|Work selected for inclusion in my weekly "Friday Night Features" article.|
permafrostHe was always soft,permafrost by ~celestial-void
and I wintry
I want to crawl inside,
thaw this cold
and wake for the first time
without the ache.
Stretch in warmth,
reminiscent of the absent sun.
In the end I fail.
Under the firmament
my remains freeze,
forever buried in this permafrost.
First draft- BlankA smooth, white expanseFirst draft- Blank by ~Cheyae
Where fleeting shadows play:
A blank page
For the master's touch
To make its mark.
But when the page is defiled
By a bad poem or verse,
I can almost hear the paper
By an amateur's hand.
And so as I lay aside my pen
And read what I have written
I listen carefully,
If this paper is better off
Or if I should have left it
SurelyIt was rainingSurely by `dreamsinstatic
when we kissed for the first time,
for the last time.
sunk into the shrunken space
between our bodies
and divided us
like nothing could before,
like everything will
until that never again
when we will
see each other once more,
Your eyes were
that bewitching shade
of dull brown blue
with all of the light darkness
in a placid pond
around a pupil
overflowing with vacancy,
and my frowning smile.
The winter heat
fell like a rising tide
for our every breath
was another death
so black and full of life --
embracing our boiled ice skin
as we drew apart,
came together and broke free
LongingIt is far too lascivious and cruel,Longing by `dreamsinstatic
the way the glint in
your unnerving stare commands me to come hither
yet your lips
keep pulsing with isolated, rigid greetings
like you were pushed to a dare of some sort.
But still, I know better
by the sometimes welling that form at
the corners of your eyes
- which you try your best to hide, and
by your ocean-deep sighs that
your longing goes past your matting lashes
and mascara tinted tears.
It is never easy, hiding
everything I desire inside of little words
like "Hello" and "Goodbye" when
all I really want to do is let it out,
set it free, and
chain myself to your everything
with words I shouldn't spea
SpeakeasyI can feel you like a phantom,Speakeasy by `dreamsinstatic
sensation without touch,
like breath in winter
or a misty mountain morning
that stays with me
until the stars fall in evening.
Your eyes contain the secrets
your lips would dare to betray,
but your body tells the story
and I am trying
to read between the lines
of your paperback smiles.
A grazing touch, a covert glance,
the memories remain
as skin grows warm and red
beneath lying fingertips
that claim incidental contact
a thousand times a day.
it's not the kind of thing we say
when we are speaking
without talking and feeling
and thinking without knowing...
all of the things
InstitutionalizedShe whispersInstitutionalized by `dreamsinstatic
steady streams of purple tulip promises
that drip inside my cranium.
Her lips spit seeds
into the shallow grooves of my brain
from which her rose petal dreams
bloom inside my eyes.
The wrenching of her spine,
a stubborn vine curled 'round the medulla
and every breath taken
is permitted only on her whims.
She rolls her hips
and buries the anchors of her teeth
inside my rusted, ivory bones.
There is no point is trying to escape
as I've grown to want,
the iron cell of her ribcage embrace.
sexi.sex by ~learningtobefree
sweat collects in the basin of my fingertips.
open for business, covered in you.
sketched a mirage of tears & orgasmic moans
into my shoulder blades; the skin beneath my
left breast bears a bruise the shape of your tongue.
shaking in our skin, we haven't felt this
way since we put down the razor blades.
form-fitted, cowering into each other like
the lion who lost his courage.
we are fucking (done)
our bodies, 102 degrees of
& things mother would never approve.
neither of us smile - we're not sure we like this.
you work your way inside me more times tha
AgoraphobicAgoraphobic by ~HoldTheNoise
He would often catch the coursers of a newly printed page
or lock upon the wingspan of departing poetry.
But once the years corroded and the pages crumbled,
fantasizing was no longer enough
Soon he found that these shallow fabrications had all the depth
of a black and white page.
|Work selected for inclusion in my weekly "Friday Night Features" article.|
© 2007-2013 dreamsinstatic. All rights reserved. All work displayed here are of my own creation and may not be used in any way shape or form without my direct written consent. My work is deeply personal and my greatest treasure and I will not permit it to be plagiarized, edited or outright stolen from me.
