[x]

If you can’t find a l to the sky
a b
d m
d i
e l
r to c the easier excuse is:
“I’m scared of heights.”

***

But I ravaged my drawers
And there was a shower
Of crystal marbles,

Changed

You smoke your cigarette
from the philter side
and you burn your lips
as you turn it around.

You drag pencils
down your carpet
to avoid the tempting nature
of their sharpness.

You switched
from razors
to an electric shaver.

And you’re no longer
irritated by grey landscapes.

You write love poetry
about the guardian angel
of the last prostitute
you said a word to
before you left.

You wrap your palms
around soap bubbles,
protecting them
in a warm cocoon

And you jump
from the skies
where your asylum girl
taught you to fly.
You jump quietly
like grey dust,
like a talc meteor.

You’ve climbe

AdherenceInAStrangeAppearanceLike in a water-conduit
Love purls within me softly,
Ice, blurs and steam, so gentle and so badly taunted.

Just like a water-conduit
I have so many destinations
But never will I come unwanted.

Forgive me for the moments
When I have had a funny colour,
When I have tasted more like soil,
So bitter and so sour,
Like a worm’s saliva.

Sometimes forget me running – rainfalls of joyous hymns will crack and burst my walls.

But never leave, please never leave

Her core

She's a brightly shining star.

In her eyes - joy can sometimes be brown.

In her face - age not always shows.

In her hair - utopias are like ribbons.

Here…

This warm…

In the very moment…

zephyr

In her smile - teeth on crescent canvass.

In her hands - sparrow memories.

In her feet - gravel flamenco dancers.

In her closet - bowling bags with a s
q m

I'd say no IIYou’re not the ground I walk on
You won’t prevent my fall.
You’re not the earth I’d worship:
Unsteady,
above
all…

You’re torn ap art by (earth)quakes

You c r a c k and spl it and e
r a
b k.

You’re not the m

Collected TrioletsThere are some stories I can’t tell.
You are too old for fairytales.
You are too old for carousels.
There are some stories I can’t tell.
You father said he wished you well.
He said the card is in the mail.
There are some stories I can’t tell.
You are too old for fairytales.

It’s hard pretending not to care.
Your smile is worn on mannequins.
I’m sure I saw one wear your hair.
It’s hard pretending not to care
That you are standing, silent, there
And separation is glass thin.
It’s hard pretending not to care.
You smile is worn on mannequins.

You didn’t hear me when
I said I loved you. Once

Haikuthon July 1-31, 2009

1 tanka

the hope of
summer rain vanishes
leaving
a neighbor's dog
to water the roses

2 haiku

heat wave chasing
all the birds and blues
from the sky

3 tanka

a cloud of gnats
follows
a child's sno-cone
through
the petting zoo

4 haiku/senryu

old mission archway
black birds napping
in ascending order

5 tanka

lunch at the beach,
businessmen strip
and wade into
childhood

6 haiku

looking out to sea
the sky walks a fine line

7 haiku renga

air ballet
on the breakwater...
fishermen and gulls

under the pier
bait in a plastic pail
holding their breath

8 haiku/senryu

still seeking shade,
mating crabs in the shallows

9 haiku

the

She Ran Into the MountainAlex bites off the heads of soldiers and rabbits,
their necks snap wetly in her jaws, stick to her teeth.

Hair and fur gather in clumps on her tongue, yellow
and warm against the bony roof of her mouth.

She flosses her teeth with lengths of barbed wire,
spits blood and grayed mucous onto her feet.

Her veins are like wires, blue and bending against bone.
They cross and twist into knots between her knuckles.

Once, she tasted like the sugar rot of compost; thick
and fermented, a sticky slime clinging to my fingers.

We sat in her attic bedroom on hot Friday nights,
smoking out the window, a naked doll between us.

And now she is only i

Ode To A MotherWhen babies cry
And teenagers feel heartbreak
They turn towards god’s gift
From the heaven’s above.

When days are grey
With no delight in sight
Children lie in the arms
Of their mothering angel.

I know not all
About this mysterious, vast world
But what I do know is this:

“One cannot build a kingdom
Of freedom and happiness
Nor shall they protect it without
Love and care of a mother.

post-traumatic make-up

furious and hopeful,
willing,
wishful,
sacrificial.
my lipsticked fingerprints
i hurl
high
high
above
my head.

a red kite.

i’m still alive,
still breathing
beneath
your claws.

perhaps i’m
giving
freedom
to
my emollient soul.

nostalgic,
tragic,
magic-al-chemic.
black eyeliner smoke
polishes
predator
nails
your howls and grunts
drift it away.

a paper steamer.

i’m still alive,
still breathing
in your saliva

perhaps i’m
giving
freedom
to
my soot memories.

naive,
allective,
invective.
rouge
drizzle
is pattering
in
the puddles
that made you so violent…

…honey.

a

Old Man NeptuneWhat immediately grasped me about the sea that day
was its tiredness;

the rain bit at waves that rippled, tensed like the skin
of a torture victim, stretched thin over ribs. I'd swung
my buckets and spades at my side

as I approached, a timid mouse quivering
at the writhes of a great fading lion.
Their plastic laughter rattled so meek under the wind,

mocking colours swallowed in the dolorous wet.
I scavenged mussel-shells, punctured by barnacles,
ugsome protrusions huddled like wrinkled eyes.

