all of a sudden passion suddenly

[vampiredust]

The River of my Grandfather


The palms of his hands
were like dried up riverbeds,
each crack a tributary
splitting over and over again.
We never traced their source
after he was gone, preferring
to wait until rain returned.
But none appeared and we
were left with only the touch
in our minds, rough as lizard
skin. Every now and then
I check for signs of those familiar
cracks, feeling nothing but dry
and empty heat.

 

[drown]

vistas

at the tap of a finger.

may you be lost​

 

[vampiredust]

15 Seconds

No time to write. Quickly
goes the fingers leaping
from key to key. Quick
quick. Out goes the comic
book bubbles of thought.
I watch them linger on my
bedroom ceiling, slowly
waiting for the gas of each
word to dissipate.

 

[twelveoone]

Fuck the people
with the long poems. Poets
who pull words out of the wind,
out of the whirl of sutra-genius
to paint them on pages like silk
carresses skin. Fuck their deep
meaning, their nuance, fuck
their metaphor and alliteration,
their syndoche similes can go
to hell in a handbasket and while
we're at it fuck the people
with the short poems, the haiku
harridens, the koen carriers
who dip the toe of your awareness
into the lake of nature imagery,
the waves that cymbal crash
or gut punch. That's right you
know who I mean. Fuck
their murmuring trees and finger branches
that reach into bones, pinch
until you remember the gravel
at mountain's edge and the long
climb up to the end of the world.
Fuck them. The medium people,
the middle people, the mulling
multitudes who ever thought
they were speaking to you and me?
Fuck me, too. Fuck this sunny day,
fuck my possibilities, drag me
into the light and poke me
with critique but please, please
read my poem.

Wrap it up and send it to DeepAsleep

 

[normal jean]

silver gray, in the right-of-way
front paws up and curled.
I wondered what he was thinking
and maneuvered around his body.

a prayer, a pray-er, last breath captured
by rush hour traffic, by dawn
he'll be picked clean or flattened

but I was impressed by the expression
on his tiny gray face- everything
a man or squirrel can learn
all learned in a split second fall

such peace that accompanies such
stark repose.

 

[champagne1982]

Baby, it's dark outside
and I just wanna talk
No, don't put your fingers
inside the lacy garnish
on my tits

Don't move your lips
in pantomime of sensibility

I want to talk
about mundane worlds
of grocery stores
and leftovers in the fridge

Don't stroke the inseam
of my jeans like that

Talk to me
while I can listen
to words of traffic
and weather

Don't promise me toes
curled tight on the ends
of rigored legs as rictus
grinning skulls moan
their death against
the ceiling

I can't think
I want to die
Shut up

 

[normal jean]

vistas

at the tap of a finger.

may you be lost​

AMEN!

 

[tungtied2u]

I do not love myself
enough to improve, I do not
hate myself enough to end it
I lie in limbo, a hammock
strung between to extremes
swing back and forth,
my fabric wears thin
sun bleached, wind whipped
fast frozen then mildewed
season to season, I exist
as each takes its toll
What memories I have
slip away, unsustainable
too heavy for my heart to hold

 

[WickedEve]

March,
deeper shade,
serrated trees,

red hat
blues me away.

Leaving you,
deep blue autopilot,
Little California snap-out,
snap-in, shady drive.

 

[normal jean]

I do not love myself
enough to improve, I do not
hate myself enough to end it
I lie in limbo, a hammock
strung between to extremes
swing back and forth,
my fabric wears thin
sun bleached, wind whipped
fast frozen then mildewed
season to season, I exist
as each takes its toll
What memories I have
slip away, unsustainable
too heavy for my heart to hold

TT, this is so melancholy and beautiful. I kinda know how you feel. Hold on to this poem, its a keeper.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

I keep glancing back to see a trail
of the little bent pieces of myself
wrecks I can't keep under my coat
in pockets or in the clutch
of even ten fingers.

There are women (and I am not
one) who make these trails
into art. The twists of lovers write
dedications from their pretzeldoms.
The tossed insults and compliments
wave on the wind like trailing scarves
pointing to the diva from the post
of her wake.

My wreckage rattles behind--
tin cans bumped free of the string
tied to the bumper.

 

[tungtied2u]

Thanks for the comment on my poem above NJ. I sorta like this by Pandora.Has a similar feel, don't you think ?
Nice work PG....

I keep glancing back to see a trail
of the little bent pieces of myself
wrecks I can't keep under my coat
in pockets or in the clutch
of even ten fingers.

There are women (and I am not
one) who make these trails
into art. The twists of lovers write
dedications from their pretzeldoms.
The tossed insults and compliments
wave on the wind like trailing scarves
pointing to the diva from the post
of her wake.

My wreckage rattles behind--
tin cans bumped free of the string
tied to the bumper.

 

[tungtied2u]

I cannot write
to write I must think
thinking hurts my heart
the pain turns to tears
the tears blur my sight
I can't see the keys
I stop and weep wanting
to express not wanting to
express who cares anyway
I've nothing left to say
anyone wants to hear
the silence which shouts
when I try to write

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Thanks for the comment on my poem above NJ. I sorta like this by Pandora.Has a similar feel, don't you think ?
Nice work PG....

Thank you, Tungtied, I think you did inspire me.

 

[WickedEve]

Imogene cringes from the ash
and ground-out-butt smell of him. Even where he hangs heavy,
it lingers. Imogene is a simmered oil,
reed diffuser, lit wick kind of woman --
a little bit of a fuss
she is.

