of the pavement are beckoning granite,
illuminated by the soft glow of lime tinted lamps
and the yellow herald of late night coffee shop signs
with the scent of the fresh brew hanging still.
The brilliant buzz of strangers chatting in the cafe,
distant discord of violent bass beats,
dully sweetened tri
I know an April Fool\'s boy
who taught me that the tether is always there.
No matter how hard you hit that ball,
send it rocketing out into the sky
or flying straight back into your face.
It\'s always there, it\'s never truly free
from the ties of your heart.
I have been blind like that greek protagonist
to the love of my own mother, it took love
from my brother to show me that.
A warm cinnamin roll bathed in glaze,
melted icing, sweet on the tongue
that probably goes thick to the veins
is just another life embrace.
She collects them like petals,
the kamikazees of spring.
They writhe across silk and pinkened flesh,
dancing to the seminal tune of programming
for the chance to leave a trace of pollen.
Just a little bit of sugar, some cream,
a handful of juice to be remembered by.
Their wings are silent taken one at a time
but as they cajole and call their comerades
it is a maniacal madhouse she has taken
whose screams perpetuate through the coming,
psychotic sirens of morning, that electric hum.
Delightened drones squirm across her skin by the hundreds,
eager to ignite at the slightest shake,
ready to suicide sting at the hint of resistance,
Nice Dream on Haddonfield by fallacies, literature
Literature
Nice Dream on Haddonfield
I am with you on top of the wall,
sitting, watching the trains roll past.
We hum to ourselves underneath the urban roar
and write obscure notes to close companions
chilled on foreign postage.
We are dangling our feet and throwing stones,
sending them bouncing after the bullets on the tracks
with a hollow knock in triplets to the strange sounds of your mouth.
The stars are singing Schubert, Death and the Maiden,
and I dare not rest my head on your shoulder
but we can chew on licorish and wrap obscene thought
like child\'s play, pressed to the brick beneath us with pastel chalks.
I am shaking with your regrets and resounding them,
There is a boy in my bed,
I think to myself as I lay on the hardened floor.
He is golden brown and reminiscent
of the days my mother made bread.
The fresh and home baked scent of his love
is ever present and embracing, gracing
even the roughly hewn of my days
with tenderness from the hearth.
His warmth though,
the open oven of his touch
is a gift given only vertically
leaving me horizontal, trying to feel
the flavors that drift in intangible scent.
I'm not small by any means
and i can't fly despite all attempts
but perhaps if i try hard enough
i can shine for a moment long enough
to mean something to you
and be embraced, cherished in your hands
A disertation of tremors to ears
sweet seduction gyrating vibration
rolling thunder raining ecstacy, tears
orgiastic wake warm palpitation
of mind on the contour shaping rapture
self supplementing mental clarity
lugubrious melody hearts lather
rigadoon, gigue, tonal disparity
triumph march, toccata alla scherzo
bloods accellerando seminal tune
prismic elation, presto allegro
nocturne sensations with coda too soon
vibrato, rubato warmly molded
from ears to the soul sweet quartz enfolded
What am I to do in this viscous mass?
To rise above it is beyond me.
It is idolic, such complex simplicity.
To settle beneath? A tempting thought
with such light weight bearing down on me,
but impossible to my will and slight keen self.
What then but to break down for it,
to dissolve in its movements,
slip apart and slip inside,
a part for it just that much sweeter.
The lemmings walk on
(because YES, they hear the march)
Priceless in their divergent values
diverse in their conformancy
they walk through an earthy nocturne.
Means justifying all ends
rather like we (rather like I should)
-
- did i think too far? -
-
through an airy nocturne
ends justifying all means.
The walk is always the same
with its nuances, its differences
like the lemmings.
But a blocker is born
never to finish the walk.
He serves his time blocking
because a blocker he was born
driving his fellowship somewhere else in their walk.
The walk is priceless to him (who can not walk)
but a blocker he is born and thus he
Agent Cantelope has flown the coup.
Send his message to the rest of the troop:
"Tamora counts the roads and maps the stars
so strum your wishes and embrace your guitars.
The color of the day is noon, young crow,
and muave is the time to reap what you sew."
From the bottom of his heart solicit interpretation,
because rhyming over wires is desensitized information.
We can't always make this easy for you,
so crack Tamora, soldier, and see what is to ensue.
I watch you from across the room, a sin I won't confess,
entranced as cherry sweetness emerges to find your tongue's caress.
It traces the luscious lines of your lips like my eyes a thousand times
before you wrap it in your mouths moist depth, away from my eyes crimes.
Guest to the sweet salivic bed I long for refuge in,
mixing fluids with your own as a sinfully seductive sensation.
If I could only roll along your tongue as that flavored juice does drip,
If I could only be that lollypop that you slid between your lips.
A young man wallows in a blue bed
thinking (warm) red thoughts about a (general) orange man
with (regal) purple synthetic arms.
A young boy wraps his fleshy arms
among the synthetic weeds.
dirt blackens (but
vines entangle it
weeds dangle sure
worms slick feels
poisoned ivy scratches good
roots snap doesn't
thorns trap it?)
but it feels comfortable now, doesn't it?
A young child take the sweets
devours all he can get.
Disreg
every tick echoes
it ticks loudly and hangs
traveling tremors trying to tether something on me
s
i
l
e
n
c
e
s e t t l e s . . .
every tick's tock trembles
resounds reverberations
randomly ringing long distance for something on me
but like most anthropomorphic personifications Time gets my answering machine for now
and an arrow to the blue box where it can file all complaints.
"I'm sorry," i sound, like a jubulant yet automated atrocity of soul,
"but your call sent sharp hope trembling
through my self, so sharp i shouldn't stand sharing words with you.
It's not that I don't find your offer of
wide solid pastures stretch
healthy with the blood of summer
his work in this winter
and I go gazing on
a little grassy field for grazing.
cows dance across the ... with me
they jive around me, offer me some milk
for that covered caricature to take a mustache.
we take a slick flavorfull slide across the plains
avoid the divit
temptation taunts me to touch you with the tip
of my finger, sick!
She used to fall in love
At least twice a week
And sometimes thrice a day
If the proprietor was selling right.
The times she shared were
Something the other treasured
While she adored only ephemerally,
Moving on soon enough.
The people she chose were
Distinctly not of good nature -
They badgered, ridiculed, demeaned;
Leaving her ultimately alone.
Dreams of future were discarded
In shoeboxes full of memories
And when she cleaned her room
She cleaned the boxes, too.
There was a time she thought
That the time to settle had come
Yet when she followed her heart
She realized she was a fool for it.
The times they spent in silence
have you ever been the boy
smaller than the ant
who is standing in one spot
used to buying his hotdog
right where the ketchup should be
and then one day it all goes gray
he blinks three times and he's
supposed to have subliminally
known that if he ever wished for
anything in his little ant sized life
he should have wished for it right then
cause his world's about to change
selling up for down in the tune of ancient zen?
___________________________
Sometimes, I just pray
for another attack.
Bombs, planes, boxcutters.
I don\'t care how.
I just pray
for something
horrible.
I do it because
I really just want
everyone to hold hands,
and to be able to cry
together.
That\'s not a bad thing.
It\'s really not.
(she wasn\'t sure
why she decided not to.)
___________________________
The Candy Man
December 23, 2002
Come to me my preties
Run from me my foes
The Candy Man has goodies
In exchange for fingers and toes
Come into my parlor
Come and play my games
Come and have some Candy
So I can learn your names
Come to my table
Come and eat your food
Eat and be merry
It only sets the mood
I'll only be a minute
I will be right back
Don't run away
I need a midnight snack
I run into my bedroom
I run and close the door
I change into my outfit
I am host no more
Come to me my preties
Run from me my foes
The Candy Man has goodies
That only he will know.....
I've always found it disturbing that penance and purgatory are places men are expected to visit with an open wallet after any offense. Why do roses make a woman more likely to forgive? What is it about a particular twist of metal or shine on a rock that says "forgiveness?"
It's not that I don't know it's a social phenomenon, just that it's so difficult to escape. The way out lies through minefields, broken glass and flash floods, all conspiring together. Men use the materialist view as an easy out, a way to apologize without involving their heart or mind. Women claim to want the heart and mind but are all too easily seduced by the lure
I've had a lot of fun... not that i'm leaving... but consider my submission of poetry on a moratorium and this account to be retired.
I'll be watching, commenting, and generally being devious on evad (https://www.deviantart.com/evad).