11. memoryI know my past by
the invisible scars that dot my memory –
evidence of open brain surgery
(that maps what's been carefully removed,
then isolated and forgotten.)
Life is a road with many forks
but all lead off the edge of a
Don’t ask me why –
it just is, okay?
“Look at all these choices!”
[Not important, I mean.]
Most of my days are consumed by
the impractical marker of the
current end of my history.
(Most of the time I
call it a pain in the neck,
but sometimes I just call it
- a biased introduction to one thing or another.
VanilleA delicate blossom seducing the senses
The subtle aroma recalls secluded beaches and a full night sky...
It quietly drips and pools on the tongue
A velvet sensation
It whispers lovingly in gossamer ribbons
...A gentle caress of fingers feather light along the spine
It beckons with promise
Petals gracefully fall on a lone silver spoon
the formula for amazement: a rare pollen from the surplus field
where horses haven’t grazed since April’s warm orgy
left a bindweed pink disease,
unrepenting against chainlink,
nights spent foraging for a spectre to grieve over,
to watch for while it elevates and descends
like a dumb waiter serving sunlight
to jealous little bastards, birthed and trailing in umbilicals,
sleepy, glass-eyed hydras
who never listen to anything,
uninvolved in my tiny drama,
the feeling of losing my treasured afflictions,
the mythos that fastens the concrete to dirt,
the wind to my spirit-skin,
is dulling the edges of the skyhead
regret in seven stagesi. attraction
when my negativity finally
found something beautiful,
charged up like a bipolar
thunderstorm waiting to come
(you were everything
i ever wanted and i
was entirely selfish) then
like the way our hands fit perfectly
together and how we’d sway
to rhythms that never existed;
your eyes were a springtime day
decades before we were born and
happiness became an instinct
instead of a defense [until]
like a jail sentence worn
around the neck. spine
contorted and screaming
bound too quickly by the uns
and nots and fear you never
quite kept at bay, we were
guilty of so much but
Hubblethe space between stars
in the night sky,
an eyelash's breadth,
contains billions of whirling
galaxies, lightless regions,
breathless clumps of dark matter
and other unimaginable mysteries.
and this reminds me of you.
RelicI. It's a drugstore night
In a sundown town
The background is
That long, low sound.
Which moans across the
Hear the grass sighing
Neath' halcyon blue.
Softly treading o'er the stars
Nightingale eyes peer
Into my sunbleached soul
Relic of ash and smoke.
II. Cities gleam
Burning copper in
Glass facades become
As lines of clouds
Trundle to their trains.
Whisking them away to lonely castles
The trains run on and on
Humming their electric lullabies
That no mother ever sang.
III. Neon sign spitting sparks
On the rainy pavement
Where are these sou
Cascading DarkThis sensation persists in my heart.
Lingers like a stubborn bitterness on the back of the tongue.
Distantly foul, yet so familiar I can’t remember a time when I didn’t taste it.
It’s cold and synthetic.
Mathematical and metallic.
Yet I find myself fantasizing about it tasting organic and sweet.
[ Mandarin honey in the place of corroded steel. ]
Though I am unable to convince myself,
and the same taste, the same fear, settles back into me.
The fear that to you, thoughts of me are tasteless.
Neither sweet nor bitter, but rather clear and empty as pure water.
A manifestation of complete nothingness,
While here I am lo
ethics.my hands aren’t calloused enough.
someone told me recently that
a solid work-ethic comes not from
enjoyment, but from a counterfeit pride
carved deep within oneself, the ultimate,
bold-faced lie you force yourself to believe
in, after you finish your evening prayers
and tuck yourself in for the night.
so, i took it to heart and tried to remedy
the situation by lifting without sighing:
i realize the origin of my anxieties now.
there is no referee in this game,
i am either biting my nails, pulling my
skin, skidding down hallways pursued
by monsters only i can see,
or i am numb.
there is no in between.
but my hands still aren’t cal
The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.
