[x]

Let Me Down GentlyI never said I was an angel,
rather,
I'm a feather on its wing,
so when you let me drift
on the next western current,
let me fall slowly down,
d
   r
     i
      f
        t
          i
            n
                g.
I promise I'll land softly,
though you will not find me
where you left me.

Searching for the SunI.

The day everything ended, she was standing in a parking lot, weary from a long day of departures and destinations, staring up at the sky. Clouds strolled west, their armfuls of grey dripping out of their grasp and spattering onto the asphalt, onto her upturned face. They rolled and crashed into one another, piling up high in the stratosphere like mountains of cottony stone. Once, they had been at war, and their arguments had sliced across the countryside with the recklessness of a summer fire. Now, though, something had calmed them. Perhaps they were tired from their travel like her, or perhaps it was the sun, gently wedging them apart wi

lessYour phone bills are smaller now,
with no long distance calls to make,

and your car insurance reduced to reflect lower mileage
and all those journeys not made, those roads not taken,
those lanes that you know like the back of your hand -

Left, right, straight ahead, right, right -

are no longer driven. You did not see the bluebells wake
and spring burst forth in the countryside,
did not see the snow on the fields, cold horses in their
quilted coats pawing, nibbling, pawing.

Christmas stamps still tucked in your wallet,
unused,
and fountain pens dried up next to watermarked
John Lewis writing paper
with no letters left to wr

The nature of inspirationWhen was the last time
You heard the word 'erection' in poetry?
I think it was a while back
Between the pages
Of reform
And Odyssey.

I mean "humans" don't even play
Bogies anymore,
Or just rise to the thirteen year old tree-house
Inside us all
Where politeness is a foul facade
And we aren't afraid of our fingers.

No...
Instead
We prioritise the silhouettes
And forget
The way pressing pen into paper
Made us so
Steamy
And out of
Breath.

Inspiration isn't a pretty, pristine river...
It's magma
Flowing
With taboo,
Glowing
Like irradiated
Lemonade
And it's about time we became
Mutants too.

It's about time
We l

Exhume and InhaleI have tasted God, he tasted of sweet wine
and sandalwood, the deep forest you lay down

in the moss and twigs, scattered like finger-bones,
your spine ripped out, curved like a bow.

I couldn't find your heart, trembling
against the opened cage of your ribs,

under the gently speaking rustle,
leaves unfurling, the dance of sunlight

slinking between your vertebrae:
piccolo skims and birchskin shaves.

I fled. Your right shoulder blade beckoned still,
unfolding like the slow feathers of a wing,

your wrist flung out, palm
up, gasped my name,

but I could not stay, only
strained your skin with oleander tea,

drifted, drifted with the t

Coffee StainsAnd dress shoes click on the streets laid slick with cinnamon and wasted air
It's sugar on your lipstick, darling; a dangerous affair.

You chose coffee
Like you chose romance
Just for the idea of romance; cream and smoked wood swirling around in your cup,
And steam curling up into the atmosphere like the locks in his hair.

Crushed, bitter,
Tantalisingly dark and hauntingly aromatic
You craved it
You mocked the raven that eyed you from its branch out in the blustering courtyard and
You didn't even like the taste.

The silver curve of the teaspoon showed your warped reflection like a deathly omen
It showed the line of your neck and e

Girl, Fifteen, To A Lover She'll Never MeetThursday nights are silver screened.
At nine, it's time once again to air
the prelude to a dream.
I wait, eyes square, for the immaculate
contours of your face to appear:
the features of a lover I'll never meet.

It seems strange to say
(a kind of admission of defeat),
but to be honest I'm OK
with the pause, rewind, replay
that makes up our relationship.
You have to admit,
knowing I'd never flip
channels or walk out when
you're in a scene
is a devotion, of sorts.
I expect nothing in return.
I know you know nothing of me.

But I can't help but love you;
your close-ups, your scripted smile,
the way you lean towards the screen

list for ninth october1) your lover is dead and
you burn the eggs. grease
streaks the stove. you
sit, stand, switch off
the burner. sit.
the birds chirp. sit.

2) your lover is dead and
the birds are hungry:
the blue-jay funereal
blue, mockingbird
sick ocean grey.
you shore yourself
against the bare mattress,
empty mason jars, your
mother's phone calls,
bestsellers commended
by desk receptionists.
the author's name
dwarfs the title,
that means it's good.
that means it's popular.
you spill tea
and soak its pages
and sit. sit.