Imogene brought death to his freezer.
Life -- animated and blatant -- should not
be. She drove her chemical stakes through
their (oh, you know) hearts.

Imogene is bad.
Yes, bad Imogene. She discovers
things, the way she slips on ice.
Accidentally.

Discovery:
Bottles of sad diamonds
[Interruption]
Skin.
Violaceous rounds are darling in pain and kill
the blue diamonds. Her dire moans,
twisted beautiful-side out,
now slide down his throat,
to swell and leave the tip aloft.
[/Interruption]
then female, manic letters. She understands those
words, frenetic like her own carvings,
blood communications,
slit screams of relief.

Imogene feels the slap,
though not on her face,
but in her hand. She has been that man-angry.
So she strikes the sentence from her head,
and wonders about other pages, and

if he will again go for a thrill --
there were three, slick bodies.

She doesn't want him bathing in Beam,
bad-mouthing,
good-timing...

I'm sorry.
I've lost the thought-flow.
"I'm sorry,"
he once wrote.
He hasn't told me
too often,
yet.​

~

 

[vampiredust]

Geothermal

Like Earth's jukebox,
the core, a reflection
in the mirror retains
its heat. The glacial
stare of commuters
melts with its glance,
the escaping steam
forcing each muscle
to boogie with some
unseen undertow.

 

[vampiredust]

Tim

Laughing behind my back
was the glue that held his face
together. Treating me
like a sideshow freak (forcing
me to drink out of a used can,
feeding me until I threw up)
covering up hairline cracks
on his cheeks and forehead.
Once I asked out a girl he knew,
not knowing he had set me up.
I noticed a small flake missing
from above his lip when he
confessed at school the next day.
He works now in Bristol
as a surveyor. Without me
he resembles Darkman,
the bandages covering up a hollow
face. I'm not sure there was ever
anything underneath. Perhaps
it was all darkness.

 

[vampiredust]

Leprosy

Somewhere behind
the computer screen
is a man working
the intricate system
of pulleys and levers
that bring YouTube,
Google and Yahoo!
Listening to the gattling
gun rattle of tapping
keys makes him alert,
so don't ever dare stop.
Be careful when you
sleep, though. He likes
to creep out and whisper
lies in your ears before
curling back in his cage.
Like a rabbit that caught
the fox long before
the hounds.

 

[tungtied2u]

Another night, alone exhausted prone
yet I know what I seek will elude me
obscured by the running of the bulls
on my ceiling, or in my wall
as the klaxon sounds and the sub plumbs
new depths, evasive action required

On guard duty, one cannot escape
awareness, awaiting the next bad dream
which steals in on the breeze
between the blinds, pours poison
into your mind like a whisper
but ears aren't required for entry

Itches and aches, life threatening
at this hour multiply like parasites
supping on their favorite host
I'm toast, burnt out, crumbling
spread out but past partaking
ready for the tip, bury me

 

[vampiredust]

Comet

The comet inked on her right
ankle made a fuss when the treacle
smeared on her breasts swirled
when it came into contact
with the superheated core
lying next to her; the resulting
redshift causing it to melt
and dissipate across her nebula
of skin.

 

[champagne1982]

You scream like the lead in some band
no melody, just anger. Anger that smashes
my head like a hammer bangs roofing
nails. You curse like a roofer;
fuck prick ass and cunt the sampler

of noise forced from a throat prostesting
what, you do not know. You'll never know
since no one hears the fear inside
that wordless screech as someone cracks
their skull on the concrete of the floor.

Tomorrow you can whisper how sorry
life has made you.

 

[Liar]

Leprosy

Somewhere behind
the computer screen
is a man working
the intricate system
of pulleys and levers
that bring YouTube,
Google and Yahoo!
Listening to the gattling
gun rattle of tapping
keys makes him alert,
so don't ever dare stop.
Be careful when you
sleep, though. He likes
to creep out and whisper
lies in your ears before
curling back in his cage.
Like a rabbit that caught
the fox long before
the hounds.

Trippy, man.

 

[vampiredust]

Narrators

The narrators hiding inside
my bedroom walls have never
revealed themselves. I know
they are there watching, hearing
their commentary when I eat,
brush my teeth and sleep.
Once I felt a hand brushing
against me when I slept,
followed by a click and a whirr.
The bruises on my leg and chest,
souvenirs.

 

[Eluard]

Europe after the rain

You my purest water,
. . . ... .My unscaleable air.
. . . . . . .. . .Dove sta amore.

Your honeyed cunt, shaped like a single candle flame: feel my breath
. . . . Inches away.
This is the unrenormalised time of history —
. . . . . . . . . ..You grow silent at its red door.

. . . . . . . . . ..Here are
. . . . . . . . . ..secret messages for you to read
Full of an unspeakable, impossible love that drove me to the edge
Of lovelessness.

Read them
As the dark widens, as the night increases, your tears are all for me.

This emptiness that we call poetry
. . ..Is a god-shaped passage
. . . . ..In which I can come to you once more.

Our shadows cross like swords.

 

[Vampiric_Mirage]

I offer this, my humble thanks
to many whom I know

To those who I read when I visit here
and everyone who has touched me so

I've shed many a tear browsing this site
and some naughtier emotions too

but so much of what I have become
has been inspired by people like you

So for those of you who read this poem
(and magically somehow for those who don't)

take a minute to appreciate yourself
for whether you like it or not

the things you write here for so many to see
that are responded to by so few

often affect some of our lives
more than you ever knew...