Comments (Page 22)
Since: Dec 12
I have so many words and poems bursting from my head but finally sleep is coming to me.
Enjoyed your postings today Adrian:)
We are strong. We are pure as blackness.
Pure as the night sky decorated with shattered reflections of star dust. Some call these distant shimmers gates to heaven. We call them our father and mother.
The ocean and earth; our brother and sister
We are purple and gold flames dancing from a fire
Kings with knuckles of thunder. Queens with dashikis as proud as lightening
They give us dirt; we make mountains and climb them, giving them back sun rays as gratitude
They give us scraps and piles of bone; we build temples and shrines and teach blossoming flowers to wash their sins in pure waters
They give us Harlem and teach us silence. We give you ink stains that silhouette souls; moans that beg for questions like the stars
They give us dying cities and jaded colors trapped in rusty tin cans, we give you life
We fill the pain of silence with trumpet screams, drum hits and songs of protest sung to each other.
We form fingers into fist and stretch skinny arm antennas above our heads to reach for defiance
They give us chains, we make jewelry
They give us yesterday, we are tomorrow
They gave us pieces of broken hearts and confusion, pressure and sin.
We give you diamonds.
You are a moon hidden behind the glaze of a cloudless sky. You are falling towards the darkness.
You have dreamt this dream before, a thousand times one thousand. You have dreamt this dream before.
You are watching yourself decay through the reflection in the mirror. You touch your flesh, and imagine it is someone else reaping your eye from its hollowed socket. Just so you can feel something.
You awaken to separation in everything.
You hear daughters scream songs that you thought only dying violins could sing
You burn in jaded flame like hearts pain
You burn in jaded flame like hearts pain
You are dancing upon the crying surface of the star light moon, this is no dream, this is all that is. You do not question any more, doubt is as far away as the blue jigsaw puzzle in the sky.
No one knows what goes on there, a true mystery in fact. You have only slightly over heard the stories of demons and angels, orgasms of fate and time.
It’s said, they actually believe they understand.
The dust of millions of forgotten folk songs, the only story of their history, tickle the empty spaces in between your toes, caress your shins, kiss your knees, sway with the sweet taste of your thighs, slowly sleek up delicate mountains of your spine, around the innocent hairs of your neck and enter your bloody nostrils tickling the inside of your throat like a fountain of dancing spiders, spinning in circles of ecstasy, filling your lungs, forever disappearing, singing beautiful horrors.
The only true stories of their history. You breathe out one last desperate mist before collapsing; and struggle to remember if this is all just a night dream
wade the snows
like solemn hunters,
a susuruss crosses heavy,
Who has made this
winter wander longer?
Wonders a wordless world,
thrown under billows of ice.
As cold as alone.
Who is turning this world to stone?
Since: Jan 12
Don't know where you got it Wooly Bully and don't care to look but it is how I feel in the winter..
Just gotta keep thinking warm thoughts... <perks brow>NOT THOSE type of warm thoughts !!!
Falling asleep in this chair
giving way to tinnitus
the sound of angels singing through a sprinkler
Fighting age, jogging in the empty
Swimming, in the bay, pre-empted by
a daily walk
His father’s whiskered shadow
from the white room above
the bathroom mirror.....
the kind of order that deposits
driftwood, along the beach
and here, a blanched hue of stone.
on a wet,
to stop her shaking
Her aching saying
what do you want to do?
Trying to understand
is just another hobby.
This true maudlin girl
sucking your thumb
Walking through titan
your smile ignites
It’s all I can do
to not think of you
Your downtown door awaits
Both praying I’ll soon arrive
Rich maudlin girl
what wealth you carry
Your beauty undecided
fills my heart
I am a man
tortured to decision
Let be your desire
and forgotten past
My Maudlin girl
see you’re wanted
By boys playing games
to fake marriage
To homes without
laughter and banality
To treaded grounds
where some of our mother and fathers
bury their souls but not ours
Oh Maudlin girl
our souls shift closer pure
Be awake if I come
Love pure for loves sake
My pip, I am changed
To be reflects
Words a gathered pool
Sitting between upright ponds
A void is reading the news
Smile filling my cup
then come sit beside me
My fleeting glance
has afforded this much at least
Your break is now,
talk to the girls
Borrow a joint
and ask me for a light
Wind, dust and smoke
makes a working class portrait...
