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Two Skies LongHe is always telling the same story, how they
swing-and-swayed over the line between mirror
monologues and non-fiction. How her eyes inhaled
and all her senses breathed out to left-right switch
into his subliminance—where they hovered
on moving circles
and then nothing mattered, not sins, or joy,
or the world. Everyone's favorite part is the side-stepping
to promenade position, when he says that at that moment
he vowed to make it last forever as he froze time with her
on demipoint—smooth like glass
until it shattered. I will not to pity him,
not even after hearing his dance shoes chewing hard
on pavement, down-up-up-down the streets— rusted
at the hinges, notebooks still soulstained with passion
leftovers. You’d believe it if you saw him writing, right hand
waltzing gracefully with a chewed up HB pencil on cheap paper,
the kind that goes brown and crumbly at the edges.
AenalemmaI held on to our skin on skin scent
until it became ionized nitrogen,
until it drifted over dystopian summers
and blue-haloed as a cobalt-sulfate atmosphere
—which I followed well above the continental shelf
while coiling in tandem with the world’s rotation.
And only then, in starward dead-reckonings,
I could measure the ghost taction of your body
—as far as polar-aurorae shieldings
ebbing away from directional dawn light,
or so I portended distance, a desperate force, desultory;
how I misread it, this mercurial assassin—
intentionally left blank, all writhing decoherence,
all molecular asphyxiation.
Come home darling.
The lanterns on the wharf have been out for too long,
row after row, lovers' fists turned to stone,
clutching at moonburned cinders,
lesser sundials beginning to fracture.
On Lesser Orchids Through a Digital JanuaryInstantly comforting and satisfying; subjective,
though certainly not when the I in the word “ideally”
is soaked to the (thin) skin in tenderness seeking.
As in running to paradise loaded with vouchers;
some for deep-rooted sincerity, others for fabric
smelling of foreign hair. Ear, Chapstick smeared,
so cheap. Survival kit: Keratin, lip streamers,
cold-blood vial, crumbs to leave a trail behind.
When picking, break stem at the node, weak point.
They might even laugh, asking for another snap where
instinct seldom fails. Well done. The road back to
neutrality is always a hard thing to describe, at least
not without rambling endlessly about starlit
concrete slabs; better to just sum it up as the tangible
difference between fate and faith, enveloped by
the misty blue of good intentions.
Xenon (Tribute to mina12310)Wink sky, open crystal blinds,
in the nick of time
to catch the city—
and the gleam that mirrors it—
concealing their names
inside a nest
of freshly cast steel
where pilgrims fledge
and untether themselves
from ground-bound space
and its weight in grams,
a place for souls
to be sculpted
anew—ablaze with holy
down a perfectly straight
line of sight.
no more fitting loosely
in the past perfect,
onto a perfect past;
say goodbye to muted porch lights,
goodbye to dead-end walls
and cast out hopes;
at least wave to your savior.
at least remember the shutter snap.
Wink xenon tube, open magnesium gradient,
if her eyes focus just right,
the whole universe is a utopia.
Burst RateDigital aperture expanded over
the crowded room revealing his epithelial
coiled and vaso-constricted —muscle activity
decreased on pixelated resolution.
Feminine clockwork-movements accelerated
the cardiac discomposure on his organic pupils
dilated black—and blue nerve-ended lips—
foreshadowed through morphological discoloration
the paradoxical undressing of a soul.
This wasn’t the average coup de grace
but a grande-finale of sharp lenses
and snowing shards of frosted steel;
Inevitable and irreversible exposure.
Final seconds shredded to icy fractions
as warm-blooded illusions lowered
core temperature— shut down
all metabolic rate, contorted and finally
burrowed themselves terminally
into the back pocket of time.
Vanishing ActWinter nudges him
out from home
with the touch of a disapproving mother
and grudgingly he relents,
knowing a very slight click
in the door knob
offers an excuse as good as any.
He finally finds a high place,
best suited to summon it back:
The postcard picture
where Eden spreads ivy patterns
at her feet and purslane sprouts
grow over seeds of regret— where cigarette-smoke
from her supple lungs meets debauch holy-spirit.
