[x]

Liquid Cityhere, at the bottom - lovers.
there are lovers disassembling
themselveslost in and to the
desperate motion in
of - waves.

- did you think the continents
moved themselves? see them slip,

in an open sleep. less go, come.
come and, and - again. trembling

here, at the bottom - their eyes
are lightless. hollow bodies left
restless,

the sea does not sleep.

starspunobserving the romanticism
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.

you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
you watched
all my pick up lines
drop things.

we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
of starlight,

pretended
that two teens at the park
at midnight
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)

your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
in thoughtful
paths.

i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.

i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
stars

the back of your head against my washed pillowcaseI find it
disconcerting
that
you are the King
of my own Head
& that I am
subjugated
by my own
temptation

My bones, your
welcome mats,
cushioned
to your insatiable
satisfaction

--

I find this
discomforting,
your constant
rebirths in my
libido, despite
three years of
silent therapy,
false recovery
& worshipping
the wrong gods

you are the best muse
for struggling artists
everywhere & worst
case of the bubonic plague
since the bubonic plague

--

I find you
disenchanted
in the middle
of any where,
peeling flesh,
lulling sullen
sirensongs at
3AM

I shot a flock
of phoenixes
& ate Adam's
poison apple

Star SwallowerShe's
an enigma.
her head, a stadium drowning with applause.
yet its seats are empty like the notebooks
where armies of words should be marching.
instead she dismantles clocks
thinking she can play with time.
behind the mountains lurks a darker reasoning
a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations
hidden from the suns brilliance.

Years alone beneath the bleached fluorescent
reading those already dancing in the moonlight.
she is living a literary half-life through them
hiding from the symmetry of the writer.
licking salty rocks of excuses.
saving her secrets for posthumous excavation.
decades of productivity left for moths to chew.
you're throw

cliffcliff
e.bojnowski

on velvet roads,
I impale a belated dawn
with my incisors and
shiver with perfect leaves-

I have no qualms
with the dark hills
that slope
and stagger into
a bed of scorched fly husks:

where
the thrum of the ground
melds
with the rapids in
my clairvoyant ears.

windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,
as lithe as your impermanence.
and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,
spoonholed piles of mexican brick
where nothing ever touches down,
nothing here alive receives
the plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,
the ugly wind that meets the mudline.

[metaphors]
1. a mottled fence
2. and how these storms hold faceless teeth
that slat their eyes through butter-wood
then purge their guts on wintered florets
4. some freshly headless nativities,
their polyethylene skirts upturned
from violent sacks
5. and knowing i’m a souless
speck

i lick at what is manifest
beneath your

a second skeletoni. introduction

i was born 4425 miles away from here.
my heart still lingers there.
i don't want to have it back.

i go through the motions,
don't ask me for emotions.

i once thought i could be happy,
my mistake can be forgiven;
i was so much younger.

now i know better
than to expect anything.
because the only time you can lose,
is when you love something.

that's why i love myself.

The Hungry SeasonThe Hungry Season
“The next season will be the hungry season.”
Moses M. Kolinmore

A stem, a leaf, a stem,
a stem again,

and the army of our bodies
hanging from the branches
of the Dahoma trees.

We come to this as moths
on Saharan winds

with no malice but the wings’
direction, our caterpillar mouths,
our waiting numbers

cocooned in dirt. We are
aching and glutted

but hungry still, even as
we strip the canopy bare of leaves
and foul each river black

with waste below us –
our gruesome chatter asking,

as we fall into the dirt
to reshape what we are,
can you imagine the hunger?

But of course you can; of c

the eyepatch and the handcuffs     his hands have promised
     to wipe off every fingerprint
     your last lover left on you

     he has sworn he will
     wear gloves, when he needs to,
     and pay attention to the instructions on the boxes

     "this side up"
     and "fragile"

     and you have sworn
     you will try to let him

     i hear your bodies whispering these things to each ot

The Farmers SonWe sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridges
like the smoke from some great unseen inferno,
the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to us
in low groans,
of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,

and there was flickering light from a candle,
and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspond
in some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythm

and I believed that part,

and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey day
and that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythms
or any question a farmers son could ever

The Cat on the PorchYou asked me why I do not believe in ghosts,
celestial at four in the morning.
It becomes the common hour,
not a biting static shock in the eye veins like I anticipated
but dangerously vogue and precious
like a real diamond ring or sapphires on your breast.
No wood pecking or oil teasing or misshapen duck bills bleating
just clay, but lighter, lightest
and bright
seductive and crestfallen.

They bled Peter and Pangloss over a river.
I was wearing white for the funeral
humming 'home', the matronly letters
soothe me
clotheshorses and moonlight,
Mayan jewellery in my cabinet
the mother tongue kissing my molars better

But then there

Harvest MoonThree a.m. moonlight
across lazy dust motes; a
tree scrapes the window.
Your arm weighs on my hip like
whispered promises of love.

I Took To Howling With YouI was shy at first, timid in my dealings,
I laced the trap against my throat,
sang sparing, tip-toed
around your poems.

