Its beginning is a fuse,
Its end a nerve burnt out;
Creativeness is only you,
Before other hands dig in;
A pattern like religion,
The lonely mind of man.
EveningThe capillary rasp of tongues,
I know nothing but chattering
As warm air trades its place with young;
A shiver starts resurfacing
Within the walls of little lungs.
I know nothing but chattering,
Wintery gust I taste your braid;
A shiver starts resurfacing
As degrees fall in centigrade,
The weaving wind is circling.
Wintery gust I taste your braid
Within the walls of little lungs,
As degrees fall in centigrade
The capillary rasp of tongues
Will end all things that I have said.
Bad ConnectionUploading the art, in stops and starts, my patience departs
Like fractured quartz; these megabytes fail, and derail,
And e-mail never arrives. The Internet barely survives,
And gives little when it does, signals caught in the throes
Of unseen static. The hairline havoc and passive panic
Inside, an automatic trigger blown, the seed is grown
In my own anger; but soon the connection cocoon
Will balloon, and new wings this miracle brings.
SubsistenceWhy is it hard to admit you can't?
Can't live here, or you can't go back.
Can't carry the parable's lesson.
Why is it easy to be scant?
Eyes blink open the morning after
The thicket landscape of failures
Is set, yet admission cannot hold
The weight; no truths are a rafter.
Why is it hard to observe and decide?
Can't lay down, or you might lose sight.
Can't sustain like you want to or need.
Why is it so easy to hide?
Pried loose from the soil, small pebbles
Tossed aside; there is no end to
Labor, all is but sown or destroyed.
All green growth is born from troubles.
Genus BetulaLike quarter notes between the solemn face
Recorded there (the birch bark pulled away)
I scratched their names like tendrils carved from lace
The leaves will strut and curl this final day.
The cuffed, loquacious wind has naught to say
Of pink horizons purpling their hues;
The blaze replaced by melancholy blues.
The world already ended (is it known?)
The trees have gone with tempests in the news
Without a sound, eternal flat and brown.
ForensicsIt's maneuvered geometry,
The processes that machines see;
Where years inch by and fluids fall
From invisible anchor, all that mystery.
The thrust out scaffolds and tongues move,
Tidily performing a trove
Of objectives, but none can say
Shadows leave footprints here today, nor can they prove
A careful pandemonium.
The ruby of aluminum
Washed away, but the garments claim
The cluttered pitch of one stain's name will make the sum.
IntolerancePale gray, thinning and thickening,
Your upsurge and subduction sting.
Tectonic plates, your fresh cut
Motion, creases in the rut;
A hollow lava will clash,
Soon to speak to future ash.
Pale gray, thinning and thickening,
Your upsurge and subduction sting.
PhotoshopThe words returned, "not perfect yet",
On my aching eyes it
Highlights, needs less tonal width) "set
the contrast low" the lit
Enough now to meet the edge "no
But I'm not sure...(Undo, undo)
Each pixel can be more
House Of MirrorsA cutting gaze, the self-portrait's stare
Practices mimicry to fool the eyes;
The parts where light plays with air
A sputtering maze of lens and lies.
The foolish guise
Of glass, a lair.
Some are sneaky and stricken with lines
Of deformities, other strangers
Surely surprised; they sway like serpentines
On the run from hidden dangers.
Of see-through signs.
All these eyes, the self portrait's trap,
To see oneself in such ways, a mess
Of oddities within the mind that snap
When revealed; a game of chess
Cruelly skewed, less
Shards through the gap.
Something in the faces, the idealized
Distorted; and someone golden, gleaming,
Their smile leaving something to be surmised.
What is this place? This thing?
I am the changeling,
Twenty-SomethingNo one hand could guide me,
So I searched for several.
Each touch from a new person,
Some hurtful, some gentle.
I am shaped by all I know.
No one standing beside me,
So I looked for shelter.
Than dying out there.
No one thought inside me,
So many at once racing.
I am shaped by all I think.
I am shaped by everything.
I must see the meaning that
No one can, besides me.
Sonnet XXIX: An endingThe world bent towards the end I would have written
then like a harp-string snapped—the twisted threads
unwound, and all sprung back to what we had been
now I am gutted—and you, I think, are dead.
What use are harps when vaunting horns of silver
proclaim the world has ended; what for me
is left amongst the ruin and raging rivers
of blood and ash, and every tie cut free?
And yet—when your song wound through empty halls
and through your melodies all was reclaimed
I loved it then; that strain; its dying fall--
but tunes are lost, and only words remain.
Yes, only words remain. I cannot write
the wonder in your song—the world alight.
Slowly at first.
Shoulders slouch and mind clouds.
Further and further you fall in.
Digging deeperOh, my dearest little fluttershy-
caught in every, little lie.
Standing there and playing dumb.
Dear, let the drama just be done.
Shut your mouth and let things die-
no one cares now if you cry.
You've turned your back on pals-
made your reputation run far south.
People now are getting mad-
over all these claims you've had.
Stop the fighting, stop the crap.
Before you wind up getting slapped.
Who will wind up on ED?
Its in your future- that I see.
Keep things up and make it clear-
you belong in rants my dear.
Your digging deeper with your lies.
Probably thinking that your sly.
Well my dear that's just not true.
Keep it up, your reputations through.
Now my dear I must digress.
Please let all this drama rest.
If not then you can't blame me.
When you wind up on ED.
If the sky was green
If the blue sky was green and the green grass pale blue,
it just might change things for me and for you.
Would the clouds be mud brown and the soil bright white?
Perhaps you will say: "It doesn't seem right!"
If the seas were above and the stars down below,
imagine the distance a tall ship could go.
Would it rain all year round, would the sun ever shine?
Perhaps you can crack this quandary of mine!
If the world was a square and the universe round,
likely you'd say that would be quite profound.
Would the seasons still change, would the galaxies crash?
Perhaps you may find these questions too brash!
If true love was the rule and if hatred was scorned,
imagine your life in a place so adorned.
Would war be abolished and blind prejudice too?
Perhaps you will say: "Please take me with you!"
The RingmasterRingmaster Kyra grinned as she surveyed her circus tent
"My circus is the greatest; every coin has been well spent!
I have no doubt at all no other circus can compare.
I'm used to being best, and I've the best show anywhere!"
Hearing this boast, one of Kyra's Clown's peeked out and smirked.
She could have some with this, she thought, if her plan worked.
"But have you been to Morganville?" the mischievous Clown said.
Ringmaster Kyra turned, then raised her brow and cocked her head.
"Tell me of this Morganville, they have a circus there?"
"Oh yes," the Clown chirped merrily, "And it's beyond compare.
The Ringmaster's a giant man, ten times taller than me.
He presides over a big top that towers over the tallest trees."
As Kyra fumed, the scheming Clown could scarce contain her mirth.
She'd keep on going with her prank for all that it was worth.
"Their lion is so huge, they feed it three whole cows a day!
And every week their elephant eats twenty tons of hay!"
Ringmaster Kyra's left eye tw
I was blind so I carved my eyes out with a dull spoon.
Then I adorned my empty soul sockets with red roses.
The warm blood trickles down my sad white doll face and onto
my lovely white dress.
Soiled with semen and tattered by ticks.
I forever question the purity of my sinful innocents. Only once again to be reminded of my own pathetic existence.
And now, slowly my sanity begins to be washed away
by the raging storms that molest the broken hour glass;
for which it rest within my hollow breast never counting time.
For indeed, with one quick turn of the door with no handles
I will open the opened Pandora's box into the chained angel's cage, Lucifer,
and he will rape me of my perverseness
and send me on a realm of continuous orgasm.