all of a sudden passion suddenly

[vampiredust]

Blackberries

They boil in the pan, colouring
the sugar a shade of dark blue;
the pup-pup-pup of bubbling
a consolation prize for the cut

hands and strained muscles.
No-one is sure if they want
to pick again. Not after the
briars hacking at our skin

or the shock of finding a nest
of blackbirds deep inside
the bush, glaring at the dark
being hauled out.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Do you get blackberries at a different time of year from us then? We get nests in the Spring and blackberries in the Autumn

 

[WickedEve]

Sleep should be in heaviness
of draped suns, in my fetish flaws,
and driftwood room.

We drive the Run,
beyond felled light--dusk
and rain spitting us out, away
from soft slumber. His bed is rigid,
a stern lover

for our weariness.
Quiet hour
and hour,
then no more.
Broken REM

scatters back upon the Run--
not pieced together
until drifts and drapes reappear.

"Let me sleep."

For a moment--
cheek and breath against the sheet--
eyes open to the day
that breaks through slats.
He wakes inside me.

"Let me sleep...
in a moment."

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Gorgeous, Eve.

 

[Lady Reiha]

Golden Cloud.

Open your heart.
A piece torn between ancient times,
The Edo period
of Japan.

A white lotus appears.
As deadly as the moonless night.
Eternity under fire.

The clash of the silver blade,
blood splattered clothes.
Black hair flying towards the wind.

A falcon cry.
Elemental range of the samurai sword.
Peaceful eternity.

 

[WickedEve]

Gorgeous, Eve.

Thank you.

Disastrous Dirk

Swing him by his neck,
gently though,
with string,
to and fro.

Yarn perhaps,
a violet skein,
unraveled,
then noosed and slipped
over his head.

There withers a willow; westward
lie sturdier trees--
loop violent knots
for the hanging branch.

Oh, I mustn't,
mustn't, mustn't...
must!

 

[WickedEve]

Tia in a tansu
(a sendai-dansu)
begs to be folded,
like kimono,
placed in a single, zelkova drawer,

but would have settled for splintered crate,
small space of some fashion.
Confined,
she longs to live

on you. Drink rum,
rivers, or rain. Let thirst
conquer the tartness from a legion of limes.
She requests
the way of tea to pass through

you to her--before you slide the key
back into the bo.

 

[WickedEve]

A fistful of hair
(unearthed from dirt
and sweat of his chest)
takes new root. Locks sprout from spilt
fuck that seeps deeper

into evergreen rugs. Spent,
body heats early growth. Steam rises
but I remain--

bound by dreads
of auburn vines.

 

[WickedEve]

Mabel misses the lifted rump
and lofty bosoms of twenty-nine,
twenty-four,
twenty-something.

Her Ford drives
only
in reverse--
twenty years of drooping metal
and wrinkled leather.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

There is no shearing of hair, severing of limbs
no screaming and wailing and damning
him to hell. There is none of that
nor writing. Nor writing. Just

a weight in the chest as big as a bread box
or a baby but heavy as any death
while at the corpse's side I brush
hairs into place and love still

and breathless. This is why I
cannot write, cannot speak,
cry without breath. I have no air
for it.

 

[Tzara]

PG & Eve:

You are both simply smoking here. And, well, smoking must be at least 25 feet from the entrance of any public building in Washington State. Sorry. Back up a bit. Bit further. Thanks!




Excellent poems, ladies. Really good.

Eve, your current Av looks like a lost Van Eyck: Feet of Christ on a Ceiling Fan. Like, it should be in the Uffizi.

Your photo stuff is always interesting, I guess is what I'm saying. Carry on.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

clacking down the street bones
tumble over one another happy
to be in his cart that rolls day
in and out down the street
high whistle higher than we
humans can hear but oh
the doggies come bounding
happy and slavering
feet upon feet and glad ears
bouncing for his bones
collected from the dead
souls who kissed his tar black tire
with reverence reserved for
the lonely dead

 

[WickedEve]

A green door --
color of sickness--
I want to peel the scabbing paint,
splinter its jambs,

leave it ailing
and locked.

Last night is through the keyhole.

There are no doors
on marsh path, none to open
for corn fields or coffee.

