butter's stuff: the good, the ugly, and the incomplete

[butters]

the nonsense world of dreams

sun shines
but still my mind
is veiled in fog

the buzz a constant chorus in my ears
a band of pressure grips across my skull
book's left unread

strange day
torn dreams flap
anchored to my psyche

a pig with a limp
a spud-laden cart
i won't force it on

its black bristles shine
cobbled street slick with rain
an accident waiting to happen

dismount
unhitch
we'll walk back together
the pig and i
as the rain sluices mud
from brightening potato skins

 

[butters]

needs on a hot hot day

i find myself in need
of more than one interpretation
hunger fed by the devouring
the clamouring of heated blood for more
silk and stone beneath my fingers and lips
stone brought to life by the brush of damp breath
and still
all this
i still am in need
of solitude
a temporary, intermittent necessity
the quality of not being so loudly connected
to the humanity of others
of feeling their needs and desires
the noise of their thoughts
the weight of my responsibility towards them

in cool shade and shallow streams i find respite
draw breath knowing i am not needed by the grass to grow
or the air to cross the skies
that the deer has no need of my input or the worm
in its damp tunnel
the bird to fly or sun to shine
i am
there
but my presence is as much and as little as a fly's
i do not need to give
and so am replenished
ready to give again
to immerse myself in people

he is the only.
comes closest.
the balancing point between two sets of mind
the calmness he emanates
so akin to the boon of nature
the turbulence
though
full-on humanity
today there is no turbulence
only a conflict of my hungers

 

[butters]

a dog's life...

is not all gnaw and woof,
enough fluff and tooth,
dig and roll and run and stuff
all of that damned crunchy guff
inside as swiftly as one can.
oh, no,
it's not all fun and chew toys, man:

teething is a bitch, for one,
and couches just aren't made
as once they were,
holding onto fur like accusation,
shedding ugly wadding like
some noble declaration...
submit! submit!
and maybe pee a little bit
for hallmarked authenticity,
pup-appeal for bipedal pity;

there's waiting on the hands and legs
and leash at times when hot and sweet re-
lease is foremost in my canine mind,
hoping that they'll find the time
to not neglect those notes i whine;

the oilsome, heaving stink of that loud thing
on four round wheels that bring us here and
there, as i'm left staring out the glass
hoping not to puke before the grass arrives
and trusting that the sting of something sharp
that makes me bark won't hit me once again,
or strangers shove that something up my arse
with no permission asked or treat to follow—
leaves me feeling ... hollow, man, real hollow.

the baby with its sticky paws
climbs on and over me and tastes of
crumbs and cream; my jaws and tongue
can't help but help him out
to oohs and aws, things pointed in my face;
the silly hats and boots i'm subject to,
the manic babbling of the human race.

they're kinda dumb but cute,
my humans, shoot—it would be great
if they only they talked mutt
and understood to leave me be these days
when tired as a log or dogged with pain
i really rather not sit up and beg,
roll over, dance, give paws, play dead....

 

[butters]

a multiplicity of legs

just think of all the shoes you'd need
and then there's tying laces
so busy looking at your feet
you'd not be heading places

a certain sense of rhythm may
prevent you from entangling
legs three and seven, shall we say,
your gait from awesome mangling

it's just as well the centipede
is so close to the ground
if it should stumble or stampede
there's not much falling down

 

[butters]

they call it the dance...

slide one foot a half-pace forwards
turn your shoulder down, in
pivot on the other heel
wheel abouts, chin-slip beneath
the shadow of his roundhouse
hop
to the side
drive home a dancing sting
twist&bring
your uppercut home
ignore stars circling
from his fist's swing
the ringing in your ears
groove with the red beat
controlled beast that pounds, that sings
the rhythm of your heart against your ribs
skip left-right-left and back again
clench your partner in a tight embrace
race towards the kiss of bells
no mistletoe invited

 

[butters]

campfire challenge

fire-flowers blossom in outrageous shades
of purple, blue, and yellow-warping-orange

embers glow and logs speak in dry tongue
star-sparks spit through smoke-cloud
try to reach their whiter, distant namesakes

man, dog, beer
one toasts his boots
the second his bones
the third sweats moisture
on its slender brown neck

 