I have nothing to give
and nothing to say
To your died red hair
and pale cream thighs
It’s easy charm
and inching, you look
Around the side and in the alley,
take your break again
Sitting at the bar:
young handsome cancer
Flies hover an open wound
The frustrated guru
is almost spitting
Almost glib with his truth
And they drip their eggs.
In the city, he says
To a chorus of nods,
You have to walk for a long time,
On a clear night,
Before you see the stars.
Last night I dreamt of you
I thought we’d forgotten
all about that love but there we were,
Ruining my morning.......
Since: Dec 12
Written by CYP
It is not enough to merely think of a journey
Not for this woman
Reality gives meaning to the experience
While the mind can produce a great journey it is only make-believe
Therefore, I will climb the mountain
Feel the wind in my hair
Hear the birds sing in echoes
Their sweet melody
With each step forward
The leaves beneath my feet cry
The sweet smell of pines invade my senses
I am enjoying this moment as I explore the woods
Sparkling overgrown wild flowers
The majesty of old-grown trees
Covered in emerald green moss
Happy in this moment I move onward
To the top of the mountain
Once there I pause to savor the view
Surrounded by a floating mist
Looking into an endless sea of mountains
Experiencing the reality of my journey
That while the mind can produce a great journey it is only make-believe
Naked and cold
her body bare for you to embrace
trace with your fingertips
lips with breathless shapes
Empty is the temptress
without her temptations
a frozen figure affixed
amongst forgotten refrains
Dead are the days of wonder
glory of sweat and skin
when time stood silently still
and there was no such thing as sin
on the outside of her clothes
just to provoke the joke
of the conformity that she loves
to grotesquely and so beautifully oppose
She shaves her legs
in a pitch black room
and plays connect-the-dots
with her nicks and cuts
to pass the unending hours of noon
She spends eons in silence
listening to her own thoughts
then rattles off and expunges my poetry
to equate some meaningless meaning
so that it wasn’t all for naught
She is madness in motion, senseless and sensual
a carnal need of squirming desires and trials
a prickly flower that blooms in hot pink panties
in a pitch black room, crystal quiet
where no one notices the blood stains on the tile.
I illuminate the dark;
inky lids come in
where thunder breaks and
coined milky si
My silicone kind
press about my bed:
Sink icily, demon,
is all their entreaty
Kin dice my loins,
strike up my dark;
inky icon misled.
to the throat
thousands of wings
I ate the air
shown to explain
as a god
for a vision
like the moon’s body.
sound of skin
into a purity.
The sky is too low
for me to get any higher.
I just don’t know
how I fell into the fire.
Certainly I have come to be
My own worst enemy.
My heart is too dark
for me to love anybody.
I thought I’d made my mark
but my vision is cloudy.
Certainly I have come to be
someone who is not me.
I have gone too far
to return to my home.
It has left a scar
and I’m still alone.
Misery has invaded me
there’s nothing but a travesty.
I’ve lost myself
inside my own head.
I have asked for help
but now I’m almost dead.
Suddenly I’ve lost the means
to express myself so openly.
I need an escape
but there’s no way out.
My mind sees no shape
and I am full of doubt.
Certainly I have come to be
my own worst enemy.
More explosive than my orgasm was her response.
“Kant says that destiny is a rearrangement of chaotic decimals.”
That was a first. No partner had ever quoted Kant before. In fact, I couldn’t remember a partner ever saying anything memorable after lovemaking.
I stayed over.
