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I am writing across the sky, while my tears trail behind
Folder:
whole lotta other stuff
often born of desire
as the long queues of passions circle the city block
I am afraid of being last in line
The queue runs into the same darkness that suits my sex
the remembrance of wanting
no more decency is done
in the name of implicit obedience
that is conjecture
for which I am not the wiser
without any violent renunciation
to that request there is no objection
still in need of some compensation
it makes me acquainted with and accused of presumption
her own talents
have made herself the mistress
one that dominates her language
commonly esteemed and very difficult with strangers
gives a dose of jealousy
a shot of 100cc’s close to overdose
and possesses it to such a degree
her audiences receives the alterations
she has little patience
to brave the storms of bitter eloquence
that is the illusion of making an occasion
the eyes of the averted
having been exhibited as a wild beasts
memories
recalled
languishing
more pleasing
more screaming
more torture
my name as a writer
and she boasted that my work deserves a second perusal
I am persuaded that you will
no longer throw down on me
in the luxury of her focused compassion
why she alone of all could still be seen in uninterrupted labors
an impersonation of logic
the quantity of learning and the quality of deep penetration
painting disgrace onto several men
featureless surface
finely oiled by convention
so many moments later
but they had nothing to give back to her except quiet
respect which was already hers
ripples of the great crashes and aftershocks
with superfluous, debauchery unfolding
first dead monuments to those
who’s lust is here still
like her, flying through winter windstorms
obsessed with rain her disciple of the dead mouths
funneled hazy into the distant channel becoming falling tears
which she already possessed,
without the long grief of regret
which was thiers, but was anonymous
she could have everything that she hunted
translucent, twined with hemp and dyed punishment
to match the climax of her eyes
twisted into a tiara of little stalemates
like gathered growls, grunts and groans
as I am writing across the sky, while my tears trail behind
thanks
glad that you enjoyed it so much such as it is, and yes, my stones are massive.
The bosses at work call me MR.#1!ha!
I was going for some kind of impressionism in poetry that can be described as giving in. To all that we sense in strange times and what we experience when something is darker than the norm.(Whatever that maybe?) Many poets have been tools of impressionistic reflections on human life, within sexuality and suffering. They are not always what they seem: to a significant degree more individuals are really just confused, more then they are uncivilized.
peace
Dylan
"One of the best results of life, is the torment of love"
Dylan Eliot
I tend to agree with
I tend to agree with you---very much so.
.............
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "
Wow...very personal. Lots of
Wow...very personal. Lots of indignant feelings here, if I'm reading it right. Must have been one hell-on wheels sort of person to get your feathers ruffled...LOL (actually, that is a compliment to your wonderfully fixed composure you write under, ninety). Even if it's about someone else and not you...kudos for the balls to go there. Didn't think you had it in you, really. haha! ;-) ~peace~
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...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "