|
December 4th, 2007
10:34 am - afterimage
you were white after
the image burned.
a white silhouette
that could only be the
inverse of you
you were always dark
your negative ghost
looked better after
I looked away.
|
August 5th, 2007
09:57 pm - stuck
rhymes with fuck.
This is important
for full comprehension later.
The fly is unaware of
its fate, fast and immobile
on paper -
it only knows hunger
that increases as its
living fast decreases.
And so it is.
|
August 29th, 2006
10:02 am - Nocturne
This is not a love letter.
These are all the things I want tell you at fragile midnight.
Hope is an undaunted child who refuses to forget where the candy is hidden. Things are not always as difficult as they seem. I want to discuss roots, dirt, seeds and water, but not necessarily in that order.
I want to explain the significance of vultures and doves. Ferocious is not a good color.
I want to play "Blackbird" for you. Music is one true universal force. I want to tell you about the time I set my bangs on fire accidentally while lighting a cigarette. The human soul is compartmentalized. Your smile just lights up your entire face, but is not the crux of what makes you beautiful. There are far too many poems written about the intricacies of the moon. You have the heart of a compassionate falcon. I want to open up your feather chest and study what has been torn and mended and what hasn't been mended. I want to count and know each stitch. Angels don't sleep. I want to watch your eyes while you are deciding on an answer to something. Time can be a snail if it chooses to be. To be comfortable beneath the sun, one must embrace the night for black is not always the complete absence of light. I cannot comprehend the distance of water. I want to describe to you what stones, sunsets and skulls sound like. Quiet is not always peaceful. I want to listen to your best joke and stories of your first love. I want to share everything I have ever learned about silver coins. I want to make you a dragon out of paper.
I want to explain the significance of crows in a murder. I want to show you how soil is a crucial part of me.
Torpor is not a good color, either.
Spilled love has a tendency to saturate everything it touches.
|
June 16th, 2006
08:51 pm - alex mattress
an ode to a public trailer.
and no punctuation.
and when the last ejaculate
of black dried
you stood back -
dripping, spent and euphoric -
partly from the aerosol air
partly because your two-word
confession was finally bellowing its
lungs to the universe. Or just those
traveling down that stretch of highway.
A complex masterpiece.
A dark Rorschach mark -
blots over metal lines -
a black whorl fingerprint of
some kind of secret evidence
you felt the need to scrawl.
regression, tell me of your memories.
was it her?
did she lie upon the squeaking
springs with long matted tresses
outstretched like coils, curls of arms
at midnight -
long bones and sex,
a glance like a smile?
was it him?
did he abandon you upon it -
and now you have left his trangression
as a bold warning
to the other unsuspecting,
in large wrangled letters on an
aluminum canvas -
thin black strokes of rejection?
what does it mean?
the masses of mattress liars will
never know.
alex! mattress!
alex, mattress.
alex. mattress.
|
08:34 pm - Pinion
The undercurrent is always there-
the soft noise of cotton
as it leaves the neck
of a medicine bottle,
trying not to snag itself on
a jagged, plastic edge.
Trying not to leave behind
a cobweb piece.
It tries to remain whole
as though it needed all its threads.
This background drone of the infinite
lifts spindle legs and
passes the sound of desperation
to the next ear and to the next ear -
like the constant beat of sonic wings -
a snared tooth which fits into its own
found groove that resides next to
another tooth within another groove
next to another tooth.
They move together to
form monotonous routine -
the motion of which only amounts
to empty cotton noise.
|
April 25th, 2006
11:26 pm - pyre
I burned all of your letters in a large, glass bowl
purchased just for the occasion.
I tore them first into pieces until the vessel was
full of paper sea words, no longer yours,
but a puzzled mixture of various letters and
phrases of nonsense. The salt symbols of my wounds
diluted, changed to a less caustic and stinging form.
A great anonymous feast for the fire.
|
January 2nd, 2006
04:25 pm - sick dog
sick dog
o.k. wag.
gawk, walk on -
no, the gold teeth
of gravity will
no longer pierce
you.
bark.
the hawk eyes of
the grove have
found you fierce,
love, with your
serious pant and
your sores.
you,
a god with a lick
-(dig)-
you,
a legless dog
kicking back the only
way you can
with a click and a sigh.
|
December 31st, 2005
01:11 am - His Death in August
This is not a truth.
It is a carefully woven fabric where
one does not know when the thread of the lie
begins and the fray of truth ends.
If the floors were green,
they were olives.
If the furniture was brown,
it was scattered bits of dried mud.
If the radio had sound,
it was the bray of a donkey.
If the air was heavy,
it was the oil and the soup.
If the walls had a breath,
it was sucked through a sieve.
If the doors had a key,
they were each less a lock.
If the table was glass,
it would have melted like ice.
|
August 2nd, 2005
11:06 pm - spider lips
it was
in the time of
the fang
and I was a distended
womb of unspun silk.
you had a million
compound eyes to stare
down the other female
and I would tread
on light legs around
the web trying to
be striped or brown
or strip the hair
from my many legs.
I stretched out a
lot of former skins
left laying around -
wrinkled husks.
you just crunched
them underfoot or
ate them or watched
the wind wisp
them away from
behind a million
dull orbs.
|
June 25th, 2005
03:04 pm - shutter pt. 1 (in ten-second intervals)
your voice
a tired hum
the upright fan in the corner
of the room that alters
all sound to come through it
old lungs and baggage leather
___
the streetlamp filament
crackled on at seven-fourteen
post meridiem
caramel moths, stuck to
the lamp glow,
make dusky cotton patterns
upon the thick concrete.
fluttering monsters
___
in this mechanic age,
I prick my finger and
out flows oil,
a smooth amber bead
mind radiates energy:
the power behind eyelids is
the spasms of small white stars
the croon of wires
|
May 30th, 2005
11:58 am - Studying the Masters
will not make one a fine artist
enough to jealous Van Gogh.