The tone, the slow vibrating
from the shoots of my shoulders
to the gleam of polished talons,
it purred around inside me.

Oh the song, Coyote,
the same resigned call, it
paled before you, swallowed down its insides,
wept.

I took your little hand in my big hand,
flew out towards Crow, and for a while
My Love, there were poems
and the world was enough.

I took to howling with you,
down from the branches, safe
womb of the tree, I spread
dirt between my toes, sang happy,

sang the song of free,
your wild howl

A ParenthesisYou were (a parenthesis, that paused
the daily, mundane stuff
of life;
a bundled breath
of fresh joy,
and borne in the wonder
of love.

Gasping and grasping,
'til in quiet you laid
still;
and I, my Child,
lie in quiet, still
tears).

And now, that is all you are,
and still so much more.

6:30:09what i wouldn't give
to have my body sink down
into yours, cocooned
in the tumultuous quicksand
of human flesh.

i have never been so moved
as by your touch, the slinking seeping
brush. the universe dispels
and in the absence of everything,
i am less alone
than i have ever been.

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speculations - 1from a comment to AlecBell:
[edited and expanded for additional clarity]

could spirit be, [perhaps evolved to], an ultimate funtion of matter?

what of our perceived reality as opposed to quantum reality?
isn't consciouness, [thus some spiritual awareness], involved there?
or, is our perceived reality a totally brain based function?

is awareness between paired atoms, [entanglement], 'beyond' matter,
thus somehow appropriately considered as spiritual?

questions such as these, so far unanswered, [as far as i know],
leave me open-minded-agnostic, rather than completely atheist -
though an interventionist singular being is sufficiently d

make no mistakea couple,
perspectives
perfectly matched,
should persist,
perhaps.

those not well paired,
yet held securely,
like a harvest past its time,
tend to rend apart.

beware. pheremones,
soft and moth hypnotic,
compel tunnel vision.
one may not sense the presence
of some soul-
mate searching perfect heart.

for empathic empowerment,
cast off blinders;
let keepers
attract their finders.

llp - jan2011 - dA

uncommon introspectionas we watch, we
know we are laden,
and living with
relative burden.

the eyes have it,
the skin, the ways
many, we have;
all of it says

who we are. who
we think we are,
if the same on
occasion, rare

as eclipse on a
winter solstice.
more rare still
do we even notice,

when in and out
cast a common shadow.
when symmetry shines
like a frozen rainbow,

for a minute, ten
minutes, an hour
of alignment, while
holding an open door,

but even then, do
we look, do we see?
if so, how deep will
our comprehension be?

llp - jan2011 - dA

some have it backwardthere's nothing snug
about guns;
in fact,
quite the opposite.

because,
if we are going to live,
they must not do your evil.

llp - jan2011 - dA

Tucson, 9:00am, 1-10-2011mirror the tears
of community, city,
county, state, nation,
as for one minute,
we pause symbolically,
officially,
silently.

clearer we hear
of an absense of reason
behind his attempt
to murder this woman.
no cause politically,
insanity
surely.

nearer the fear
comes upon our existance,
despite our resistance
to reward revenge.
we process internally,
thoughtfully,
logically.

newly the year
brought forth a requirement
to tame the rhetoric,
because it enflames,
dividing us senselessly,
hatefully,

[once again]

murderously.

llp - jan2011 - dA

somewhat God-like, but notthough i don't believe there is a God,
why don't i say there is no God?

...because i cannot Know that.

there seems to be
an imperative
within the varied id of us,
to need a higher power.

my need is one for benevolence,
to eminate forth from the origin,
not a God-ness, but a emphasis,
a cooperative force, a cosmic win-win -
a reason to face the dawn again?

in one clear word - yes!

... so, i theorize this:

there is dark matter and energy,
ongoing astro-mystery.
there is no answer clear to me,
what becomes of our identity
when we pass into eternity.

i propose total awareness,
evolved from a building sentience,
coalescing wit

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the tease of Earl Grey

by *alapip, Jan 24, 2013, 10:03:08 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

when leaves speak they rustle
but shan't talk of lost cattle

out of bags like cats lying
purring perhaps stirring

gainsaying the language
of pictures - much fewer
than one thousand words
whispered soft - softer

ours to read into
by catching a hint of
some spiciness brewed
a sugaring of love -

or upcoming danger
a giving or taking
from whom in this strange land
once was a stranger

by this chance assessed
through one's cup or glass
darkly lit yet it be
from wet leavings of tea

hopefully let it be
the sugaring of love -

llp - dA - jan2013
DD - feb1/2013

the tease of Earl Greyby *alapip

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

inspired by -

Tea LeavesI’m afraid of tea leaves,
how they swirl
and settle in my cup,

determining my fortune

I stare
and wonder what they say

I seek someone who can read them,
who can tell me,
before I wake tomorrow morning,

what my future brings

I pour milk into the steaming cup
throw in a little sugar,

and wait

thank you, Lisa!

edits - reconfigured - added 2 stanzas - same day.
edits - various tweaks, plus last 2 lines - jan25/2013.

DD! my first! - feb1/2013.

pip