[x]

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

Achromatic Dreamstoday, 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.

The Book of Longing and ForgivenessI.

I welcome
the grief of elephants
and the shards of slowness
in time.

The last breathing tombs
in this earth are eternal
constructs

they
manifest the degree
of my sorrow and forgetfulness.

I embrace the natural laws
of regret.

but of love,

I'm sorry.

I avoid the sound of leaving.

II.

The oceans heave.

The sky, breath heavy
for a single drop--

two bodies of water
colliding.

The earth thirsts.

You don't know,
the half-life of all
my longing leads to you.

I wait for the sound
of forgiveness everyday

a knock on the door, a phone call,
your voice shifting the air
under this vast sky

my heart wanders to this
perfect shade of blue

PixieI never had enough faith in you,
my best postmodern pixie friend,
who presses herself against my shoulder
killing her fall with leaning.
You taught me something new
about anxiety today:

   how to wake
up when it's morning, how to miss
dactylic illness with the parched
indelicacy of a crinkled sun.
In the eternal rendition you say
your name is always in the vocative
   case, and only vocative:

says the girl
who taught a smaller girl to sing,
a girl of thirteen, with the same
nimble character we shared, the same
calderical eyes we shared.

   The girl's voice
tumb

DormantSleep and sway and constancy
rain, two steady days, then three--
the horses crackle through the leaves
and stamp away the mud.
Brown grass lies tired, over-grazed,
bit down from roots to dirt
but winter lends her sympathy.

Her breath, the sharp-edged air;
her arms, the gaunt-limbed trees;
she paces, slow
where field mice cross themselves
against the shadow of the wing
and sacrifice their young.

I go wordless, spellbound
trading bravery for sleep,
alone and sound; a bed
where I abandon you,
the livid world I sought,
I find
that I was never yours
and you were never mine.

Constituent Analogiescome revolution, come peace.

and through these tiring times, remember: our
textile-memory is what conceptualizes the freedom we taste
when calcified bones empty holy relief on
the artless curvature of barren wombs, on
the frail backbones of young birds, when

the difference between context and chaos unfolds
by simply isolating the trace of disjointed fingers on fervent skin, by
calculating and determining every solitary atom between
lonely earth and lethargic cosmic bonds, but

this isn't about the need for liberty marshaled by
the simultaneous release of collective sighs strung through the lungs
of our dispirited youth, but of

PleonasmI present to you the meticulous art of insanity.

finding synthetic relief from consciousness
in the abodes of artificial light- lungs
pleading for the taste of false atmosphere, skin
repeatedly bruised and scarred by the detriment of
fragile existence. broken nails tracing over
misplaced hipbones, carving "figlio di puttana" until
sordid blood trickles over transverse, tender thighs-
asserting the insincerity of innocence. spinal cord
arching and rearranging delicate discs in riposte to
rectifying, wrecked bass strings- shoulder blades
threatening to collapse into tired, flightless wings. skin
crawling with the uneasiness o

PositiveLeft to me, your worst historian,
to pick up, in a daze, some depth of diction
I never found while you had lived

and I can only now pretend that words are capsules
of sanguinity, that they’ll unmask the symbologies
of sound that bore your binaries to their realms
like sacred dreams of Hypnos.
Regret’s a simple word.

I always thought of "A Separate Peace", and in those scenes
you were this Mozart in the rough, a perfect chord, one
which I would meekly channel through cracks of light
shown through the fist of my own interference,
steady indifference.

Callousice-crystals fall from absolute sky
kissing soft earth, eyes tempering
hardened soil to harder still-
tasting frozen breaths between
carved limbs intertwined by
the caress of constant
contours: shattered spine, on
cracked rib, on numb toes, on
every sigh in correlation with:

"stay, under this unfaithful
cold, a blanket of every last promise
your youthful self proclaimed for its own."

Amante at MariaLove was all the rage at 17.

Amante, in the twilight
of his youth went his way
unbound, enraptured.

The phonographs
played melodic saturations
of love foretold,
drowning his own inner
salient beats.

He wanders,
edgewise of reason
past shops, the town market

and falls
mid-veranda and entangled
in the throes of desire

against a backdrop of roses
and that Old World culture
so-filled with passion
rattan lattices, cedar chests
mementos of Spanish ancestry

set upon a glassy-eyed, kaleidescopic
beauty, imagining bougainvilleas
in the midday heat.