Valium SunshineValium airstrikes in the sunlight,
and the mentally vulnerable dance to
velvety nocturnal sins and bliss in
grenadine waves through and through.
They aggressively move through this
thing called life, floating in opiate clouds
and drastic deals on street corners to
balance the checkbook in swears so loud.
But we two have found better things to
drown our sweet lungs in, blindly iridescent
silver smoke choking our logic for the
real world, with its politics and antidepressants.
Starlight, bright starshine drapes over the
marble balcony of dreams we have, quickly
releasing our inhibitions with needle
injections of inspiration sh
Dry Spell I am immobilized by time.
by the idea that it is somehow slipping,
through the cracks of
my fingers and high
above my head.
I am terrified by the incessant notion
that no combination of thoughts,
could possibly satiate it.
I realize only now that it can never be filled:
all which is tossed into it is swallowed in haste
that it dissolves into non-being.
I find that I am caught within its furrows
much like the words it devo
Phanerozoic lately i've had a certain thought stuck in my brain,
the thought of how easily i can change my fate.
retrospectives play and replay a silly habit embedded in me
like fossils rested in subsoil,
like little insects trapped in golden amber,
like gems cased in by stone:
i wait until its too late to open up.
by then, i've just learned to make myself comfortable.
i imagine how beautiful i could be if i opened up like gardenia.
i make promises to myself that things will be different next year,
Dinner For TwoThe bushes are still but never vacant.
Within their shadows I’m lurking.
Watching you much more closely than the other gazelle.
I’ve always wanted to have you for dinner.
But this game of cat and mouse has rage war for far too long.
And Jerry still has higher winning streak than Tom.
Why can’t we forgot our duties as predator and pray in the animal kingdom?
Setting aside our fangs, horns, claws, and hooves.
While picking up the forks and chops sticks.
Because I’m an outlaw that left his carnivorous heritage.
So the same food chain could link us together for life.
Just give me one dinner for two to show you a meal yo
expectationI am not ready to grow up,
but dissonant chords, memento mori,
and the date of my birth
clamour at my senses
abusive, aggressive, morose -
I wonder how other people
put childish notions away
in order to be polished,
in order to be sophisticated,
in order to feel the same
why they want to.
compositionshe fell in love with words, never people-
people breathe and run and can cut her to the bone;
they're dangerous, deadly, violent,
but it was people that she knew best.
i am made of little, brittle bird bones and shattering skies,
i've got the skin of snakes, of wilting flowers,
of broken mirrors without the shine,
i'm trying to be a bit more honest,
but it's not like you can tell the difference between
my endless melodies and the vindictive, cutting words
that roll from my mouth-
they're not that much different.
Strangeness and CharmsThere’s a girl.
(There’s always a girl)
She’s quiet and silent, not daring to speak.
The class is filled with angry voices and wicked words,
But she bears the pain within the stillness.
They don’t see her.
(Because they never see her)
She’s swimming within the confusion,
Kicking wildly against the misery.
She doesn’t waste her seconds tapping at plastic keys,
But bangs her afternoons away at a piano,
Daring the world to disturb her peace.
But the world never hears,
And that’s fine with her.
(They never see the beauty until it’s too late)
She paints her toenails neon,
And streaks her
The MeteorologistShe’s stretched
as thin as the air in the stratosphere
and her rain
she catches in a great tin can,
pocked with holes,
but they make a music
when they slide down the sides.
on summer days,
I can still hear chimes
but the sky’s as still as her eyes.
prairie handsyou focused east and
bathed in sundrips,
took one look
towards the west
you kept your head
forward and your gaze slipped
not, for these columns
do not shake.
and your gait sank,
and you sang.
you kept up
the best of
arcs and adorations,
in active aspiration,
but had not
the grace for this
and with your hymn
you courted dusk.