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Pseudo-Taoistic Tendencieshere, to live in obsolete measurements of stasis
and find solace in the way time bends in sweet detriment of itself

to listen, enlivened
by the sound of ten thousand and one parched Persian tongues
rasping of emancipation
from the underbellies of our mirrored faunas

where the universe is felt
and God is swallowed:

on her salted fountains  
on his derelict fingers tracing unadorned love
on another woman's hipbones

an elephant's dying breath, and
the smell of climax and unsettled wombs

felt, and tasted:

in hospital tubes
indignation, self-sufficiency
failure of recognition

the partisans of our cause and command
Phoenixshe was
crimson epiphanies, molten elegies
enveloped by dirges of the dead, chanting:

when in god's world, sweet child
pray at the altars of silence

oceans bowed before the grace
of earth-worn eyes, reminders:
serendipity's lost cause.

gravitas and
freedom-- absorbed

absolving rays of enlightenment
shedding stardust skin, peeling
layers of reminiscence from
immolated bones

self-sequestered
flames

she is
sanctified white flags-
divine serenades of rebirth.
ash wounds like air i have done it yet again.

these dark eye pits -
why won't they speak and be free?

-

once in every fifteen empty dawns
do my hands cease to claw at each other:
a glimmering hiatus;
a half breath.

i have fire hair and
i have eaten a beautiful man's jasper love.

silence never settles;
round and round goes the chained-up mind
as i grow into fear forever.

the nights smell of dying poppies. think

of such a poppy field - the beauty of
lying and effortlessly
being
the only living one.

eyes are no windows. they are your reflection.
do not walk, do not walk;
see your own flesh in there? yes, stay still.

remove my clothes.
w
SensesTo: you,

saying Sundays are never beautiful
counting fallen meteors as wishing stars. we
dream the inconsistencies of space- timid
chemistry mapped between your rough skin
and my boneless fingers, breaking outlines of isolation
in constellations, dwelling in the abodes of time lost
beneath tearless skies.

To: me,

living amid painted strokes of genius, between
colors communicating to trebles and records in collective
urgency. let us crush the aftermath of our damaged
liberties, breathing the dire fumes of cremated guitar strings as
Van Gogh enters the centre of the last field, aims his cocked
gun and forms the sixth instance o
ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency:

       i.
       / green mist-earth / knit
        atmosphere / fathomless
        blue-lavender / lights
        spun out from light

        ii.
        are recalcitrance / and you
        are convergence

     & - a fingernail of summer
        - a melting of rain
        - a crown of flowers
        - a priest of sunsets

(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi?                                   )

       iii.
       I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
       over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.
once.the world was wider, once: strewn bright
and willing to a fingertip's beckoning, riddled
with roads that spilled in breathless wanders
to otherlands of reverie. i remember
the promise i made a wild changeling child
before i bade her hush and say goodnight --
i've not woken her since: she sleeps and i steal
her spun-glass dreams for my garden
of wilt, ever longing to hold
the ghost-dance that spins by their dying light.
the birth of strugglelisten: we are but simply
listlessly drunken tragic historians, and these

jaded bones seek to unravel
the space in time between antediluvian soil

and ingested sun. they seek
to measure, reinvent, and project the reciprocal

cause and effect of our beings as sound. they
coil and ignite, purging cortexial limbs by flame

of hedonistic tendency and
incandescent prowl. the ash of this poetry

will be teemed unclosed to undone,
scattered and doubled in the design of the sacrificial eyes

of Dajabón. we parry what is perceivable
by essence; the toned actuality of naked

light, and shelve our disclaim by means
of the lapsing efficienc
In Riposte, Jswallow god's sense of humor, and tell me how it feels
to send gravity crawling on all fours- stir the remnants
of this violet collapse; ardent attachment:
muscular dystrophy.

play the accretion of your dilatory heartstrings for our silent mute
who raise a glass in toast to coalesce our beloved earth,
who study hagiography as a means of beautiful suicide
on lingering, listless oceans emptying unto itself.

and maybe your ascension was predetermined, perhaps
drawn in apologetic ink on the eyelids of our graceful blind,
who invented the word ugly to describe the fallacy of lost smiles
painted in shadow on your claustrophobic sighs.
for nothing or nobodywiden your life.
       the organ fails.
       the monk lifts his fingers.
the water falls thru,
the light betrays.
but still.
       things get returned to:
       windows & dying plants,
the place of the buried animal,
       the couch of the magnified christmas.
       sometimes faithfully,
       sometimes in unexpected ways.
widen your circling
       flowered
       self.
light a candle,
       indicate your life
       by the act.
daybreak undresses
       in your room
       while you sleep.
the light waits
       for nothing
       or nobody,
like music of the hands,
of ocean currents.
the w
The Last Lie of SummerQuiet days, the overcast sky keeps
to itself, ignoring the living for weeks
at a time.