A born conquistador
struck by the frenzy
of the feeling
he searches for her,

to my mother who speaks windwhat went through your mind when you left
that country of redembered sacrifice and
glorious golden farsi? mother, i love this

place here: louisiana. mother, i love how its
humidity vies for my attention and smothers me
lush as halfripened fruit. rolling the
sweat down the divide of my back like a nail

scratching one teasing line down the spine
of a book, coaxing it open. how did you
take the shadow man's hand and flee? i can't
imagine you took flight by a sagebundled night

(all wrapped up in its earthly mercy, waiting to
burn and settle the ruffled spirits). i
imagine you swaddled your immense dignity
in your youthful ancient hands

JackIn my 57th year there was Jack
grey curls, leggy and long,
scratchy-chinned
and warm as August
from head to thigh.

"You're the best thing
and the worst thing
that ever happened to me,"
he whispered into the night
giving love in parentheses,
and I fit just under his arm.

"We should have met
when we were young,"
he said, my hands tracing
the broad spring of his chest.

"This is going to be hard."
Air dry as cotton.
Heart, too heavy to fly.

Absencefind me, in the creases between my skin-- the
long scar running through my index finger and straight
into my dejected, wretched heart.

do you remember where my soul is? it is hiding, skeptic
behind a masterly molded veneer of composure; cracked and framed
with dark eyes and a cryptic past.

and in the midst of the commotion between
my mind and my brain, synapses connecting neurons formed
by your dead stare is where I find peace.

those tan lines are contrived not from the burn of sun on my pale skin,
but from those small seconds constituted when realization is this:
what once was will never be.

therein lies

Spacebound HumanovaLet's speak in chiaroscuro accents, and play notes
Of festive peace.

We can wheeze our way through Queen of the Night Aria
And make dead art beautiful again, lest we impregnate
Our freebasing nicotine and ammonia enriched coal lungs
With an angel voice made dime.

Let's burn our living skeletons, in opposition
Of children who only dream of Afghanistan in spaces of static, and
For smoking stars celebrating the past life and torrid bones
Of protesting Tibetan monk remains made real.

I want to break your ribs, preferably save and tattoo
The eighth one down on your left side with the number eight, sideways-
An indication of my irid

Starvein the wake of aftermath,
our barefoot youth follow the finality
of fatalism- rumbling poverty
in swollen hunger nestled with warmth
on static in a room full of
overflowing busts, halving the distance of
craving oceans with shallow
qualms. our skin-cracked, sun-caked innocents
spin gravity with gouged tongues plagued
by sublime words etched deep within the marrow
of their unforgiving, merciless
bones, within the depths of neglected minds to
be felt only by those carving graves
with stubborn, heavy fingers through false empathy.
in the wake of aftermath, we
remember the abstraction of our faith in humanity.

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Torrentr a i n – when
breathing becomes more
of a fallacy than reality.

Unchangingi'm fine
fine is attributed to many articles;
feelings, minds. the mundane.
materialistic bullshit.

she sang in a tune of colors.
in? out. terse. breathe—in, out. within.
sporadically controlled. my teeth like
breaking words never spoken.

i never really liked spiders.
i love to think i do.

Nadaher name resonates with the Nile, amid
gypsy tides vibrating with the cry of every
bard living under Egyptian bare-back sun; Rosetta Stone
carrying Demotic scripts of the radiance in this name.

her eyes reflect that of Isis, echoed by
that solace kite driven by the force of sorrow determined  by
Osiris; when her raw tears flood the autonomy
of the rich Nile every year.

her skin weeps of petrichor, of Alexandria, of
suckle-sweet Sycamore trees shadowing the Nile; and
the redolence emulating  from the flush of lotus in her
ever-bearing blood-lust veins.

and, Cleopatra
can never do her justice.

Of Wisdomin bursts of innocence, somewhere
along the lines of carved faces ingrained in
grass stains permanent across his playful knees,
tenacity weaves through the creases between his
soft lips and everlasting internal sunshine, resting, at last
at the edge of his solicit freedom intertwined with
her ringing laughter and his wistful eyes- finding, that
wisdom rests with no religious dogma, but
with the spaced smile permanent across
his beautiful face.

