I’d say that there’s red blood in my blue veins,
The periwinkle pathways: weak and thin.
But there’s a black that slowly crawls and gains
And paints a sickly hollow ‘neath my skin.
The way that she conducts her voice;
Oh, how my composure shatters!
Her tone plays fiddles that rejoice
But alas, how little it matters.
For two songs played in such different ways
Could never sound the same;
But I’ll always be moved by the symphonic sways
Of how she says my name.
I can feel a deathly finger
Creeping, like a pervert, up my thigh;
And for half a spell, it likes to linger
Before it chills me and I die.
This finger, cold and clammy
Has an oddly warm flirt,
It like to tease me, and enjamb me
Before it fingerfucks me in the dirt.
“I’ll give you my life,” Johnny Pierce did say
“It’s not worth much, I’m willing to risk it
All for a whopping six pounds pay-a-day,
A bolt-action rifle, and midday biscuit.”
“I’m seven-foot-two, born and raised Toulouse,”
The printer Jean Luc had yelled o’er the crowd;
I’ll write my wife,’till’s time my life to lose,
And make both her, and Paris Fleur-de-proud.”
‘Pon “Summa cum laude” straight up he’d stand,
Then spend his days flipping through pages, couth;
Alas, he heard but “Axel Ferdinand,
All true Germans should join the Iron Youth.”
(Inspired upon completing All Quite on the Western Front by Erich Remarque.)
Jealousy! Thou green-eyed fiend,
Why dost thou so love me?
Slowly, as away I’m gleaned,
I see the sadistic joy of thee.
Polished to a little pebble,
Bit by jealous bit,
Jealousy! Oh how thee revel,
And, Jealousy, take delight in it.
Thy tiniest little nothings
Bleed thick clouds of Jealousy,
Attracting Jealous sharks
To Jealous stuffings
Sinking to the darks
Of the Jealous sea.
But first, the bubbles break:
“Oh, Jealousy! Cry Jealousy!
I’ll cry thy name one last time – by three!
Damn Jealousy! Sweet Jealousy!
Thy Jealous gangreen has gotten me!”
The lovesick, white-capped waves of Boston bay
Began the morn as if by magic kissed.
And once Diana fell to sleep, some say
The tide then tried to chase her through the mist.
The clouds, e’er thick, were steps from sea to sky
– And though, perhaps a Davy’s locker dream –
The water wished to write waves ever high
To woo and hod the Pearl-of-Cosmos gleam.
Though such was seen as foolish a notion,
The moon and sea still met ‘pon stairs of chance.
For lacking moon, the waves held no motion,
And without sea, the moon knew not romance.
For just as moon swells blue’d breath to the sea,
‘TIs only thee who brings such breath to me.
To escape the hail
I hid beneath a lonely bridge
Where I heard an owl,
It’s wise tune,
In solitude, cooing;
I hiked the trail
Of an abandoned ridge
Where a wolf bled a howl
To misanthropic moon:
The symphony of my undoing,
via Daily Prompt: Symphony
There was something there
– Forgotten, hidden –
It fouled the air
And left it ridden
With a hint,
A mite of lint,
But it still left you a wreck.
What is “It”? A question often asked.
When I refer to “It” in poetry,
“It” can be anything from your past;
Like presents under a low-lit tree,
Or bugs that eat the dead friends of thee.
“It” can be the present, too,
The currents things you see and do.
“It” can be the smell of grass,
Or “it” can be a revival,
“It” can be death, but alas,
“It” could also be survival.
And if “It” is deep-dwelling worms
Covered in a grimy goo
Then you can kill “It” while “It” squirms,
Or let “It” squirm to you.
Why I write of “It” is multi-reasoned,
And by my lines, “It” has grow quite seasoned.
How “It” can carry so much weight!
– While remaining ever vague –
“It” can destroy, and “It” can create,
Remains silent, or spread like a plague;
But while “It” will build, or obliterate,
What we can do is try to elate
In the wonder of “It”
Before “It” is slit
By the Sisters’ of fate.
Occasionally it breaks through a word,
The subtle utterance of diction;
It’s slight and scattered, but it’s heard
Despite the clamoring of fiction.