I told her she'a
dash of scarlet
and the sad smile of victory,
flame controlled to
wax and wheat,
nagging the crops to
death, and I'm in
the land must go feverish
before it breaks
and a later good morning
from the cracks.
Going to shift the script now because I wanna touch her..... and they forced me to learn that want and need are not each other and "happens" even less so now the Little Lost Boy watches impassive from an wayrd-angle perch and questions, what use alethetic modeling when the goal was concealment?
Call it NOT. Concepts are oppression by "is", "no right" "the world" and at 09:40 late for the bus and I'm the first to admit to horrifically no one.
I AM HUNGRY and spurting come across the veils and layers of her while she is gravity unmoved like before like later but I have an "is" to make and ever what is raw-chanced into Being is there some way I can get into it?
Look at my mind while she is smiling and call me back to training I am not a piston rod...... I CAN MAKE a piston rod, but again the cum on the belly on the sheets in her hair in my own mouth shows the detached observer that goals of the flesh are well, let's just call it flexibility for now and file it away for more detailed analysis after we're finally all dead together.
Now I render myself into easily processed sections, now I contain myself in clearly labelled shapes, now I go about the work of others.
"We must make excuses for our horrifically inaccurate linguistics...
...by saying that it is a beautiful thing about the world"
Now mature into the abject failure of our interface with it, tug lustfully on our 'need' for absolutes, that there IS an absolute undistorted reality, dripping and waking wet pussy in response to our caress
The mirror sees my root chakra stuffed all full of toxic cruft and half-terminated correspondences, collage, and the artistic composition of all of their faces in the shapes they'd never make all of their bodies in the shapes they'd never take. So I hang my hat and start the day's work.
I cover this up while you look over here, now revealing that while I cover where you were looking you turn to see a new mystery which distracts you from me shuffling the first thing back under the second thing's cover forever and ever and ever and ever veils upon veils beneath veils upon veils
Disappointed in the social criticism of these
"Everything is worthless compared to us"
Ripping at the bites—claws breaking down the point
(a being well dressed all in white)
Explaining it all to the edge of reason
No more illusion and the façade of it all fades
Until you’re left with a gray-scale sediment
Pick the opacity, add a drop shadow,
These are your new choices of analysis now it’s
all stripped down to the core
Lava hardening over the exoskeleton
Making a fossil of society out of ideologies lost
in the sand
and a non-stop clock tick tocking to your off beat
Play prelude number one,
A nocturne of infinity; luminosity in a cave
Lighting up the way to an
All-nighter, down-payment, take-us-or-leave-us
They call her Brooklyn; it's the place she sleeps
Tumbling down a slide of freshly laundered sheets
They smell like mountain fresh
Or meadow sweet;
Sin laced fabric covering the new bed she wakes up
a marionette doll lying on the sunken ice of a
and the musky grip it all roots of a
tree filtering through her ribs, catching a
two-four-five beat of a heart;
quench her words
there's nothing left to say—
(it's a turmoil she'll never be able to explain).
Not touching was killing him.
A little more everyday.
Inch by inch by inch.
And there was nothing that he could do about it.
Ultimately, it wasn’t his decision. He had no control over the way that she felt, how she chose to express—or, more to the point, not express—her feelings. If she didn’t feel this—this longing that seemed to hover between them, what could he do? He had spoken with straight-fury and nothing had been heard.
It didn’t make things easier.
It didn’t stop the fact that he cared about her desperately.
Didn’t change that being near her was—he didn’t even have words for it. Like everything else in this predicament, there were no words to adequately verbalize what was in his head. All he knew was that he longed and he felt and he needed.
And that he was existing in a liminality so absolute that there was little chance for anything else.
As he watched them interact, standing so closely that a single step would cause them to touch, to change, to melt into something else, he realized that their closeness, their similarity, was more likely to metamorphosis into something sublime before he would ever even be allowed to touch.
And wasn’t that just terribly ironic?
Of course, it was a rhetorical question.
No answer needed or expected.
…though, it’d be nice to get one eventually.
But, in their own way, they would make sense. Be happy. Become petra.
The likelihood of it actually happening, though, wasn’t very high.
He said that he didn’t like girls in “that way”—and how sixth grade was that phraseology?—but the way that they moved and didn’t—quite—touch spoke of something that he wasn’t ready to face.
There was something akin to desire there, he could see it, feel it, hear it buzzing in his head in the dark.
Yet he would never do anything about it because they were mated and she was something that he wasn’t supposed to want because that was what his programming demanded. And she would never allow anything to occur since that would mean, in her mind, the dissolution of their coupleness.
