[x]

A Haunted ConstellationYou still come to me
in the dark throes of night,
a golden Eurydice
spun up in the lingering ether
and once more stolen away
by the gathering shadow
with my peeking glance.
Still I feel you,
cool skin and heated breath
beneath the sheets,
painting my body with
your saccharine stroke
and charming my ear
with your sweet symphony.
You've always haunted me,
my brilliant constellation
burning hot in night skies
and glowing hushed
just beyond the silhouetted spine
of distant mountaintops.
Some day
the sky will tear down
like flowing ribbon streamers,
embrace me in it's silken shroud
and your distant star
will illuminate my universe
until the scorch

Drinking in your voice She had a voice like a cool glass of water in the midst of a dry, hostile desert - refreshing, calm; chilled but not frozen, serene but not languid. The ugliness of her face and figure could almost be forgotten when hearing the stream of speech flow by. She made hideous words ring like ivory bells - not silver. Silver? Too common; anyone can have a silver voice. No, hers was carved of ivory, incandescently glowing. Creamy bone, splashed with drops of shining beauty. I listened to it and was lost.

Newspapering and Postcards1.

Yellowed autumns crinkled under thumb
as I picked away at language long lost
depicting us on a boat run.

I was stuck in an infinite regression-
memories twisted and turned and
denoted turbulence of last excursions.

The authorship is creased,
writing spirals into
regressive loops.

2.

I have come back from the end of the world,
accompanied by the sounds
of a soft murmur and the ever-pressed newspaper clippings
of an expeditions trek into an October breeze.

It was of a black winter morning I returned to the sights
of London north, the besmeared and hazed brickwork
embracing the steam coddled galley of our
sea-ferry.

Off

People.i.
There was once a mad man who sat on trains and wailed about his dead love.
No one laughed
but no one listened either.

ii.
See that freak right down the corridor, smiling and crying at the same time?
His eyes are voids and his hair the colour of his pain.
That's a man without skin.

iii.
Headlines: Drunk school girl murders seven classmates.
Could've been anyone.

iv.
Broken soldiers march on.
What they care about the most lies in the pocket closest to their hearts.
It is also riddled with bullets and dust.

v.
Blinded lovers might be considered lucky.

Infinity in practiceWars never end. They change positions.

BiographicalitiesFIVE DECADES 10/05/10

when i was a child i lived within a bright circus of illusion
it surrounded me, but i could only see it, not touch it
i was in the center ring with the dark lions nibbling at my feet
the light dying out before it reached me in my small prison
where was the spotlight, and someone to tame those damned lions?

nowhere.

that was the sixties.

when i was a teen the darkness fell and the clowns went mad
no light nowhere, even the illusion faded to black and died
i was in a corner of the abandoned circus tent chanting for its return
the few things i loved began falling apart all around me
where was home, and comfort,

seven soulfulonce upon a time, fairy tales breathed.

                                  we walked through the peppermint forests,
                                  found gumdrop castles and gingerbread

It Dawns like a Broken HeartOn her cheeks, dawn glows,
a melody of sea-glass
and fading memoirs.

fear sans teethnaked shoulders peekaboo through gaping sweatshirt mouths
as artificial winds flow through temporary makeshift homes
and the wonder of being barefoot starts to lose its allure

every breath through her beleaguered doubting lungs
is a silent scream of need and want
and her slow exhales taste of unfulfilled desires

she longs for his mouth on her skin to make her feel
like she belongs somewhere
like she belongs to someone
and not just something

she longs to be.
whole.
wholly beautiful.

she aches for permanence.

[she begs cold rationality for him.]

A Vision of Mercy-CinquainHeaven.
A weak excuse,
substituting your dreams.
Keeping your feet, your hopes, grounded.
The stars.

gambler's fallacyone.
anxiety polarizes
a fear of being alone
with a fear of ruining what i have;
like king midas, except what i touch is gold already
and i make it dust.

two.
"hey--hey!
i don't like that look.
stay here."

his lips brush my forehead,
his fingertips, my hair.

he knows me better
than i am willing to know myself.

three.
your fingertips on my shoulderblades
speak in a language only you and i can understand.

i am who i have always wanted to be
when i get to hold your hand.

four.
i meet his parents in the dark
after six hours in a van
bleary-eyed and unprepared
just glad to be off the road.

his mother doesn't say anything: w

a secret oath.a secret oath.