[butters]

from the Extra Terrestrials challenge

hmmn, extra terrestrials...
sounds to me like excess population
excuses for backroom 'secret' talks
positing ways and means
ways
and means
'how to cull's in
"hypothetical" situations
everyone knows are more than that
as they wipe nervous sweat
from palms and upper lips
adjust ties and seek to up the air con
mouths dry, thinking the unthinkable
made possible by a label
find excuses to leave the room
find excuses rejected
clipboards and pens
all clipboards and pens
the most extreme ideas float
amidst graffitied doodles
smiley faces

 

[butters]

do trees snore?

do trees snore
and dream of green
as roots abhor
the vice of ice?

and do they miss
the absurd birds
the spring sun's kiss
the flood of buds?

do they float
through rooms of blooms
hear insects vote
which fruits to loot?

and do they drift
through fall's red halls
count squirrels' thrift
by glut of nuts?

when grey skies freeze
in winter's thrall
this teases me ~
do your trees snore?

 

[butters]

chess for the blind

imagine i have no eyes, she smiles
as rain's percussive tap on tarp
fills their low-lit world
but the chessboard's mostly dry
and hesitant curls of smoke rise
pale from an impromptu fire

you know the board, the pieces,
he replies,
know the very best moves--
here, close your eyes,
i'll take your hands--
show you my opening gambit

 

[butters]

superstition challenge

latin and incense
superstition
chicken blood and drums
superstition
saluting magpies, horn-fingers,
faggot-piles with their human torches
superstition
stroke your rabbit's foot
on its silver chain
string garlic and kiss the cross
just in case - yanno -
superstitions
as diverse as widespread

now wait, superstition -
gotta pull up my lucky pants

 

[butters]

collecting some from other threads, maybe here already can't recall *shrugs*

and this is the dance
the dance of words
music rises and falls
driven by pulse and intakes of breath
sliding on mirrors
oily as cats on wet tarmac



coffee and blinking lights
how the brain does work
hanging half in shadow
looking for dawn
eyes focused on some low star



pan needed to understand it was fine to grow up
to be a man without losing sight of boyish dreams
become master of the vessel
without fear of time's reptilian stalk
set fair sail
play dress-up for fun
fly without wings
rescue willing damsels
loot chests in a piratical manner
wear his shadows against his heart



don't all our shadows mock us?
dance around our feet to trip us
up to no good
teasing
flirting with our light
hearts
weightless fingers leaving cool streaks
throat, nape, cheek?

perhaps we'd best cast away the needle
discard the whimper-sneer knave
accept our raggedy natures



venus descends
sweet and wet
impales herself nightly
on mars' angry rise
throbbing warrior
passionate and reaching
for legends of moon-flesh
pulsing deeper
burning brighter together
falling apart in a torrent of sunbeams
journeying on
alone



between O
and Ohhhhh
time suspends its foolish grin
we hang
breathless
in a space/time dissolution
liquefaction guaranteed



they say
in space
no one hears you scream
and when you're floating
sunburnt, frozen
no up no down
plucked and dragged
on stellar winds
battery pack dead
no feeling in your fingertips
i say
they speak the truth



ah, i am undone

one day i'll whisper visions
of fire-spawn and far dark seas
autumn mists and dove-breast skies
and weathered hands
and old blue denim
of fingertips and tender bones
the dripping oak and quick young foal
of gentled touch and passion's gasp
of such old things i'll whisper



old souls may walk through fragrant meadows
embrace the riot of senses
the raptures of colour
perfume
texture

hands brush urgent blossoms
yet still her gaze is drawn
to distant skies
the river's journey
deserts between meadows

to hold all this in careful palms
hatched with life's crossed paths and
bruise them not?

she walks her path
but sinks beneath her skin to dream
in silence, touching blue



old thrills, new spills
break the bottle
spin jagged teeth in a hot new smile -
malignant anticipation

a grease-slick pearl of sweat
lets go
crosses the void
hits dust



rapunzel's fucked
her and that wandering prince
a thick rope of nothing

all those years
to grow a false hope
in an absence of malice



gone but not absent
call and note only reminders
of thoughts, voice, flesh
reminders that stir ripples in emotional fabric
small seismic jolts in bedrock
slippage
seepage
no need to turn on the heating today

appetites



and all the bars and all the booze
mere props along the way
the music dances deep inside
as we improvise the play



oh foolish hearts,
that one moment step forward boldly,
the next retreat so
uncertain how to beat.




