Ideas that spread pages like warm marmalade under the summer sun. Growing silently in a strange rain of muddled reflections, she swooped sideways to find that it was only ever herself all along. The page flutters with a spectre demon wing beat- the chaos makes me cry. Meticulous, mechanical, rudimentary lines of chaos tangled red and blue.
I can see the thousand me's through other peoples' eyes. Your perception of their perception of you. Feeling the need to detach my internal self from the external world. Believing a lie would destroy me; is it right to have to wait to live?
My heart beats with the sky
and this invisible tether ties me
to all I've ever wanted to leave behind.
The pastel feathers floating on a sea of
tranquil blue cool my face in the
stretching arms of a southern breeze.
I want to remain untouched and untainted
underneath the lush undertow brush
of an oasis undiscovered.
All the moments I wished to be
submerged in the waves, under
effervescence, no self
but bubbles-
where the sea glows nothing
but navy-black and trees are
green and crumbling at the center
of the world.
----------------------------------------------
Fingers tracing Merlot rimmed
with cherry wine nail lacquer and
too-big earrings that framed a face
of tireless searching, worn ambition,
over-extended arms.
Arms reaching out to who now-
the question penetrated her deepest
consciousness with a worrying ache,
relentless and insincere.
Dim lights shadowing crevices of
youth now vanished and
irretrievable.
Still reaching, she chuckled quietly
in the golden particle light
of her cozy recollection,
clutching the glass stem as if
it could bring her back.
---------------------------------------------
The pages are clean and smooth
with birth, thriving on creation; possibility-
like the waterfall where
submerged beneath the waves I felt
the pressure of one single raindrop
and the further down I went
the less I felt the rain.
--------------------------------------------
That distant purple glow
faint on the curling edges of the day
a streaming black snake
wet with liquid concrete and strewn
with the smallest, drowning yellow leaves.
The sad grey trees outside my window
whisper soft echoes to the howling moon
The breeze of autumn warms like amber
on the tip of a honey-drenched spoon.
Water gushes from a tin roof built
too low to shelter humbled faces
Left in the mildewed afterthought of
an eternal torrent grace (the light bounces off in a dark bronze glitter.)
Electricity curls my toes in
new and exotic ways
I'm not sure I enjoy.
Black hair flies through
electrified air particles
The back arches in irregular,
tender patters beyond the
bitter with a sparkle of pink putrid-
The retribution of never having done
the wrong or right thing is painful.
Truly these shades do become
brighter- the night lingers on
like an effervescent aqua lung
tattooed on my brain.
-------------------------------------------
Silver speckled granite streets stretch on with
sideways cracks of childhood.
Lingering echoes from empty tin cans and
piles of feathers litter the path
we once walked.
Love the smell of wet summer asphalt
(and how it looks like a black river, glistening beneath a golden light specter.)
---------------------------------------------
A tunnel leads to no where and
more follow suit. The road leads to
no where and the sun follows suit.
This path, these places, those houses,
that establishment- they all lead
us back to exactly where we started from.
You will live to tell the moral of your own demise.
The solution may be just as easy as
the question appears NOT to be.
The endless static might burst forth
for only one moment on
a vicious mountain top.
--------------------------------------------
Drudging the stars-
there is something in the air.
If exhaling this breath means
the monotony continues-
may it be forever stifled.
If the reckless chaos of this
tree split in two (white heat lightning)
is always lasting, I might
awaken as a ghost.
Even if I didn't, there would be
no way of telling whose body I inhabit.
The seams are paper thin,
cookie cutter highlighter,
red mattress axe marks.
The mirrors see what is behind and inside,
but ahead is only fog and smoke.
Tricky light propels me into
an ether realm of majestic solitude,
a silence so penetrating my
eyeballs stick to their lashes for
want of companionship.
Solace comes once more.
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