And he thought that they were both too concerned by what a society that manages to make the most natural of things into something obscene thought of such a grouping.
If they needed each other, if it was to become something that didn’t fit into a pat-societal-box, who cared? If they were happy—as happy as could be, he supposed—then what harm was there to be had?
They were, each, too much for a single person to understand and console. Why shouldn’t there be a way for them to be all of that to each other?
As if it were all that simple. But there was no reason that it had to be difficult either.
>>>>>>...... . Things were different now.
There had been a subtle shift in how she treated him.
…and it was worrying him.
He had heard that tone before, seen that same shift in deference before. And, while it usually preceded some sort of romantic attachment, those were things that had never ended well for her. It may have been what he wanted—only, he would have never phrased it “romantic” because he didn’t think that’s how this sorta of thing actually worked in a successful way—waited as her feelings waxed and waned and she argued with herself about his attachment, that his mate had signed-off on this, was willing to accept the plurality of the potential, that there was nothing wrong in having that flexibility of mind.
But that tone.
He’d heard it before. Never been on the receiving end of it. Pretty certain that any desire for those words—that expression of quietly-pleased-awe—to be directed at him had been out of want for recognition. To know that his work moved her as much as others. To know that in some strange way that she loved him too.
…having it directed towards him now?
That wasn’t what he wanted from her at all. He wanted their friendship—Hadn’t that been what he kept harping on about? That she thought love was all about overwhelming emotion and passion, which it was, but that friendship was what it had to be based upon?—wanted it to be something that was as important to her as it was to him. For her to feel like she’d found Home in some way.
That love was love. It was an infinite resource that didn’t have to be doled out in drips and drabs. That love could be felt with the same intensity for everyone. That love didn’t differentiate. That other things twisted love into certain societal conceptions.
And now this new twist.
She always seemed to want what she couldn’t have. And, when she did have it, she didn’t want it anymore. He thought, sometimes, that maybe that’s what he was to her—something ultimately unattainable for a variety of reasons.
But, maybe, now she was realizing that there was the possibility.
And that scared her.
Hell, it scared him.
None of them were ready for the actuality of this fusion coming to fruition.
But, there wasn’t any way to be ready. No way to prepare.
They were all going to have to hold their breaths and just jump.
Be willing to try.
Because, ultimately, love was love was love.
I've dreamed of you so much that you're losing
Is it already too late for me to embrace your
living and breathing body
and to kiss that mouth which is the birthplace of
that voice so dear to me?
I've dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown
accustomed to lying crossed upon my own chest in a
desperate attempt to encircle your shadow, might
not be able to unfold again to embrace the
contours of your body.
And coming face-to-face with the actual
incarnation of what has haunted me and ruled me
and dominated my life for so many days and years
might very well turn me into a shadow.
Oh equilibriums of the emotional scales!
I've dreamed of you so much that it might be too
late for me to ever wake up again.
I sleep on my feet, body confronting all the usual
phenomena of life and love, and yet when it comes
the only being on the planet who matters to me now,
I can no more touch your face and lips than I can
those of the next random passerby.
I've dreamed of you so much, have walked and
talked and slept so much with your phantom
presence that perhaps the only thing left for me
to do now
is to become a phantom among phantoms, a shadow a
hundred times more shadowy
than that shadow which moves and will go on moving,
stepping lightly and joyfully across the sundial
of your life.
In a corner agile incest
Circles the virginity of a little dress.
In a corner the sky turned over
To the spines of the storm leaves white balls behind.
In the brightest corner of every eye
We're expecting the fish of anguish.
In a corner the car of summer
Immobile glorious and forever.
In the light of youth
Lamps lit very late.
The first one shows its breasts
that red insects are killing.
I speak to you across cities
I speak to you across plains
My mouth is upon your pillow
Both faces of the walls come meeting
My voice discovering you
I speak to you of eternity
O cities memories of cities
Cities wrapped in our desires
Cities come early cities come lately
Cities strong and cities secret
Plundered of their master's builders
All their thinkers all their ghosts
Fields pattern of emerald
Bright living surviving
The harvest of the sky over our earth
Feeds my voice I dream and weep
I laugh and dream among the flames
Among the clusters of the sun
And over my body your body spreads
The sheet of it's bright mirror.
Since: Apr 12
What about some new poets coming on this thread.