Reading the classics
will not make one write the greatest
American novel since Catcher in
the Rye.
Examining philosophy's eye and the tells
of religion
will not make one wise.
There is much to be said for the rising
of pen, brush, core and key
without the tamperings of history.
|
April 23rd, 2005
11:18 pm - line root
I have no successor.
No fetus to leave the womb and grow
larger and fatter on the land and my love.
It is me alone.
My undiluted ancestors -
it took generations for them to die
out.
|
April 21st, 2005
03:22 pm - ghost lights
unlike the pale blue halo
left upon black
behind spare eyelids
after the pure flare
of a flashbulb
a photograph is forever
but that soft corona
the color of a cloudless sky
fades -
no, evaporates
like liquid wisteria let loose from
a water form
into a hovering cold space
like the visual echo of a distant loon
off of a lake surface that
becomes less
and less
the longer one
watches and listens.
|
03:08 pm - Harvest
Cutting the flaxen grain nearest to the bottom to
not disturb the roots that snarl downward and
grip tight. Thready fingers suffer the sickle gravity.
Specks of grass aureate. Strum these harp bales of
golden string hair superficial. These are not arteries
branched to a lone kernel heart beneath the ground.
There is no seed body tinging of worth.
Scarecrow.
The reeds come back.
Pithing the stems severed is
trepanning a hole through the universe.
|
02:47 pm - manboy
Black and white is a deceptive medium.
How old were you, honey, before the bomb?
You glanced a bit my right and
the overhead light shifted wrongly.
Your pallor left your years betrayed -
what is the answer?
There is a child in all of us.
It is only the third page. Was there a
glimmer of something you caught just past
the edge? Was it a hopeless disdain or
a disdain-filled hope? The tired structure of
your face. The lens captured a mystical thing.
Did you need sleep? The hibernation
kind where you come back out after a worn winter
refreshed and alive? No one else saw the shroud
of pale, the shades broken down into various shapes
that were just pieces. Pieces of the ages you
once were.
|
April 5th, 2005
02:37 pm - The Riddle of Shared Fluids
As the processing of water
to filter through impurities,
my attempt to screen your
cells from out of my cells flows
clean. Your goodly genes -
twisted cords of neutral and soil -
pass through my thin membranes
with ease. Chromosomes I no
longer want nor need. Singular
molecules branch and form
with all your traits: self self self -
a linear pattern of inner crimes
and ego deeds. The purity of atoms
are lost when they join together to
form larger bodies. Saliva, blood,
pools of seed, tears and love.
|
February 7th, 2005
04:55 pm - Chasing the Rabbit
blurry sitting
the beauty of fog
is in the distortion
of the horizon -
it is the sweat of ghosts
haunting a spectral
landscape unfamiliar
to shiver, bound within
that loose shroud of silver
gray and moisture beads that
cling to the skin as
a damp film of guilt
is it better this way
to be wrapped in the
silk of stupor,
anesthetized and calm
than to chase the brief
light of lucidity that might
sear through the limp
and ashen sky
with that beam comes
a burning agony
pain is a lead noose
around the neck
an anchor to the hard
ground
is it better to float and
remain blind from the
surrounding mist than
to suffer
clarity is relative and hides
away in a rabbit hole,
deep and moist like
salt tears
like the ethereal dew that settles
upon stones and leaves
in the early morning fog
|
January 30th, 2005
11:03 pm - Long Division
We find a sense of calmness in
a myriad of places:
arms, flowing water and cigarettes,
pastures green and porno houses
where a red, glowing EXIT sign
is an eye of peace and understanding.
This is a strange grain place.
We find a sense of calamity in just as
many similar scenes:
cigarettes with orange voices, pastures green
and porno houses. We must always have
something to write home about;
some thing to make our skin prickle -
even if it is only pussies and pricks.
Those unnatural bends of a human,
angular and cavernous as a sense of
dread.
We find culpability in these organs -
we separate from those parts of ourselves
most alive and eager.
the folks whispering behind the fenceposts lie
We should not have to conceal what God
gave us graciously (Wait. Which god? The
one with the penis or the vagina?)
The penis god seems rather hung up about
showing his off, but not shy enough to
slide into those slippery porno theaters
to get a giddy peek at the vaginal goddesses. This
is a strange grain place.
the folks whispering behind the fenceposts lie
because they are doing it too -
just in secret, unlike the
birds beneath the sparing and open sky
Plants are chaste since there
is no romance in their sex. They
have no naughty parts to expose in
the creation of smaller trees.
I shall be a flower in my next
life so as not to be touched improperly,
and thus have to explain a packet of birth
control pills in my purse to my father.
|
January 24th, 2005
10:41 pm - conscience mare
The salt of tears is antibacterial.
It stops the growth of indifferent pathogens.
Halts the production of guilt.
Kills the virus of anger.
It promotes the healing of wounds
physical or metaphysical.
It holds its own against the ocean,
for they are both filled with saline.
|
December 30th, 2004
10:00 am - Suspension
The marionette has its fears,
too, within its small, wooden head.
The damage of termites.
The fading of face paint.
How to proceed should
one of its tethers break free.
Shall I learn to walk upon
my own feet if the gods
should choose to cut me loose?
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
stoneviolet's journal