The rules are set for a game
of endurance —acknowledge eleven o’clock stomping
up the gravel road or hold freedom’s slippery hand
a while longer.
AnemoneThey were liquid angels once, legion of dust-devils
now arising with a thousand raspy screams.
Crimson heavy, sand-storming bare another stillborn
morning from its silent membranes. She tries to count
them out of boredom. Dry, disembodied fingers off
the white-capped god’s reanimated skeleton—
recarving faces with hollowed-eyed
canyons and pulsating dunes. Two and ten,
Twelve and fifty, wonders of the solar system
reduced to passing corn rows over the same dull
parallax effect created by high-speed on magnetic rails.
This may be the last time she sees them: A final trip
to the upper quadrant where caged-wolves, obnoxious
peddlers and lab-engineered mermaids swim
in a sea of rust—an an usual good-bye party;
a good-bye nonetheless.
Alkane (Arrival)He stands at the docks. Behind his back
ships swarm out toward the beacon,
biomechanical gnats over a hydrocarbon lake—
Their collective noise buzzes in his ears
with familiar promises of new beginnings:
The trochaic steps endemic to inlanders,
crowded privacy, a misfit lover surreptitiously
pushing the key into his cubicle door.
He will mimic them, become one of them,
absorb enough of their warmth to make it
to the next cycle. But first he must walk down
the highway past the city gate, its blurred shape
is a healthy womb in the distance,
gleaming with tensile strength and human naivety.
Fine LineYou sit on the front steps, holding the sort of finite but concrete
self-deception that borders on survival; thinking it may
never be as good as the first time she burned universes
on your wrists— with relative causality—on the coffee table
from zero to a million in a second taking after the infallible
lipstick-red imprinted on the collar of your favorite poplin shirt.
Yet, it’s only In between ginger tea and lunch you manage
to tile her napkin notes, noticing ink patterns form a multidimensional
projection of liquified memories. Through the flotsam, you stare from a sailboat, contemplating below a translucent kid who used to think the moon was always
following him, until his cousin in London told him the same thing over the phone.
Later on, you understand the meaning of evolutionary adaptation as you pack
her stuff into black garbage bags, the Halloween costume still dripping with
fog from the time she ran trying to catch up with you on the sunnyside.
If only it
BurningWe burned the book on the gray steps
of your back porch. When your father
came home, I hid –
he found me sweeping up the ashes.
Sunday morning came to pass
and the cross above your bed
hung crooked. I wondered
if you’d ever fix it.
You took it down instead.
Lakeconsider the space
the lake near my home
was drained one summer
and at the bottom
the docks spread out like lizards,
hunting a shopping cart
and mud-covered bottles.
Growing Pains ManagementWhen I was four years old,
my mother told me that the sky was the limit,
so I ran face first into the
pine tree in my front yard
to get the ground knocked out of me.
When I was thirteen,
I busted my head open in band class.
In the clinic, I wiped the blood
that flooded down my face with my forearm
and made the Vice Principle vomit.
Since then, I’ve made a habit out of making
When I was seventeen, Kevin put a copy
of HOWL face down on my desk and told me
not to tell anyone. I didn’t.
He still lost his job.
Now, I’m twenty two and I don’t know
what I want to be when I grow up.
My hair is thinning faster than my
patience is thinning faster than my
blood is thinning faster than my
wallet. I buy time at the ATM
and gamble it away.
It’s all maintenance now, like so many
car parts creaking. I haven’t put on
that many miles but when you floor it
for twenty two years straight
there’s going to be some damage.
You can have your poem now.yearning:
an intense feeling of longing
for something that may have never existed
despite our soaked physical evidence
strewn across the bathroom floor
beside our limbs and your vomit,
a retching twitch in your gut,
"and let it be known that men
are more sexually possessive in their thoughts
often leading them to the belief
that after pilfering through the slough
they are owed a perfect human being
fashioned from the schematics written on their rib or
pulled over the shape of adam's incomplete skeleton,
lusting for happiness
and an easy way to keep it because
that first fuck was just so good,"
though honestly, i don't remember meeting you,
your persistence a golden shadow in the hallway
where you looked at me from six stairs above:
hands hanging at your sides,
the noise of a crowd below the grating,
a hole in your left shoulder,
hair dark and frizzy,
eyes greener beside your red-burst whites,
nose pointed to ask
if i had ever done acid and if
i wanted to try it, "free of
SleepIs it the moon whose light gone dark,
or is it the sun's evening break
to leave his virtue, leave his mark,
and slumber happily beneath the stars.