“Raising hell since 1989”
Since: Jul 12
She digs her heels into his back
as he bends at his knees in worship to her
She whips him hard and leaves scars for all the world to see
He walks around with his head hung low
there's no other place for him to go
She's the only one who knows
what gets him up and ready to go
It's a pity that a man can be stripped away of his masculinity
and a wonder that a woman can have so much control
She says she wants it now
and upon her demand he does as she commands
Handcuffs and chains get the blood pumping
Scratches and screamin get the adrenaline rushing
So caught up in the x-rated moment
A slap across the face and a lash to the bottom
Notice me dear friends- this isn't abuse
For some crazy people this is the definition of pleasure
A melting high and an "end of life" fear
Combine it together for an exquisitely erotic experience that won't be forgotten
Make it real.
Make it gritty.
Make me believe,
That this is the truth,
That you’ll never leave.
Scratch my belly,
Kisses on my navel,
Moonlight in your eyes,
Full of passion,
Let me know
That this is real,
Not some fevered dream,
Can’t handle it any more,
Flesh to flesh on fire,
As the ice freezes to the frame,
Criss-cross in delicate patterns,
Like the veins across your hands,
Like the cobwebs,
Above our heads as we hide in the abandoned,
Live in the forbidden.
And I gently wipe the tears from your cheeks,
Kiss your forehead,
Whisper, what’s wrong?
And I love you so much,
Can’t let you go,
Can’t let you know,
As the edges grow dimmer,
As they fade and shimmer,
I’m not real,
You aren’t, too,
There’s no life about us,
Nothing is true.
Not your soft caress,
Not my strong promise,
An artist’s mind,
An author’s wish,
We don’t exist,
How could our love,
Not break free of this realm?
As the dawn rises,
I cry freely in your arms,
Known they have moved on,
The sun is our funeral pyre,
As they waken,
From this fevered dream.
Gentle morning light filtered through their apartment window. It was her day off, and he was a "kept man," so they were permitted to lounge a bit longer.
When she had woken, she had without thought curled into his warm body, and the movement had woken him. He lazily pulled his fingers through her tangled hair, taking care not to pull. She rested on his chest and they gazed into each other's eyes, neither inclined to get out from under the quilt and greet the winter morning.
She traced the outline of his eye patch.
"Stop that," he gently scolded.
"I can't believe you sleep in that damn thing."
"Why not? If you saw the scars in the middle of the night, you'd have nightmares for the rest of your life."
"I would not." Still she traced it, her fingers light on his cheek. But she allowed him to cling to the crutch of his eye patch. She would permit his weakness in this one thing, his vanity and his fear of the past. She could grant him that much.
When he had returned from the North, finally returned to her, a Corporal, they knew that nothing had changed. Neither their feelings, nor the laws against fraternization.
So he declined re-enlistment and retired. His duty to the country was as paid off as it was going to be, and now, he spent his time making up the years lost, away from his love.
So she would grant him the eye patch, since he was willing to push aside the rest of his guilt, and stay with her.
"You have beautiful eyes," he suddenly said. "Such an unusual shade of brown. A mahogany, really. Almost as though there were some red in them."
She smiled. "Are you saying they look Ishvalin?"
He looked thoughtfully down at her. "You know what? I think you could have some Ishvalin blood in you." She cocked her eyebrow at him. "That wouldn't be a bad thing. They are a sturdy people. You know, that would explain your stubbornness too. You're steadfast."
"I think being raised by my father might have more to do with that than a fraction of ancestral blood." She reached up, this time tracing the cheek and brow around his good eye. "What about you? See how dark your eyes are? How they narrow? I think you might be related to somebody from Xing."
He smiled. "I could be the descendant of a prince." She laughed, her body gently shaking on top of his. "What? Are you making fun of me?"
"No," she whispered. "I think your eye is beautiful."
His expression turned wistful. "Eye. Not eyes, anymore."
"You're beautiful." She ran her hand through his hair, traced his jaw, followed the muscles down his arms.
"If I'm beautiful, what does that make a gorgeous woman like you?"
She traced her hand around to his lips, laid a finger across them, and he fell silent.......
........They lay for a while longer, the room catching the morning light and some of the chill that remained despite the heater started to leave.
"Mmm," he mused, "What color eyes do you think our children will have?"
"How should I know?"
"Just imagine, my love." In the silence, they mulled it over. Round black eyes. Narrow brown eyes. Somewhere in the middle, dark brown eyes. "You know what it means, if we were Xingese and Ishvalin?"
"It means a blue eyed Armestian decided, at one point, that they loved somebody who wasn't like them. At one point, our country didn't despise others the way they do now. And even if the country as a whole did, our ancestors were strong enough to choose love." He tightened his arms around her.