Go he said
there are more worlds than this
then fell
across the neverwhen

dusty boots on two-lane blacktop
pick-up hauls its dusty arse then slows
in a sunset of motes
waits
till cuban-heeled notes
stir the back-score of fear
bilious eye in a rain-fevered sky...
screech of tyres

and the hand aches
lost fingers protest their invisibility
and the back cracks
too long carrying a world

walks blindfold along the beam
can't see clouds that race overhead
but feels their pull
to look up
could be dangerous
lost in their current
he might lose his footing

put aside your compass
follow your heart
all beams lead to the rose

there are other worlds...




wolves howl in the wasteland
but let us be snug
skin their bones and
riddle-me this
way to the way-station
for i have a key

dawn beaks rose and gold
whispering of youthful waters
in a neverstream of when




twilight comes
twice in each diurnal round
as quiet as tidal pools that slowly fill
and empty
a shadowless haunt
broken on the wing of thrush's first reveille
the backbird's liquid song as it calls on down the night



transition
an incompleteness
the shell came first but never quite whole
the ability to form complexes
in colour
leaving a metallic taste
in its wake



"suspend me in your colours" he said
but what if i were to tell you
falling into the blue is to lose yourself
dissolution?
what if i were to say
"white's too blinding,
a blindfold on a rainy day
when all soft-plumage pinks and greys
hold ripples like the thoughts within my hands..."
or
"green feeds me
i can taste it, new-cut grass my catnip"
?
what if i told you
"flamenco reds and lava-glows
drive me wild and
edged with golds
fan like flames that lace a darkened bough"?
yellows are for flowers and sun-dresses
but give me shades of lavender and rose, lilacs and dog-violet -
these make my inner self smile

the black
well
the black can be too softly welcome
maybe that's what comes after
falling into the blue

 

[butters]

Hearts are a bloody mess
when disconnected
from rubbery tubes collecting plaque--
4-chambered pumps
counting down our days,
tirelessly working
to send messages of life
to brain and all extremities.

Heartache restricts the flow,
triggers pain - the body's warning;
something's wrong
demands evasive action
before atrophy sets in
and a stuttering pulse.

Love
swells a heart,
engorges it with bliss
till it floats--
a hot red balloon in blue skies.

What use a heart without its body?
Zombies shuffle through their hours,
hearts derelict.
Both my heart and body need him.
Time enough to box them
when I'm dead.




maybe end this at 'balloon'

 

[butters]

bees swarm to the giant tank
strange beast that straddles horizon
as if gravid with honey
are they disappointed it holds water
or are they thirsty creatures, too,
that rise above the din of hammers
scratch of saws
thick sweat of armpit and groin
salt air no promise of an ocean
sawdust and diesel no meadow in bloom

 

[butters]

fashioned by time
he reclines
bronze sculpture
tactile, singular
the length and the lean of him
softened by verdigris

still
his eyes reflect the blues

scratch his surface
he burns
all copper, bright
breaking arc of fish
scales hit by sun

 

[butters]

ryōan-ji

in a sea of white gravel no rock stands alone

 

[butters]

snapshot challenge

red coffee can
at a jaunty angle
top-hatting a silver cane
aged bamboo canted
and sunk knee-deep
in a gaggle of young strawberries



from sonnet challenge:
spring-loaded

from stumpy sprouts to full-on colour riot
the flower beds ablaze for all to see
as if somehow their overnightly diet
propelled them forth with supernatural glee

the grass i'll swear has grown at least a foot
since last i blinked my pollinated eyes
the ditch is choked with superpowered weeds but
that happens every spring so no surprise

the birds are freaking out and madly zooming
from bush to frilly fruit tree and compete
with bees and butterflies all busy rooming
alongside bawling calves and fluffy sheep

when everything's spring-loaded to the max
i'll overdo the words, in sonnets wax





sorry, shakespeare

I don't believe the slur sweet April is
"the cruellest month of all" within each year;
her sense of humour simply is the biz;
it may be deeply warped but brings the cheer.

You never really know just what to wear
so messy wardrobes bulge with odd array;
don welly-boots and gaudy summer gear,
a duffle coat, bikini, shiny shades.

