all of a sudden passion suddenly

[WickedEve]

Written in August for December

Pears, heavy in ripe grass,
the delphinus sky -- they seem to slake
this disheartened season
far less, leave me nearly longing
for woes of winter.

And now winter falls to notepad,
as I pen such sullen list:

I
I should call this ache,
"Little Agony Maria
on her perpetual, barbed swing."

II
Through my pane,
night comes Inn, when rooms
should remain vacant til seven
or nine.

III
Limbs fracture;
fragile lines ice me
to the hearth.

IV
Paper flowers,
scissored like snow -- strung,
some strewn. Roses are misconstrued.


I am glumsome
and grimful
in the blue arms
of these drearies


~

Submitted Version
I think I might like the original better.

~

 

[WickedEve]

They want us to believe in mint plumes
of factory smoke,
and those blue hills
are moutains. We see mounds
of ravens, flying
like sparrows.

Just close your eyes
and stop breathing.

 

[WickedEve]

The Come-down Rain

Woman is a rail and chain,
held fast by man’s perversion.
She kneels in the come-down rain.

Blessed by his sick immersion,
she’s bent over shadowed beam,
held there fast in his perversion.

Night flows like a steady stream,
deep into his darkest donna,
who’s bent over shadowed beam.

He baptizes false Madonna,
drowns his pleasurable ills
deep inside the vessel, donna.

He drains into the well, seals
her hard with dominate need,
that holds in pleasurable ills.

He loves her more, indeed –
slave bound to rail by chain.
Filled with his dominate need,
she kneels in the come-down rain.

 

[The_Frank_Black]

....................

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Going to check the sheep

Perched on the pillion
behind Father
skinny legs dangling
and hanging on for dear life,
we negotiated potholes
and muddy ruts.
The dyke water made a death trap
for unwary sheep
and stained them russet.
At lambing time we had orphans in the kitchen,
great for us kids, not for Mother
seeing another mess to contend with.
Rain, mud, kids and no money
what a life.

 

[The_Frank_Black]

horsing around

...................

 

[The_Frank_Black]

"Lost Donkey"

..................

 

[bluerains]

The Come-down Rain

Woman is a rail and chain,
held fast by man’s perversion.
She kneels in the come-down rain.

Blessed by his sick immersion,
she’s bent over shadowed beam,
held there fast in his perversion.

Night flows like a steady stream,
deep into his darkest donna,
who’s bent over shadowed beam.

He baptizes false Madonna,
drowns his pleasurable ills
deep inside the vessel, donna.

He drains into the well, seals
her hard with dominate need,
that holds in pleasurable ills.

He loves her more, indeed –
slave bound to rail by chain.
Filled with his dominate need,
she kneels in the come-down rain.

man should be bleeding..authentic

 

[The_Frank_Black]

Man should be bleeding

...................

 

[The_Frank_Black]

speaking of fences and such archaic devises...

......................

 

[WickedEve]

Thin back is arched,
a bony knoll, with me perched
there on his spine.

"Caw! Crawl and creep
over cherty path, gray
as you, my old man seat."

Feed him feathers,
a few to spare
for good sitting.

I am a lazy bird
and this man was going nowhere.

 

[Guest]

Grief Like a River

See blue skies and feel
sunny in my head,
but it rains too. I let it.
Every day, the deluge comes.
It fills my chest to overflow,
sometimes making grief a river
and I let it. Other times
I swallow, breathe
and the pain lets me.


​

 

[WickedEve]

behemoth, august rain
was not a reason
for me to unwind. it was dreariness
beforehand
that made me say goodbye
to mad summer.
accepted what was to come,

as i wrapped myself
back around the spool.

 

[WickedEve]

A dirt road
called Arousal
runs dusty through Bells Valley.
Fence posts stretch far
as silence — a quiet that echoes
in airy lofts,
lowing hills.

This thing we do
should not be seen
in daylight, though we are suddenly
sun-drenched,
doing darktime deeds

that rush the blood
to my head. Oh, those slopes
and fields,
the barbed wire
seem more beautiful
between his legs as I grind
gravel into my palms.