In Breaksto say the least: in times of retrospection,
those dire moments when his confusion would elope
with a thousand of her tired languages, clemented thoughts
were crushed by the base of her cracked teeth. perhaps,

inconclusive to the fact that
god had left the unheard solace of his dreams to be heard
in waking hours, when his broken spine would find a niche of
comfort in the taste of her fragrant skin.

and living with Rumi
becomes unbearable.

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In Self I Trust

by *UnspecifiedUnknown, Apr 18, 2012, 2:36:31 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

^{i. my being rests between each pink-to-charcoaled layer of heavy lungs.

ii. freedom is felt in the spaces amidst the limbs of a lost psyche, and forever falls one step short of breathlessness, invincible. reel back and forth, in and out of time and celebrate: you are the product of your own starving attrition. pour every emotion resulting from beautifying lost causes into the basins of fugal minds. i promised my countered self to live through the art of manic insanity, to pull free from the daisy chain amusement my body was motioned to be, setting blackness free to elope with stark-white light felt in the pigments beneath this barren skin: peace.

iii. some days i find myself descending into the choked, charted waters of kaleidoscope hallucinations; each ebb and flow a glorified example of my ruptured seams. i lay my head to break gravity's consuming cry, trying to find the smallest of silver linings in the gold-streaked sky. twilight, i trace god's melancholic fingertip paintings, canvassing each and every titanic constellation until i swallow the right star to fill my misunderstood innards, reflecting and refracting light-stroked wanderlust to sooth my rattling ribcage (breaking free), fortified by the soft-spoken language of his aging tongue.

iv. he calls himself a fêted manipulator and me his darling marionette, coiling the glassy curls of my vitrified heartstrings around thick, scalding fingers; each twist and turn only that much closer to breaking the delicate surface of the harrowing rhythm of my marble heart. he whispers with the breath of forlorn westerlies, promising to scatter the remains of my ashen cinders on the sweet scent of mother's tears- my deity.

v. thick eyelashes and protruding collarbones: home. rest, stealing the spirits of the hollowing dead, rest. i can taste the distinction between your dying heart and my breathless chest- these muted bones seek the obscurities of your dread, rest. forgive and forget.

vi. we only part to make ends meet once again (paradoxical cycle). i was always told listlessness
was just a word used to describe the acceptance of reality.

embrace.}

In Self I Trustby *UnspecifiedUnknown

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

^{today, i confronted god.

**edit** (01/07/12)
format change

--

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.}

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

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=Sammur-amat Jun 12, 2013 General Artist

stunning word-choice and it all just naturally flows with such ease. brava, beautiful soul!

`FuzzyHoser Jun 6, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

This is really stunning, dear.
Gorgeous wording and just great pacing.
I love this.

~WilliamDallwitz May 25, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Der Wintersturm der Seele. Stark.

*UnspecifiedUnknown May 26, 2013 Writer

*your-methamphetamine May 24, 2013 Student Writer

if i could, i'd favourite every word you say.

*UnspecifiedUnknown May 25, 2013 Writer

~UndertheShaydeWood May 23, 2013

I am an imagist myself, in that I crave and seek the indescribeable in words, in mental imagery and metaphors - but you have elevated the art of metaphor and allusion to an extreme that is almost emotionally and intellectually orgasmic (excuse the use of this word - it is far too crude to adequately describe my impressions, but the only one I can find which begins to explore the depth of metaphysical understanding your poetry transmits) I understand each reference and image, but I am at a loss to explain each's connectiveness outside of a long, long essay. I am extremely jealous of your ability to merge thought with thought, image with image. But not too jealous to appreciate and enjoy the depth of your work. I could mine away at the bedrock of your meaning but never exhaust its potential.

*UnspecifiedUnknown May 23, 2013 Writer

^{noted you thank you, love}

~UndertheShaydeWood May 24, 2013

I have noted you back - please read it and know that my heart and mind are with you, that you will always be an artist worthy of acclaim and interest.

`thetaoofchaos May 3, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

"setting blackness free to elope with stark-white light"

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In Self I Trust

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