A thermal hat you team with strappy vest,
a neon pair of saucy, lacy socks.
What April does, oh man, she does the best;
she flops and flips, she drops. How April rocks!

It's true I'd love her more, her colour splashes,
if not for all these allergies and rashes

-----------------------------------------------------------

the moon, it hangs, a clichéd cheesy rind
as if the rest was swallowed by the sun;
it's counting down the days till summer finds
the moody days of spring are fin'ly done.

may mowing recommence with timely haste
before the greens resent the turning blades
and toss the rubber belts from pulley's waist
to be replaced beyond the cooling shade.

the tulips, vivid, show - violas too;
the clematis, where dancing butterflies
sip nectar, and the blushing cherry blooms
all light the days despite the weeping skies.

too soon, sweet spring will be mere memory
as summer's desp'rate heat is broiling me.




okay, using some slanty-rhymed end-of-lines but hey...

My love, he raises arms up to the skies
and bare-limbed by the window he reminds
me of the lofty trees that greet my eyes
beyond the window's frame; and from behind

his daylit silhouette becomes like them
whose branches call the spring-time sun to shine
that greening of their buds will come again
and, daily, for their season's sap to rise.

Though there are times his bark's a little rough,
most often softened by a loving touch,
if that should prove to be not quite enough,
exfoliation's great -- but not too much.

I beg dear reader's pardon that they could
excuse my poor allusions to spring wood


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

isolation

spams the board
with ancient writes
flings slurs and demands--
some petulant, un-crowned king--
insists the castle's keys are his
then frets and spumes
from self-erected tower

it might be more poetic
to bend his head
curb outrageous ego
pick up his pen and write from fresh
brow unadorned by precious gems
his purpled clothes invisible




oh polish your brass
sweet irony
rusted troll projecting



toppling the dipole

his north and south
compromised;
an ever-increasing frequency.

tortured magnetic fields
battle. which will win today,
poet or troll?


--------------------------------------------------------------------


let's make the very most of April's kiss
the cool of cotton sheets is simply bliss
the brushed ones being laundered and put up
till winter comes full-turn with brimming cup

the thunder sparks between the sunny hours
it goes from dry to heavy, pounding showers
but i don't care if storms make passing din
when i can feel the smoothness of your skin

without encumbrance of your winter gear
and feel the sensual tickle of your hair
upon my naked back as you lean over
your lips to quickened flesh, my risen lover

there's just one thing that would improve love's ride:
it's spring, so come, let's open windows WIDE!




the damned carrots better produce

multitude of rocks evicted
soil all turned, spade-deep

sweat feeds the clay
worms squirm, exposed
to sudden heat

limbs turn to jelly
black spots swim before me
head pounds

lungs overreach
seeking air enough to
cool the rising body-temp
failing, miserably

first ground-break complete
hours later
still trying to get cool




kare-sansui

white sand
raked daily
serenely contemplates
erosion of rock
___________



young tree
weighted and twisted
peers at its reflection
in a small pond
home to jumping frogs



march magicala

there's plenty of Alakazam!
skies light up in flash-frame
booms of clabrous vivacity
the acrid scent of ozone
perhaps to herald in
something more magical
than day after day after day
of torrential rain

suck it up you choking drains
you wading plants and trees and
soggy animals alike
bright days and tepid nights
wait in the wings
daylight shows mirrors everywhere
if not the smoke

edit: if not the smoke
becomes
low-hanging smoke


colours challenge

fashioned by time
he reclines
bronze sculpture
tactile, singular
the length and the lean of him
softened by verdigris

still his eyes reflect the blues
scratch his surface
he burns
all copper, bright
breaking arc of fish
scales hit by sun




a multiplicity of legs six legs or more challenge

just think of all the shoes you'd need
and then there's tying laces
so busy looking at your feet
you'd not be heading places

a certain sense of rhythm may
prevent you from entangling
legs three and seven, shall we say,
your gait from awesome mangling

it's just as well the centipede
is so close to the ground
if it should stumble and stampede
there's not much falling down

 

[butters]

1-19
raise a glass to bryan ferry

these foolish things
enchantments
remind me of you

without them
we might have ever walked
divergent paths

spare part bodies
mechanical pumps
incomplete circuits and error messages

the magic was in the electricity socket
you jammed your finger into
kill or cure





1-16

took me by surprise
this roaring surf of sleep that
breaks upon my enigmatic cliffs i
find it hard to type on
through the hiss where sands are dragged and flung awry
erratic hit
or miss
i
miss low tidal pools
i
.
.
.
bye
i *snooze*




1-20

when i gave you all i could
and time ran out
and then i gave some more
it got ugly
and still the phone keeps ringing
pleading
making me the bad guy
and now you throw in she's pregnant?
really?
don't know if i'm more sad or angry
but this inn is full
there's no stable
the door stays closed
but, damn....