I built a house,
for a day,
without doors...
except the green one,
but

I will have to beat it down.

 

[WickedEve]

I was a one-way whore,
like a street you have to go south on;
lower than dust and I'm really
not sure what depth that is.

You mesmerized with circumferences
and rubber bands,
but I was cut open, never
stretched.

I think I shall be sick at the sight
of the turquoise towel -- oily,
then wrapped around the nudity
of it all.

Against the slender iron bars
and a wall of blood wax spatter,
I became small.

I hate the moon
and feared it through the window.
You were fanged in its light.

"Cunt" bit away pieces,
and I dreamt of your fist--
opening me.

You beat the love off of my face,
and this time the blade slit only
dreams.

 

[WickedEve]

Behind the green door:
shunned place
we once slipped through --
boar trees
and gutted sky,

where you swore
you weren't a lesser man.
Where you pounded the leg bone
and became a god,

without wrath.
Oh,
thank you.

 

[WickedEve]

slopes lurk beyond the estaline valley,
where we park on the side of evening,
in the late gravel,
and piss long necks into the weeds.

"got tissues,
dirty rag?
my hem is wet..."

he offers his mouth.

green-blade leapers
yank up my pants and rush me
back to his car.

 

[WickedEve]

I vanish into his bed,
reduced to a thread count,
a spring,
a checkered case --

ink, paper and me
in his fucking,
sleeping haven.

He wonders about the door.
He knows.

Keep it closed
while I'm a thread,
a spring,
a small, damaged thing.

 

[champagne1982]

it's a sure thing
each morning the day
reinvents itself

storms chill
sun snows light

it's just one more
instant in the eternity
of the universe

I love you in.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

restraint

hour by hour I ignore the night
even when I have swallowed it
when I swallowed your
oil slicking my organs
savage as slain whales
forests cities
all strained through your teeth
then through mine
bitter as snuff
trickling down the throat
eating the organs
until I must
pretend I don't need
them anyway
because bones
are all it takes
to stand.

 

[vampiredust]

Radovan Karadzic

The BBC reporter retelling
his experience of meeting
Radovan Karadzic a few
years ago said that he

would bite his nails
until they bled,
exposing the thorns
he liked to conceal.

Even now you can see
their sharpened edges
slowly cutting through
the skin, unable

to be pressed down
to that warm and dark
place where they grew.

 

[WickedEve]

Blackberries

They boil in the pan, colouring
the sugar a shade of dark blue;
the pup-pup-pup of bubbling
a consolation prize for the cut

hands and strained muscles.
No-one is sure if they want
to pick again. Not after the
briars hacking at our skin

or the shock of finding a nest
of blackbirds deep inside
the bush, glaring at the dark
being hauled out.

This is damn good and you're a damn good poet to take such a simple happening and create such good poetry from it.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

All Weather Friend

Each time the sky's gong echoes
through me, I lift a little from this dust,
from this arena where love slew me

until thunder becomes welcome
as once his voice. Until the rain
exhilarates as once his touch.

This comradely roar echoes between
stones. My broken bones are lifted,
buffeted by your protective storm.

 

[loveumore]

Stuffed Armor

My stuffed
Winnie the Pooh,
Humpty Dumpty, Raggedy Ann
and three teddy bears
surrounded my body
throughout the night
for comfort and protection.

Never would I look under the bed
for that evil man
who was thought to sneak out
and stab me in my restless sleep.

As much as I loved them,
it was better them than me.

 

[WickedEve]

Blaming The Spirits

Sober doesn't speak Russian
nor smoke
peahen feathers.

Take your vodka neat,
feel the burn,
til floor becomes sea
and you become
gimpy Jesus.

You'll still speak California,
Kentucky, Virginia,
and light Marlboros.

 

[WickedEve]

Fall of the stone wall
comes in summer of dumping water,
screened porches,
and avoiding the night.

Fear is worn like a sunhat
(we wish)
and naked privacy crumbles.

Brains sit in the basement --
mama's boom boom shelter.
I suggest that we leave them there,
rather than cower
in their company.

Water overflows
and small things breed.
There's a hole in the screen
and we no longer care.