As I find myself mimicking him,
laying down to sleep,
I know there'll be no rest tonight,
for he'll rise when I'm finally deep.
I pull the covers o'er my head,
and curse wrathful things,
but I know he's just doing his job,
and I have no dominion o'er him.
I rise up as well and thank him,
apologize for my sleepily drunkenness,
we exchange glances for just a second,
and I go on my merry way.
Beautiful MoonPowerful moon
Guardian of the night.
Your subtle white light cuts through the darkness.
The snow reflects your happy glow.
The sea rises and falls back at your whim, while reflecting your beautiful face.
Goddess of the darkness
Your beauty is unlike any other.
Your mystery is intriguing, your image, mesmerizing.
The world is at peace in the dead of the night.
And all the while you bring complete balance to our own mysterious world
Chesapeake PureI first came to know of poetry’s home
while sailing the Chesapeake Bay,
a child enraptured by the beauty bestowed
upon this estuary—
an embodiment of transition
with a free connection to the open sea,
comprised of countless creations,
each teaching us to breathe.
But perilous tides of polluted lives
drown inspiration’s breeze,
leaving the soul deaf to the cries
and blinded by weak notions of free.
For where a treasure resides unrecognized,
dismissed or selfishly received,
then so shall it pass silently by,
absorbed once again by the ever vast sea.
Might we strive to protect, and thus keep alive,
this sanctuary that flows,
where organic life can thrive
on the surface and in the depths below,
where the glittering sun in the dawn of night
simmers with the moon in the dusk of day,
as iridescent dreams weave light upon light
into white waves of the Chesapeake Bay.
RiskI know what this is,
But it has become increasingly frustrating
When I can’t even be honest to myself.
You’re the star,
And I am just an extra.
The victorious proclamation is made,
And everyone cheers you on.
I stay silent only because it isn’t worth the risk,
Of attaining my happiness at the cost of yours.
I know it isn’t fair,
I know I must accept it,
And one day I’ll move on,
But for one day, at least,
I want to have that moment,
Even if it doesn’t last.
Sorrows in the SunriseSonnet 2 – Sorrows in the Sunrise
Sunlight streaming on the floor
Of this prison, warmth bereft
Like the tears of a woman
So warm but agonizing
To gaze upon mars my eyes
My soul it tarnishes now
Let the battles take my heart
As I forgot how to feel
I flood the land with bloodshed
Her tears like sunlight streaming
But it’s like this prison cell
Heart of a valiant hero
Made craven when her blood streamed
So warm but agonizing…
NGC 4438Late at night your promises echo just like
dopplered pluckings on hydrogen filaments,
ranging in tone from Kaus Australis to
ecliptical Aries; analogous to
the naked-eyed magnitude of your spiral
fingers holding mine with densité stellaire
in what was perhaps love’s perfect learning curve:
Following close Arcturus’ arc and moving
down on Spica, against the parallax blurred
brocade that marked your vector-strained homecomings.
One too many sydonic revelations
through a single revolution inside your
cosmic webs, your accretion hums invading
me and discarding me in tight conjunction,
piercing dark spots across a chromospheric
un-stasis that nothing but your touch can heal.
Leaving Southampton She was in the kitchen when he stumbled in noisily, tripping as he went past the shelves and catching the edge of the table to keep himself from falling.
Pretending not to hear the stream of curses that followed, she kept her eyes fixed on the dishes, letting her hand trail in the soapy water. There was a loud scraping of wood against grimy concrete as he drew a chair and collapsed into it. At this she looked up, and after a moment's hesitation, she said, unnecessarily, "You've been drinking."
He clutched his head and said nothing. He hadn't shaved in weeks and stank of sweat and alcohol; he looked much older than his eighteen years.
They sat in silence for a while. Then he announced, loudly, "Fuck."
She didn't bother to tell him off. She just waited. And jumped when he suddenly brought his fist down, hard, onto the table.
"Our lives here are s
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More