[x]

Under a Witches SkyAnd lo there he said: "I am darkness rising"
— ‘an apparition bleeding into a dreaming sky
Distilled in the timbre of windswept voices,
black feathers enchant earth in fevered-song
Magick ebbs & shimmers thru earthen veins,
seething like a migration of hungry wolves
Silvery eyes peer, drinking the ether of souls;
watching the spirit world fold into the mists
And where Shadows and Witches conjure,
— myriad talons beshrew Winter’s prayer

For eons I hath wandered in forgotten lore
— a sleep walker thru ash & fire, hunting ..
Beneath Moon solemn and drifting,
I covet thy ghostly figure velvet, undressing
Pools of

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.

SpeakeasyI can feel you like a phantom,
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.

Of course,
it's not the kind of thing we say
when we are speaking
without talking and feeling
without touching
and thinking without knowing...

all of the things

Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home

Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.

We Can't Be Together.Every kiss you plant on my lips,
Takes a little bit of my soul away.

You're stealing the passion,
You're invading my heart,
And killing what emotion I've left untouched.
Stop this.
I can't love you.

I've tried to before,
Oh my god,
Have I tried.

Tried to unlock the doors to myself,
Tried to open up,
And let you in.
But as soon as I took one look,
Negativity took it's opportunity,
And struck the hot iron I'd been molding.

Every word you mutter
My knees falter under
You're killing me

You're my kryptonite
I'm your paradise
But in this odd peace that seems to be approaching
I can't find happiness.

We aren't meant to be together
But this

WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.

I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze

like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.

Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;

safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.

Poet as PainterThe world
Your dusty palette,
The pen
Your muddied paintbrush:

Dip into
The impossible
Colour
Of imagination

And stain
The pristine slate
With an
Image distilled.

Dry Spell I am immobilized by time.
by the idea that it is somehow slipping,
fleeting,
evaporating
through the cracks of
my fingers and high

above my head.
I am terrified by the incessant notion
that no combination of thoughts,
words,
silences,
or actions
could possibly satiate it.

I realize only now that it can never be filled:
all which is tossed into it is swallowed in haste
or stretched
so far
that it dissolves into non-being.
I find that I am caught within its furrows
much like the words it devo

BoyfriendI thought you were good.

You WERE good.

You played with my hair.

You held me when I cried.

You were a gentleman.

You made me laugh.

You kissed me.

You loved me.

I loved you.

It was then that I learned the truth.

The dirty, rotten, stinking truth.

About you!

You cheated.

You played with her hair.

You kissed her.

You loved her.

You made her laugh.

I saw you – don’t you dare deny it.

I saw you giving her that love.

That same love you gave me.

I break up with you.

You don’t even seem to care.

Did you ever love me at all?

Or was it only ever her?

Much later, you’ll realize what a mistake you made.

I

He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.

The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.

But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a

with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.

PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint

You Don't Know ItYou don't know it, but you kept me sane
I nearly went over the edge
With a knife in one hand and a gun in the other
But you grabbed me
Pulled me back on my own two feet
Emptied my hands
And when you realized that I couldn't stand on my own
You hugged me
Like a mother would do for her child
Like a friend would do for, dare I say, another friend

You don't know it, but when you saved me
I felt free
I felt wanted
I felt needed
I felt, dare I say, loved

You don't know it, but when you showed me kindness
I fell in love
In love with your kindness
That same sweet kindness you saved me with
It felt like I found a new home
One that I could be, dare

untitledGold abundant at your feet,
Heart ripe and pumping on your sleeve,
And eternal admiration;
To say happiness has evaded you
Would be asylum-esque lunacy
For you have nothing to lose,
Fate is on your side,
The odds are in your favor infinitely
Do not waste the gift you’ve received

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WatchmanLike the sound
Of none listening,
Like the ground
Wetly glistening,
From the
Spilled noise unto dusk-
Watchman
Stumbles upon husk,
Sheds his cloak-
Due respect to which

Wounded By Perfection.A vision of perfection has
Wounded the dirt and gravel and
Earthliness of true sight-

And all that has grown of
Unfurling winds and torrents
Of passions too wild to tame-

Is a soiled soul that bears no
Harvests for the winter times;
Days of rustled bedsheets-

The moon no longer controls
Tides of lapping linen; potent
In pulling one into a too warm

Embrace; those seedy fingers
Caress the heart-strings like a
Perverted musician, whom

Plays symphonies of longing in
The chest and will never,
Never rest.

The Red-Haired.Cascading copper blood more sensual
Than the tang of unwound citrus fruit;
Not quite the sun, rather more forgiving
To the eyes- yet every bit as stunning-

And would be a harshly cold existence
Of cruel ice cutters and creaks and claws and
Melted butter stew and faded chestnut
Oaks and all that was not a mathematical

Mastery of objective beauty; of form;
So unnatural, that only nature could
Conjure Euclidean angles- into a
Freudian playground of sexuality;

With the phenomenon that is product
Of pheomelanin (commonly found
In the uncommon one percentile
Who pull practical jokes on genetics)

The lustrous and illusive 'red-ha

Perhaps the most inspirational Haiku ever written.I am staring at
The ceiling fan and it is
Not moving at all.

Inspired by Yeats.The grip of reality released in revelry,
Cold slipped from out the hands,
From dusk to darkness the revelry
Fervently heated my frost-kissed hands.

I warmed them against yours in embers of dusk,
And was burning long after you had left,
Seared my soul and sealed my lips in dusk,
But now, I have nothing but lonely love left.

A Cigarette.Of wooden and stale fascinations;
That become the wick and kindle
For black grain and black paste
That wetly leaks out of throatholes,

With burning red and white cushions
That taste like fired guns;

Except when the trigger is pulled, fingers;
Fingers are reduced to short black stubs
That pulsate and squirm like
Headless worms in the dirt,

Maggots, flies, play an orchestra

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Burn the Post-cards

by ~Dozza88pwns, Jan 25, 2013, 6:41:33 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Burn the post-cards; there
is no vacation

Grave and school yards; both
the inevitable

Calenders don't make friends-
No kitten
No pin-up
No lame joke
Nothing

Can change our minds; this
time of year

...Damned education.

Burn the Post-cardsby ~Dozza88pwns

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2013 ~Dozza88pwns

Returning to school next tuesday. I am in a homicidal mood at best.

~mcjaga Jan 26, 2013 Student Filmographer

Nailed it on the head for me on Wednesday. Very eloquent.

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~Dozza88pwns Jan 31, 2013 Student Writer

thanks jeff ;D

Reply

~LoneTaku Jan 25, 2013 Student Writer

That's me every Monday XD

Reply

~Dozza88pwns Jan 31, 2013 Student Writer

hahah. Oh lord I wouldn't want to be you on a monday.

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