She thought about it. A lot of their friends had blue eyes. Havoc and Winry. But a lot had other color eyes. Scieszka and Hughes had green eyes. Fuery had black eyes, and she wasn't even sure about Falman's eyes. The Elric's metallic eyes were unlike any she had seen before. Their late mother, at least in the photographs she'd seen, had green eyes.
"You know," she finally answered. "Blue is the absence of pigment. The more pigment, the darker the eye."
"Makes sense," he murmured. "But what about golden eyes? Or red eyes?"
"I don't know."
He gently cupped her face in his hands, his own dark, narrow eye staring straight into her very soul. "I can't wait to see what our children's eyes look like."
"Well, you'll have to wait another eight months at least."
His jaw dropped and his eye shot wide.
"Plus," she continued, "baby's eyes change with time. And with what the mother eats, and what chemicals she might be exposed to---" but the rest of her words were cut off with his kisses.
When he finally pulled away, his face was filled with mock anger. "When were you planning on telling me?"
"When did you find out?"
"Yesterday. I didn't want you to lose sleep over it; I think you'll have enough sleepless nights in the future. Just think—walking up and down the hall with a wailing baby, popping in on sleepovers to tell the children to quiet down, staying up waiting for them to return from dates…"
"You really have this thought out, haven't you?"
He wrapped his arms tightly around her, protecting her, protecting their child, watching the shadows of the curtains dance their way across the room. He could feel her eyes on him.
He knew the eyes he could imagine, could never match the beauty of the real thing.
The stairway is not
a thing of gleaming strands
a radiant evanescence
for angels’ feet
that only glance in their tread, and
need not touch the stone.
It is of stone.
A rosy stone that takes
a glowing tone of softness
only because behind it the sky is a doubtful,
a doubting night gray.
A stairway of sharp
angles, solidly built.
One sees that the angels must spring
down from one step to the next,
giving a little lift of the wings:
and a man climbing
must scrape his knees,
and bring the grip of his hands into play.
The cut stone
consoles his groping feet.
Wings brush past him.
The poem ascends.
Since: Oct 12
Too much poetry, lack of sex.
That what make you look depressed.
as it gets cold
and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon’s gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going.
And you will be able
for once to lie down
under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
in that final flowing
of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are."
Sweet Peace ascends on open hill,
sage seekers wait in morning chill,
night mists arise in bright'ning skies
where truth is sorted from the lies.
Lay claim to power set by king,
like mourning dove on broken wing,
a wounded way that circles round
no pledge of peace can thus be found.
Undo the patterns of the past
and walk the path of heart at last.
A luminescent moon
slips twilight’s thin cacoon...
somewhere a muted horn
wails of death, of being born...
Red dust is swirling in
off the encroaching desert,
as a pillar of draped indigo -
a nubile flowing statue of ink -
navigates a narrow lane
of dwellings square and low,
squinting in the gritty wind,
cold as fresh-drawn drink,
bringing a message –
or has she delivered it;
will the plot succeed
do you think, or has it failed;
things left to stumble on,
forever veiled, thick
as tar and hopelessly
Hanging on the lush green tree
Only if I was
The parchment on the tree
When wind blew
It went through me
when sun would shine
It passed through me
My irreguler ends
My tatterted holes
Only if I was
The parchment on the tree
When thunderstorms arose
It clang to branches
With care and love
Leaves engulfed me
Like no on else
How lucky I was
The parchment on the tree
When snowflakes came
They frooze the life
But I kept hanging
Only if I was
The parchment on the tree
When millions of years would pass
Sitting beneath the tree
A weary traveller
Oh here it is
A sign of life
Someone has passed
Only if I was
The parchment on the tree
Whenever I want to leave
My trusted tree
Branches entangle me
Crying for me to stay
But I would break away
Flutter in the winds
Catch a smile
Rub a tear
Heal a wound
Cover a flesh
Only if I was
The parchment on the tree
Sand granules drip sequential doses of commonality,
dropping grains of frailty, one by one, in life’s hour glass.
Weighted down on a scale of accumulation,
united, they force the edge of time.
In glass reflecting glares of outer appearance,
hearts arrive at tipping points, inborn, a continual quest for balance.
Where equations puzzle appeals, searching for soft words and definition.
Frivolities’ light heartedness, leaves barely detectable footprints,
on weighted burdens, impressions left in the outline of steps.
Costly payouts for the eagerness of soul;
signed in the ink of co-joined hearts.
Huddled, in the grasp of imposing thoughts from yesterdays,
we believed we could make them safe in our tomorrows.
Now eyes close and escape in dreams, awaiting a hope, for sheltered passage.
Why are you so afraid of the dark?