1-21

if dreamings held meanings
they'd weigh mine up and shake their hoary heads
say scientific things about roundabouts
swings and parking tickets
offloading only
in office hours

some woman in a white synth-linen coat
would bring her mop and bucket
malodorous bottle of cleaning fluid
swab down my interiors
walking backwards
squeaking a little in beige soft-soles
ignoring the crush of tall men dressed in felt reindeer suits
the bump on the head of the bawling lad
(where the blue glass vase connected, not so hard)
and the round, bronze merit stickers
that only exist in my head

as for the police woman in pale bluebell tweed
sat on the 3rd chair in the corridor nearest the theatre
nobody sees her anyway
only the popcorn kernels sometimes left behind on the tiles




1-22

his name's Bien
well, his first, anyway
and the world's full of connections
keeps rollin' on
through the blissful black
strafed by tracerlines of starfire
it's all good
love




1-23

for what it's worth
your gift is priceless
enough to make me want to
don a black cat suit
pack super-thin high-tensile cord
pulleys and plastic explosives
smoke bombs and confettied-decoys
to steal it right out
from under red-taped noses
clipboards
and her majesty's avaricious gaze
__________________




1-24

wanted to write something
good
something
meaningful
head full of Reed and glorious latin
but ugly got in the way
bangs head against desk
phone handy
police on speed dial

ugh





1-25

spent a lot of time
waiting for the bus
stuck in one place

rain or shine
wait out the dead time

mind's a greedy creature
gorges on the structure of clouds
the anatomy of trees
birds crossing the void

not speaking
because i've spent too long
bus comes when it comes





1-26

there are days
when i wish

and then feel guilty for the wishing

guess it all depends
on what i wish




1-27

christmas lent a few lbs that must
be subtracted in the ongoing
arithmatical journey down
like the stripping off of
layers, the divesting
of winter clothes
and with each
layer lost the
smile grows
more of me
appears
it shows



1-28

grey and wet here
again
the weather
i mean the weather
though one day
those words may ring true
for other interpretations
right now
we're talking
no brollies for the winds to
snap their fragile ribs
wrench inside out
rather let my hair fly free
till soaked
to cling
to skull
to cheeks
framing my grin




1-29
pyrenean dreaming

the white beast lies
coiled beneath the pear tree
leaves dappling his coat
in shades of blood and mud

eyes closed, no pilgrim, yet, to
challenge on his road
he dreams of fat white rabbits
of now, and bite, and snow
__________________




1-30

"Seventeen," they say, "seventeen!" - has this replaced n-n-n-nineteen?

 

[butters]

snapshot challenge pieces

slender brown rat
swift death
peanut butter still
on his tongue




ma'am by the stove
soft grey dressing gown
hot-buttered toast




2 dogs clowning for camera
one upside down
2 lolling tongues




blue pen and mandarin peel
share a poetry book's cover
handwritten list of planted veggies
shares the wall with calendar
ring around the 25th
anniversary number 2




bon appetit!

crispy fries
burnt brats
red face





easter morning

his mother in the cool den
diminutive and neat as a pin
not a hair out of place and
dressed in her sunday-church best
spring shades to accompany
pinned corsage of white roses
yearly ritual

 

[butters]

5 senses challenge

all these years later
i recall the geese flying
shades of buff, cream and liquorice,
landing on the lake in the park
water drops thrown into sparkling air

and the train ride into london town
where the travelling gay
american violinist met me
before his AA meeting

how we strolled the banks of the thames
in april sunshine
intoxicated by the perfume of lilacs,
ignoring people sneezing around us
complaining of sandpaper throats,

him reading aloud
from his sheaves of poetry,
how he called me sister

 