I waded in, looked the beast straight through. But my
bare cold ankles in the foam were overcome

by the pleading dribble of the slow-moving

everydaY changE

                                if the sandy tail wind has
                                dug holes in your back,
                                turn.
  &#

Death Of An Emo

my bedroom is my coffin
sprayed with sweet formalin
I lay still with my bloodshot eyes open
as my chaotic mind is wondrin'

I think I need some nicotine
to kiss the smoke as it spells your name
I think I need some wine or caffeine
to taste your heat when we're fuckin'

I think I need some cocaine
to get away from all burden
I think I have to lick that bloodstain
to erase the memory of pain

I think I need you to lean on
I'm weak, I can't move on
because though I think I drown
still I don't wa

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A tale of eternity and a rose

Among green foxtails
I’ve been waiting
for                        fin            roll
                                  t         a

The last call of the funnels

Short is the road between the two towns, snuggled next to each other like doves and the bus stops chop it to pieces small as tissues. Asphalt hissing under the tyres glides behind dirty windows most days. Faster, faster the vehicles urge each other under factory clouds.
~
Down the road was walking a middle-aged woman, tall and lean, in whose eyes shimmered the pieces of a broken youth and her fingers were yellow from the cigarettes and the candles.
~
She had seen these skies roll in patches between the bus ceiling and the industrial skyline many times. The bus would chug at the turns, dive in circles from the bubbling fields of her villag

Sea-eaten

Churned clouds and vertebrae of gales meander over
your fears
spitting sand in lungs,
that missed a few pages of breaths,
there, in the Ventose cove,
in ribcages,

broken.

~

Outside your binoculars there’s a static world.
Feel the blanket around you,
thick, soiled cobwebs,
moth-woven,
moth-eaten,
embracing the skin

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[x]

Nude

by *drop-asd, Jan 11, 2008, 10:03:27 AM
Literature / Poetry / Experimental / Surrealism

I took off layer after
                layer.
I stripped myself of my sticky   c     n.
                                           o     o
                                              co

Wild briar         b
                         l
                       o
                     s
                s
s m    o                      flew away from me like bullets

                  leaving cyclamen bruises to bloom wildly beneath.

                                I rubbed off the blackberry syrup
                                       From my pallid temples
                                                     And
                                                 I removed
                                    The twin scars on my knees.

I                                                                                           lg
   Sit here naked among ripples                                             u        e
                                             The    h             s    and    b             s
                                                          o      w
                                                              ll

                                            left by invisible feet
                                           long
                                                      f
                                                            l
                                                                  o
                                                            w
                                                      n
                                                                     away with
                                                                                    the
                            trade-winds.

I sit here naked as soft as a symphony,
                   As soft as French manicure…
                                                                                   _{… as the sheets of this bed.}
I sit here
               Naked
                Devoid of emotion
                  Aware
      Of my vulnerability
                          But not scared at all.

                                                                     _{There’s no one here to hurt me…

                                                                     There’s no one to take me home either.

                                                                     There’s no one to cry me a rainfall,

                                                                                   No ships passing by…}

I sit here naked
                Holding on to my knees
  And the knowledge that I am
                             My     f  a  s  t  e  s  t
                                                   One-bullet gun.

    The knowledge he gave me
              After refusing to drink me
                           Before
                             The
                        Melted-iron
                           Urban
                           Bored
                         Yawning
                          Sunrise
          Wrings steam from my flesh.

But I’ve stripped myself of the memory of

                         His

                         Lips

                                            And I don’t hurt for him anymore
                                         Even though I’m out of my armour of
                                                       H a t r e d
                                                                    And apathy…

                                 I’m not feeling alone…

                                 I’m being soothed,

                                 I’m being refilled,

                                             kissed,

                                                      touched,

                              caressed

                                                 by a million

                                hands

                           Of     s  a  n  d . . .

Nudeby *drop-asd

Literature / Poetry / Experimental / Surrealism

Sometimes...
when I look at the naked figure in the mirror I feel such an
unbearable
inexplicable
unreasonable

pain...

~~love 0 0~~

joy 1 1

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*hyneige Oct 17, 2010 Hobbyist General Artist

Très beau poème. Comme l'anglais n'es pas ma langue maternelle, c'est plus difficile de saisir tout le sens, mais j'y vois comme la chrysalide d'une âme qui sortant de son cocon découvre à la fois la fragilité et la beauté de sa nudité. Qui se souvient peut-être d'une antériorité douloureuse qui l'a repliée sur elle-même. Et qui commence à ouvrir ses ailes à une nouvelle réalité. Et j'aime aussi beaucoup cette typographie qui imagent les mots. La nudité est peut-être ce voile ou ce miroir de l'âme qui nous est donné à la naissance et que nous ne remettrons qu'à notre mort!

Very beautiful poem. As English are not my mother tongue, it is more difficult to seize all the sense, but I see as the chrysalis of a soul there which going out of its cocoon discovers at the same time the fragility and the beauty of its nudity. Which remembers maybe a painful anteriority which has it introverted. And which begins to open the wings to a new reality. And I also like very much this typography which embellish with images the words. The nudity is maybe this veil or this mirror of the soul which is given to us at the birth and which we shall put back only to our death!

~shadradson Jul 1, 2010

Quite beautiful. Also the typesetting is also brilliant. I am sure it holds a lot more for you then I can comprehend from it. But still, I seem to get it some. I think.

*drop-asd Jul 7, 2010

Thank you! It would be my fault if the reader cannot grasp what I wanted to express

But I'm happy you were able to relate to it to some extent.