I didn’t know much about her. Barely knew her name,… Cindy I think. Met her at the "Three Bells" where we were both listening to the Bernie Nix trio. At intermission I struck up a conversation at the bar, discussed jazz: did she think Bernie’s playing had changed much since his days with Ornette, was she up on younger players like Joe Giglio and John Stowell, you know … lubricants,… while all of me was entirely focused on primal concerns, I’m not sure I listened to her responses, certainly I couldn’t quote them for you, I was intent on the seduction, on satisfying the proverbial goal of “getting my rocks off.”
It was rare for me to spend the night. I enjoyed sex. I enjoyed variety. I enjoyed going back to my own digs. But a Kantian orgasm? You just don’t mess with that.
In the morning I woke to:“Heraclitus says time is a function of memory which in turn is a nervous response to one’s environment.”
Then she took me in her mouth.
A week later – never having left her apartment – and more practiced, I was taking her doggie style on the floor when she popped “Hegel felt that the Historic was nothing but an opportunity for Spirit to empiricize the formulaic,”– we came together.
Our love making had reached a pitch of perfection.
Going on three weeks and I had never returned to my place. I couldn’t bear to be away from her. She had broken through. I wasn’t the same man. I was hooked.
After a long day, I was fatigued and went to bed. I wasn’t in the mood. She whispered in my ear,“Descartes felt that the Mind should be considered a First Principle,”– it stood upright. I was delirious. I finally understood what love was. I couldn’t wait to call Gran and Pop. Now my chance to ask the question. The following night, while drinking champagne, I said,
“Aristotle said Love was the continuous conversation.”
“Yes,” she said.
Daniel sleeps a crowded sleep
Dreaming in a bed of yesterdays
Of forever images
Coughing mightily in phlegm-filled mists
Talking of Titus’s crucifixions.
Rouse reruns of animated ogres
Pointing to apocalyptic endings,
Abnormalities bent into cityscapes,
A polis wrapped in Hellenistic dress.
He bows to the will of divine prognostication,
Superstitious entity revealing prosaic unpleasantness
Devoured by ravenous beings.
He seeks resurrection.
Awakening in a sweat of Alexandrian nomenclature
All prattling in the same language,
Pen, and Laptop beside his bed.
I’m standing on that roof again watching the wind blow your hair across your face and you’re smiling at me
The evening sun has set with a pink-yellow swirl over your head
and I can hear a lone seagull and the hum of the island airport over the water....
You’re laughing, and when you lean over the edge of the building scoffing at the twenty-five stories to the ground,
I move to catch you, even if grabbing your hips seems inappropriate
And then we’re kissing
pressed together against the void
on the subway platform
mix with the bagpipes
on the concourse above
and the light around you
moves through moving windows,
when you are nobody
moving between disposable destinations
for reasons that vanish
before you can recognize them,
you are you.....and
me, I never change, I'm just me
the same guy who has loved you all this time !
myself, one that I had mentally marked, saying, I will remember
this moment. Today, I’m flipping time in on itself, connecting two
points into a single moment again, folding forty years of distance,
even though I cannot recall the point of either. Points are elusive.
It was late winter. There was no snow. My face was stung red.
I was positioned solemnly in the street in front of my appartment,
leaning into hard strokes of wind with a confidence that has
disappeared with age. I don’t remember arriving or leaving,
just being there. Gunmetal grey sky, slashed with deep cuts
like rips in a coal vein that has been there forever, waiting to
be discovered. I distinctly recall thinking how much I mattered,
not how little. My clothes were tinged with late afternoon frost,
my plaid red jacket hooked and closed with clasps that clipped
together with a magic trick, my frozen right shoelace undone,
worn grey corduroy pants with an ironed on patch over the knee,
a rising tide above the ankles. It was a distinct thought. Remember
this moment. Mark it. Tell yourself that you will never forget.
Remember this moment, imbed it so that you will never forget it.
Was I hoping to live long enough to be able to say that I thought
this thought? Did I merge with God and wanted to make sure
that I would never forget? Had I studied a bird on the high voltage
wire whose perfect stillness had made everything perfectly clear?
I do recall that the air was frozen,
and that was the time that the angels could not fly.
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