[butters]

ekphrasis challenge

https://collection.heide.com.au/objects/17

Heide Museum of Modern Art
Charles Blackman, The Shoe 1956, oil, tempera and enamel on hardboard, 91



Alice's surprise
when she mouthed the words
"eat me"
was vertigo as the floor fell away
and her white silk stockings
shrank to ankle socks
her head rammed against surreality

red walls met red ceiling
the once wide window
now mousehole-perspective
and too far to see out of
even if she can still touch her toes

that shiny button winked
as she lifted the bottle
considered downing its contents
and she placed a hand on the table
to steady herself
hoping not to have to walk
miles in such ugly shoes
__________________

 

[butters]

The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things
working title: John Dies at the End

As I Lay Dying,
it's Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
and Something Wicked This Way Comes
Where the Wild Things Are:

The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse
plot To Kill a Mockingbird
in The Elephant Tree,
and The Grapes of Wrath
are not A Thousand Splendid Suns;

Invisible Monsters--
they're Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
and asking When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?

I Was Told There'd Be Cake
in The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul,
but it's just Another Bullshit Night in Suck City,
Trainspotting in a Brave New World,
contemplating The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.

Don't Pee on My Leg and Tell Me It's Raining;
The Moon is a Harsh Mistress
and Nostradamus Ate My Hamster in Lunar Park.
It's No Country for Old Men...
It's all Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.
I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.

Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History
but understand The Importance of Being Earnest;
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
maybe more The Baby Jesus Butt Plug
than Life, the Universe and Everything.
Ah well,
For Whom the Bell Tolls...

John Dies at the End.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


credits:


The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things by Carolyn Mackler
working title: John Dies at the End by David Wong

As I Lay Dying,
by William Faulkner
it's Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
by John Berendt
and Something Wicked This Way Comes
by Maurice Sendak
Where the Wild Things Are:
by Ray Bradbury

The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse
by Robert Rankin
plot To Kill a Mockingbird
by Harper Lee
in The Elephant Tree,
by R.D. Ronald
and The Grapes of Wrath
by John Steinbeck
are not A Thousand Splendid Suns;
by Khaled Hosseini

Invisible Monsters--
by Chuck Palahniuk
they're Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
by Jonathan Safran Foer
and asking When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?
by George Carlin

I Was Told There'd Be Cake
by Sloane Crosley
in The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
by Douglas Adams
but it's just Another Bullshit Night in Suck City...
by Nick Flynn
Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh in a Brave New World,
by Aldous Huxley
contemplating The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.
by Aimee Bender

Don't Pee on My Leg and Tell Me It's Raining;
by Judy Sheindlin
The Moon is a Harsh Mistress
by Robert A. Heinlein
and Nostradamus Ate My Hamster by Robert Rankin in Lunar Park.
by Bret Easton Ellis
It's No Country for Old Men...
by Cormac McCarthy
It's all Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.
by Seth Grahame-Smith
I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.
by Tucker Max

Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History
by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
but understand The Importance of Being Earnest;
by Oscar Wilde
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
by Milan Kundera
maybe more The Baby Jesus Butt Plug
by Carlton Mellick III
than Life, the Universe and Everything;
by Douglas Adams
For Whom the Bell Tolls...
by Ernest Hemingway

John Dies at the End by David Wong
__________________

 

[butters]

^^ i'd like to think this one would make twelvio grin and say WTF?!!

 

[butters]

insomniac rat

you held me close
slid your fingers into that space
halfways between sternum and navel
pressed deep through flesh and tissue
created that special wound
that special emptiness
gifted me the insomniac rat
that runs and snaps at my insides
its sharp-tipped toes scratching at my softness
its fur clotted with my dismays

and i lie awake, hoping
your fingers find their way back
enter the wound that never really healed
to grasp the naked tail, slick with blood
a hot worm, a headless snake
hoping
they'll withdraw the blind, the biting bag of fear
return what you stole
then seal me closed
so i don't stain your sheets

 

[HarryHill]

04-23-2014, 01:48 PM
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

hello
am i the one you're looking for?
rich, that we meet by mind
rather than flesh first
your mind, your heart, a light
shining on me

giving me hope
inspiration
reality never dreamt of
love

..... from the acrostic challenge ty.

 

[butters]

..... from the acrostic challenge ty.

thanks for finding and reposting that here, waterchild. pretty sure it's not already here and i'd have lost that.