From half a state away-

you could hear trains roll through
towns like mine.

There is peace
and it can't be trusted

Undeserved suspicion
given to the first
fallen leaves.

This was the calm before the calm.
The man that is seen, but
nobody knows.

Promise yourself:
"Tomorrow I will say hello to him."  

But we are all too busy dressing healed wounds.
Four Things She Thought About Before She Jumped1.
She thought about her sister and how the shape of her face
became foreign in certain light, as if carved by the hands of a man
who had spent too much time on oil and canvas
to remember his own skin. Her eyes began to resemble chips of ice
as they filled with rainwater; the world like a river
that runs over them and
through them
without touching.

She thought about her sister
trying to talk in her sleep—
the way her tongue flapped uselessly
about her mouth, a coil of smooth muscle pinning itself
to her teeth. It spat syllables
like broken stones. She thought about her sister spread across
the bed sheets, palms turned upw
The Day After the FuneralHer Husky arises every few minutes,
in order to expose different parts of its mottled coat
to the flickering fire,
the dog turns in a lazy stop-start orbit
of fur and slurry-jawed yawns.

Beside the same dying flames,
a leather-bound Bible rests
on my Grandmothers lap,

an hour or so ago
the old rocking chair creak
fell silent,

now her head of silver hair
slouches to a side,
bifocals searching for escape
from the tip of her wrinkled nose,
the slow purr of her outward breath
makes a comforting sign
of late-evening life.

I should really venture out
to the dark dewy fields,
out to the open night stars,
to gather mo
Bereaved Orphanto the ugliest part of my barring psyche:
hello, beautiful.

i submit myself to you, in absolute austerity, i
present myself in all my inelegance and liability.

see: black and white, every indifference to
chromaticity the way we see naked stars at night, the way
we lose ourselves to drinking in false favor of
fanaticism and relativism, and

this is a venal apology, my
selfish justification for liberating you against your
detrimental and tragic will, my
baseless excuse for your existing inexistence, as

i bleed desperation onto these languid walls, with
the need to isolate the physical foundation of where
you are fashioned
New FaithOf course it would be foolish to assume that the relationship between us is linear:

I touch your skin.
Memories re-align
to meet the meaning in your eyes.

Of course it would be foolish to resume the old ways of believing:

There is no pain
that this moment
cannot bend into beauty.
May you find silence in every stormReflection is a clingy whore, and September
is an incoherent borderline who flees
courageously from permanent stories.
I have not forgotten how to suck
the charcoal clouds out of the sky,
how to dream fevers out of lullaby,
or how to force the synapses of spirits.
On the way home, I stopped to consider the music of the rustling fountain
and the leaves shooting water in the breeze.

And I knew love by the pitch of the owl's hoot,
I knew soul by the order of the hornet's stripe.

They wanted an apology from her.
Shannon, they said, you broke the fucking universe.
And before I could stop twitching electricity
from spitting neutrinos
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SensesTo: you,

saying Sundays are never beautiful
counting fallen meteors as wishing stars. we
dream the inconsistencies of space- timid
chemistry mapped between your rough skin
and my boneless fingers, breaking outlines of isolation
in constellations, dwelling in the abodes of time lost
beneath tearless skies.