 

[WickedEve]

jesus, unplugged, watched us
and i watched him
from the piano stool.
saw his eyes go cross,
past my lover's tattooed wrist.
a flick of marlboro

into the offering plate and ash
fell, with my chance for rapture —
the one. from father's

abandoned house,
the stool came home with us.
i never played a note,
but sat on my piano stool
often.

Submitted Version: Organ Stool

 

[WickedEve]

Rouse Afterchurch speaks
of railway sleepers — wood cross ties,
instead of stone sleepers.

He tries to explain odor
that smells,
to me,
the way licorice looks.

"Resins.
Creosote bush.
Crude coke oven tar."

I find his explanation
poetic,
as I hold my breath
past the lumber yard.

 

[WickedEve]

Bathroom floor hyperventilates
beneath her. The rug,
a towel, a roll of toilet paper
become absurd comfort. They are clutched,
until she is a limp sheet
back on a bed that smells
of her man. She blames rain on him,

the way Maggie once did. At least
that's what he says
and he calls the downpour piss.
So what does he know,
besides fermentation?

 

[loststar]

quiet comfort of a voice that doesnt know me

life is too small
with too much stuff
prune out paper
burn it with rage
douse with a shower
long time water
fill heart
with what matters

porn,poets, banjos

 

[champagne1982]

HuH?

now I have an excuse
to misunderstand half
the conversation
my ear's blocked
beyond rinsing
with the shower head
I hate it, makes me feel
clogged when it's just
a bit of protective
secretion that guards
my cochlea slipped
in the way of the hammer
and the drum
tomorrow I may be free

 

[WickedEve]

Ways to Leave this World

He shoos her old body into the cellar
to fetch her death. Most of his jar
labels have faded and she wonders if she's foolish
to look for pulsing gel black, like in a horror's

B movie. Death might be a uranium
beauty queen, a glow
flooding the glass inside. Mayhem
in a tiara
could break out and cover
her flesh with a sash of sores.

God should mark these things
with either Scraped into a Bodybag
or Found Beneath a Young Man.

 

[WickedEve]

Nosferatu Sun

Spring wheat withers, brings the fear,
and dread darkens what once was day,
while plumes of ending block the sphere.

The final lantern shows our way
to field and farm, a light and hum.
Now lesser dread darkens day.

We are but the few who come,
drawing close to engine sputter —
low light and generator hum.

Then our hearts are quick to flutter,
beating like the creatures' wings
that are drawn to the dying sputter.

In their eyes we are monstrous things
that make them whisper "how strange"
before they beat us with their creature wings.

We are gone and world lives in change,
because the withered Spring brought our fear.
They no longer whisper words so strange,
as plumes continue to block the sphere.

 

[WickedEve]

Eastward, into Baptism Platter,
we follow the predicament blond,
chewing on his bones and vegetables —
the basics.

He is so 1966
and that kempt mane of his
brews us all in the trouble pot.

My Spanish teacher tried to tell us
that he was suppose to be an unwashed
brunette full of grace.

~
Edited and submitted as Mere Meaning
~

 

[RhymeFairy]

for years she poured out
her passion. crimson ink
blots upon fevered flesh, staining
singeing through to crippled veins
as weathered cracks soon crossed
his heart - leaving a tortured soul
tattooed with burning memories
of age spotted hands, setting up
tea ...



....


first one in months ... we'll see ~

 

[vampiredust]

Illuminating

Father would try and peel
the lightbulb's glass skin
as if it were a fruit,
something soft and delicate

like we were once.
But once the surface started
to crack, he felt its heat
and light seeping out,

illuminating the charcoal
continents of his hands
and face; the coldness
buried underneath

a doll that was never
designed to be touched.
And all the world peering
at what wonders

might lie inside, whether
it was safe to slip past.

 

[Liar]

Montevideo Games

There's a bar,
there's always a bar,
dangerously close
to the Cordón,

where they serve azure
dragon tears, topped
with the semen of titans.

But you have to whisper
sweet nothings in the
waitress' ear and promise
to last all night and
serve her bitter tea
and honey canteloupe
in the morning

before eating her out.

Then she'll moan
the secret codex,
an indigenous chant
from a continent away,
a millennium ago.

The bartender will know
those serpent lisping words,
know that you've paid you dues,
and will pour, from the darkest
bottle below the counter,
the last drops

you'll ever drink.