3) your lover is dead and
the tea is cold.
the leaves have settled
in rorschach patterns.

the tea

mosaics.sometimes unique
is not loud;
or bright, alive and raging,
possessed of a hunger for the atypical,
up front and too close,
or thrice-pierced and drenched
in the rebellions
particular to the latest generation.

sometimes it is a girl with
mouse brown hair and eyes
the color of weak tea,
who stands with her schoolbooks clutched
to her chest, in uniform shades of grey-blue
like the midmorning autumn sky

who has a wide mouth prone to nervous smiles,

pale lips and pale cheeks
and words that don't always come out
the way she means

who holds the universe
in the intricacies of her fingerprints
and laughs in treble clef notes
and u

beta physicsi.
the rain wrapped impatience around your roof,
bored through the wood like a thousand million termites
(or one you-sized termite, blind, breathless)
and seeped from the cold clockwork like battery acid.

ii.
you lived in a widow's closet -

a house swarmed with antiques
that collapsed in their own gravity
and combusted -

and then you lived in widow's charcoal.

iii.
"galaxies are either lovers or termites," she mused.

(earlier, her fingernails bored into my back
Hubble's thousand million stars, all drops of acid
branding my spine.)

"they are drawn to each other for years
and in an instant, once together,
eat themselves alive.

leavetakingi.
the world is brighter where
dregs of strangers' revels remain --
i keep this half-light for my own.

ii.
i'll stay until the wind sighs a scotch-and-smoke
cliché, til the Muscadet's slipped from the lip
of my wayward
hello.(i know you're there before you do.)
iii.
your night is told in
patchouli-pulse wanders; mine,
in whorls of liqueur-breath. come
close and i'll find the warp
through the weft, the trails telling tales
in synaesthesia --
Platinum Blonde's been 'round and gone.

iv.
(-- closer, find syllables strewn
in an exhale's wake; stolen from my throat-
ful of careless farewells, spin and sway

Fireating.Your showcase act,
she who
toes the line between
safety
and
stupidity

tightrope-catwalking,
straightline-kerbstalking
distance edges closer as her
heart rate stalls.

Your glitz girl,
she who
knows the time it takes to
trust
and
practise

horsetrot-swordthrowing
actgets-crowdgoing
her balance was performance but she
fell for you.

I Have No Names for all My Teacup BabesI feel always like I am starting over.

As a magpie I gather trinkets under my pillow,
bay leaves and bags of herbs to bring the next lover to me,
to call the next dream-face forward—a picture
painted in the tea leaves.

But truth be told the start-again
is never clean, is never gentle,
and the sweat of all that labour
is a fire on my skin, telling me
I will never resist its wind-cry.

The moon comes when I call, to help me;
midwife, she is, and she carries into being my new selves
like the babes they are, teaches them to
fill long footsteps like hers.

Truth be told, I tire of the destiny
I was given once—I am a teacup

SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.

It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic ki

Of Half-Filled WordsShe is not a flutterbird.
Her fingers are skittish,
her smile is not.
Do not fear that you will
drive it away.

Sadness is her fumbling limb.
It is unwanted, yet
necessary.

When it is January
she will tell you,
"I am still struggling.
And I am becoming so many people
all at once.

A conglomeration of beauty that
I have managed to mangle.
Please, do not be sad for me."

Sometimes her sorrow is
meant for you. But mostly her.

Those specks and spots
of ocean storm lulls
reveal her truths:
ones she does not want
to extract from herself.

Her heart is not a rabbit.

When it beats
faster, faster, faster,
you need not
run harder

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Into the LightWhen I was a boy
I used to pray to dashboard lights--
They always brought me safely home.

As darkness would unfurl himself
along the horizon and, like a serpent,
swallow up the sky
regurgitating stars and the bile of moonlight,
I was saved by the messianic gleam
of artificial luminescence shining through.

I'd tuck myself into the leather seat,
press my cheek against the warm cold glass
and watch with hushed worship
as the soft orange glow emanated
from behind the dials, buttons and knobs
like a night-light promising
safety, warmth and immortality.

A brilliant shade of green would come,
resurrected from the blackness
of the r

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Submitted: April 18, 2012
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Undressing Poetry

by `dreamsinstatic, Apr 18, 2012, 6:52:01 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

She clothes herself in poetry,
seals her skin within the verse.

Each line becomes another garment
that conceals her fixed form's curvature,
but peels away when read.

Last night I dissected a stanza,
clamped it tight between my teeth
and tugged it down her legs.

Her body breathes warm and sweet,
speckled red like a summer strawberry field.

I sucked the juice from her lines and
spit the punctuation like seeds.

My lips mouthed the shape of her words
as my skin grew more sticky with
every splash of imagery dripping down my chin.

I peeled apart her soft pages
with sticky, pink fingertips that left them
clinging to my skin.

A single flawless line remained
between the cloak of poetry, her and me,
so we spoke the words in unison,
revealing everything and setting her verse free.

Undressing Poetryby `dreamsinstatic

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

NaPoWriMo - Day 18

I've had this idea in my head all day, and after NaPo, I will certainly revisit this concept.

EDIT:
I was thrilled to wake up this morning and find that this received a Daily Deviation. I wanted to offer a huge thanks to =Ireal70 for suggesting it and ^thorns for selecting it. Also wanted to say thank you to all the amazing people on this site who have supported me and my work. I've learned a lot, met a lot of great people and look forward to seeing how my work will continue to evolve.