Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Stand Up


For Izzy's out of standard prompt on monsters at Real Toads.
I will take your life in trickles and half ass mockeries
You’ll stand only when flies light on my eyelids to feed and propagate
These slivers of pain cost me nothing, but will drain your emotional pocket book
My life lessons will grant permanent creases in your polyester future

Stand up, stand up
Physical pain pales with the heat from the sun
Stand up, stand up
But I am standing, low stool, dry rope

The backhand labeled “Mothers Love” always finds purchase
Bruises the color of ochre jelly gone rancid and crystalline
Carbon fiber character is not enough to mute the rabid cats
And the belly of the beast becomes a favorite resort destination

Stand up, stand up
Physical pain a sorely needed lover
Stand up, stand up
But I am standing, low stool, dry hope

Monday, October 7, 2013

Mothers Atrium

I strolled the Mother's atrium, bare feet making ardent love to the velveteen moss. Shadows couldn't take on the monstrous hues of black and grey as the emerald conscience of Mother's atrium tamed them sure, whipping foaming mouths into chartreuse bird houses. My voice and the sound of my breathing came back to me in verde echoes and moist vibration, playing tunes backed by the choir streaming sunlight through leaves, their music keeping dust and mayflies floating endlessly. Hey young Cardinal, harbinger of spring, while your beauty is undeniable, fly away briskly and give room for the hummingbirds breast in chromatic glory and allow my tryst with Mother's atrium to be complete and rapturous. I will take it with me and wrap tight my shoulders against the crimson night.

Friday, October 4, 2013

Lost at Sea

Sailing that trawler of dreams, shrimping, but hoping instead for a haul of permanent joy
This course takes a good man away from pristine waters, splintering Christian acts
Placing the heart and mind within reach of dangers crippling fingers
If there is a green flash, hope to Neptune it isn’t thermo nuclear in nature
And instead, an omen that the Gods have a message for you
One that starts with tears and ends in triumphant death
The tide turns crimson, the tide runs true
And sea birds call for a stop to the chaos of men, if only to feed for a bit
But you keep grinding the shore and betting the ship and shouting your epiphanies
Bending reality until she screams in tortured wails and snaps your mutinous spine
Digging a grave at sea is easy my love….and we shall all pitch in with our golden shovels.