To: me,

living amid painted strokes of genius, between
colors communicating to trebles and records in collective
urgency. let us crush the aftermath of our damaged
liberties, breathing the dire fumes of cremated guitar strings as
Van Gogh enters the centre of the last field, aims his cocked
gun and forms the sixth instance o
Solemn Mantrasit is as simple as this: an idea, present
folding between thoughts and the art of actuality.

repulsing lights.

losing itself in increments of time and becoming
a reflection of every wavelength strained between naked eyes.

ugly is a pacific word.

to hold onto erratic theories of beauty- living
never did anyone good and i swear god is a shadow.

obscure tones of loneliness.

casting himself as our close seconds, to remain
the only reminder of our fragile selves.

rain is the offspring of irony.

bent over, through, and around false detriments of knowing,
existing, believing, being.
Living Upand with good reason, should you always
breathe his sound philosophy:
follow your bliss.
Upanishads, Nietzsche and Joyce
made wise love with inundated tongues, between
progressive skies with his words the way
you hold her weary body, the way
Schopenhauer, Mann and Picasso crafted
art and theory and coated drive
in mythological sparks around his gifted head.
Notes To Dostoevskyin-out-in—out—in
1-2-8-27-46
counting sleepless breaths
to calculate and re-calculate every second lost between
quiet, earth-shattering cries- strung
through melancholic lungs and a dislodged heart,
stuck between the constricted muscles
of her taunting, tantalizing throat. feed her the sorrows
she so aches for, so longs for- spiting her
pitiful self in a circle of self-indulgence, felt
beneath her selfish pain.
Tidesand then
the spell of oceans
seeping from the coils of her eyes rest,
quietly, along the lines of
marked promises encircled between
the hollows of her collarbone. sweetheart,
never forget that the moon is responsible for
mournful tides, tides
that break through the ossified course
of her solemn body.

Featured in Groups:

:iconthewrittenrevolution: #theWrittenRevolution
The words are the spark. :iconword-smiths: #Word-Smiths

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May 14, 2012
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[x]

Achromatic Dreams

:iconunspecifiedunknown:

today, god gave me present.

-
i.

stilted windows, white bones
decaying lungs and my mind races
at the rate of a lone moth's jaded wings

we taste better alone

ii.

clemency is earned
by the damned, by the damned
arbitrary sacrifices

we belong to nobody

iii.

and she bowed with artless grace
kissed the sky, shed stardust tears
choked on angelic moonshine

we draw our own constellations
-

today, i gave god presence.
:iconunspecifiedunknown:
more wine. more skin. more cigarettes.

--

for :iconthewrittenrevolution:
critique: [link]

:bulletblack: does numerating the stanzas work?
:bulletred: i was aiming for succinctness. achieved?
:bulletblack: any grammatical/spelling/contextual errors?
:bulletred: general feedback+suggestions+critiques appreciated.

--

:icondonotuseplz::iconmyartplz:

all artwork in my gallery is my own. do not use, reproduce, or modify my images or writing in any way without my written permission.
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:iconazizriandaoxrak:
=AzizrianDaoXrak Feb 14, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Hi there! This is a friendly little note to let you know your piece has been featured!: [link]

Please consider taking a peek at the other pieces and faving the article to support the other artists :)
Reply
:iconunspecifiedunknown:
*UnspecifiedUnknown Feb 17, 2013   Writer
thank you ever so kindly :heart:
honoured
Reply
:iconazizriandaoxrak:
=AzizrianDaoXrak Feb 17, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
^^ You're so welcome!
Reply
:iconrenzemian:
~renzemian Feb 14, 2013  Professional Traditional Artist
:bulletblack: does numerating the stanzas work?
No.

However, art is subjective, as are opinions. I am perplexed by it but enjoyed it thoroughly.
Reply
:iconunspecifiedunknown:
*UnspecifiedUnknown Feb 17, 2013   Writer
:heart:
Reply
:iconswansisters:
*swansisters Aug 6, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Beautiful but last line superb. Gave me joyful chills. <3
Reply
:iconunspecifiedunknown:
*UnspecifiedUnknown Aug 7, 2012   Writer
i'm glad it did :heart:
Reply
:iconjas08:
~jas08 Jun 10, 2012
Once again, I find myself jealous of the way you sculpt words. Achingly beautiful, this piece is deeply philosophical and if we look beneath the words we can find a sense of loneliness tinted with self confidence.
What really makes this poem, for me, is the single, italicized lines.
Reply
:iconunspecifiedunknown:
*UnspecifiedUnknown Jun 10, 2012   Writer
thank you :heart:
how i love your comments on my pieces. "tinted with self confidence"-
quite grateful you caught that.

i like the italicized lines too
Reply
:iconjas08:
~jas08 Jun 11, 2012
You are most welcome. I may not always understand your work but I do try to see the emotion behind the words. (pssst, you are one of my favorite writers here)
Reply
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