"madness need not be all breakdown; it may also be
break-through. it is potential liberation and renewal
as well as enslavement and existential death."

- r. d. laing

imagine your bone structure collapsing in on itself, birthday sticks in the mudpie of your flesh, and eyes like glass, blue as all the oceans and glinting as the light curves through them, odd little chips of endless third dimension. imagine as i do, these separate features animated. an awkward caricature of limbs at impossible bends and intersections, levitating in the space between worlds where your half-body splinters, the shards of your bones are swallowed

Here comes the hurt
You say we fell in love on motorcycles. I thought it was the day we both hit our head hard under the piano, carving our names on the weakened legs and trying to hum the keys to ourselves that reverberated against our palms. But I like arguing about this because either way, we weren't thinking straight then.
I wish you would remember my nicknames and stop drinking cold tea at nights. I wish you'd wake up and smile instead of trying to figure out what day it is and maybe lose yourself in my eyes until you didn't care if weeks passed in that moment. There are so many things I list and toss in "SOS" bottles because I don't want you to know I'

r.a.i.n.r.a.i.n.i
[finally]
changed all my plants
to cacti.
now they won't die
if i forget
to care for them
too.

the elephant in my bed.oblivious to the constraints of time,
january snowflakes wooed the wind with their waltz:
one two-three, one two-three.

still naive, our footsteps
were not afraid to disturb
our glittering white universe.

wordlessly, questions were asked and answered
so quickly that we soon became
both the matador and the bull.

my door was painted red,
and we tangoed against Time itself,
a euphoric cacophony of beautiful maybes.

shoes toppled like domino tiles.
neighbors awoke with bleeding hearts.
keys lay abandoned in the door.

ivory tusks:
- i'm leaving in july.

salvation:
- tell me in june.

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More from `dreamsinstatic

Door knobs and bedposts I never considered being a writer could be a curse.

The first time that notion came to mind was in the midst of a fiery argument between myself and a now ex-girlfriend but at the time we were quite exclusive. Actually, the exclusivity of it is debatable considering our termination occurred as a result of unfaithful acts she performed in the back seat of her car with the prematurely balding twenty-something manager at the local fast food joint. She claimed the marks he left on her neck in mid-nibble were a result of an allergy to fabric s

Dearest EmilyThey say your life was spent
in empty spaces, concealed and lonely.
No stroke of pen can express
just how your words seduce me.

Your lips I kiss are leather bound,
your supple verse unfurling
and splayed before me lay the dream
of your tender words returning.

I dip my fingers between the folds
of your silken volume's crest
and long to memorize the rhythms
of the heart beneath your breast.

Your somber shade comes alive
and draws shadows down upon me
I long to peel that veil from your skin
and set that broken heart free.

Though my words can never reach
through the cobwebs clotting time
I will wade within inky seas
and submerg

HushIt was her silence that drew me forward.
Those gaping spaces hung before her still lips
in the hushed moments when their movement
ceased and all that passed before us was the
soft flush of warm air steaming through the
dark slit carved between those pinkish tiers.

Eyelids sailed slowly toward the ivory shores
of velvet flesh, lashes humming delicate melodies
in a sweeping serenade against the warmth
as cherry blossoms flourished in small groves
blooming from the porcelain garden of her visage.

Denim limbs pawed at one another as her figure
shifted, swaying fabric skating along the smooth
sculpture of her frame as sunlight dwindle

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Confessionsby `dreamsinstatic

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Romance / General / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

©2010-2013 `dreamsinstatic

Written for #SixWordStories Six Word Story Contest

~Solarune Jan 25, 2011 Writer

Ooh, brilliant. That's certainly a story waiting to be told.

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`dreamsinstatic Jan 25, 2011 Professional Writer

Thank you.

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~Solarune Jan 31, 2011 Writer

You're welcome

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!OnyxSnowfall Jan 24, 2011

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`dreamsinstatic Jan 25, 2011 Professional Writer

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~londonrey Dec 11, 2010

ohohohohohohohohhhhhhhhhhhhhh,
acheacheacheeeeeeeee.
this is amazing.
i love it.

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~520romeo Dec 6, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

i like this. very much. for some reason.

it reminds me of roald dahl's the landlady somehow.
wooden rocking chair and a fireplace.

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~DecembersDemon Dec 5, 2010

good god,
there should be a novel for this.

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`dreamsinstatic Dec 7, 2010 Professional Writer

Maybe there will be

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~DecembersDemon Dec 9, 2010

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