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Day 15 - SiltThere is a downward pull that begins slowly –
Forty years of fine red silt cease flowing through your veins
And settle like sedimentary rock.
Things, and you, begin to taste of copper.
Lavender mists condense as you walk out to fetch the paper
The kettle is whistling or the coffee roiling when you return to the kitchen.
Your lover is waiting, his beard and hair greying slightly:
Sometimes he still kisses you like he did when you were twenty three.
You start to spend your evenings in the ochre light
Of sloppily-painted sunsets which begin around the time the theme for Final Jeopardy fades out.
Coffee cups are washed, sinks drained.
Everything smells of earth and book pages with a hint of Pine-Sol.
The window is filled with the amber radiance of marigolds –he likes to garden,
While you are more careless, killing houseplants by neglect.
You promise to stop disassociating yourself, and to write less in the second person.
You get drunk less often and even jog once in a while.
Day 4 - QuietAutumn began and ended quickly
So now the sun sets early and I spend my evenings in the dark.
Today’s thoughts are quiet ones -
Where we love is where we live and die.
Day 3- North StarIt was dark when I left work today,
And I shivered as the wind slid around my bare legs.
(shouldn’t have worn a dress today, says the voice in my head.)
I try my best to ignore it. I always do.
I swear familiarly, angrily, when traffic is backed up at the bridge again –
This traffic congested tangled metal thing spanning the river
Like some kind of urban jungle gym.
But still it is the northern star of my commute and points the long way home.
I’m perched on a stool in his mother’s kitchen
With a mug of orange tea in my hands and a bowl of chicken soup with dumplings in front of me.
On the way home, my debit card is declined.
I try not to panic.
Day 2 - DetritusI squint my eyes as you kiss my freckled face
my sunstreaked hair out behind me like a banner
As I emerge from the lake with foam and seaweed clinging to my calves.
I make a face. You laugh.
Longing is a savory dish we must sit down to dine,
even as we cling together
in a tired knot with mouths that taste of lemonade and alcohol.
I whisper in your ear “I don’t want you to go.”
The night before we left a storm broke
with rain and thunder, and lightning webbed across the sky like lace.
I came to where you slept,
weaving myself into your arms.
This is the detritus of summer:
pearlescent driftwood grasped in hands worn down by sand.
Filling up our pockets with stones, memories.
A wall of tiny meaningful things we build to keep out the coming of the night.
There are no secrets here but many mysteries
And subtle, half-veiled truths waiting to be made known
Day 1- Cold HandsEveryone said a storm was coming but I did not prepare.
Perhaps I was too flippant or afraid to acknowledge?
Probably the latter –
Avoidance is my middle name.
The storm’s precursor:
Grey skies, and rain hissing its way up my windshield as the wipers, groaning,
Flung it away.
A low front settled into my chest midafternoon at the thought of leaving.
Now, I sit on the couch by the window, watching the rain fall
As the cold gradually seeps from my limbs and my fingers thaw slowly.
But isn’t a blanket a small comfort compared to you,
Immediate and present, mouth tasting of
Sour apple and blood?
Cemetery LaneDriving down Cemetery Lane
Steering wheel gripped tightly, top and bottom, taking sharp
As the radio host mourns the fate of Montana's coal industry.
We'd go behind the school with the Grecian columns
In a parking lot pooled with yellow streetlights, exploring
The darkness my mouth left on your neck.
Driving and breaking too fast
With the memory of the way each bend winds around itself
Like solemn ribbons around the tombstones.
Lying on a bed far from home
Pizza box kicked on the floor and the television flickering with the sound off.
I cannot forget the way your skin brushed mine.
MineThe past four years, I have been a nomad,
A snail, whose house is wherever her back is.
An hourglass constantly turned over and over, measuring
Time until I leave, time until I return.
I'm packing a bag with my toothbrush, my phone, and my fiancé's shirt to keep me warm
i won't be gone long, i only need a few days' worth of clothing.
Life doled out in miniscule increments like the vitamins I portion into plastic baggies
And forget to take when I am gone.
I've tired of living out of packed suitcases and half empty closets,
With a roof provided, but my heart somewhere else.
Filling out paperwork, what is my address?
When is the night where I can go to sleep and feel your arms around me,
Waking up to tangled limbs, tousled hair and no bed else to sleep in?
Tell me when I can put my bags away, throw out my arms and say
This is mine.
BrillianceI wasn't sure if I was falling asleep or drowning. Pastor Abilay had just reached the third point of this three-point outline and I was fading quickly. "The devil's 15 minutes," my father often called it. He would sit rigidly at the head of the dining room table after every Saturday dinner and warn us that just as the pastor reaches the place where Scripture is applied to our lives, we start to drift off due to the devil's influence. I always did, and it terrified me.
Pastor Abilay's sermons were an odd blend of clinical Calvinistic theology combined with the self-assured charisma of a leader whose word was law. His sermons always made me feel as if I were boxed in by walls of water and left me with a dead weight in my stomach. Just as I thought I couldn't take any more, he concluded the sermon and we moved on to the final singing. The presenter came to the front of the stage, hummed a few bars of the next Psalm, and we all began to sing. The song rolled in a rich four-part harmony tha
Come HomeCome Home
The leaves were just starting to fall as Alexander Bartel wheeled his bike out of the garage and left for work. They had been yellow and orange for a few weeks, but red veins had gradually taken over until today, when, at the hands of an incoming cold front, they began to fall like rain. The wind had awoken him early and when he woke up, so did his wife, who glared at him in the dim morning light and rolled back over. Breakfast had been instant oatmeal and instant coffee and half a glass of pulp-free orange juice. Grace liked pulp and he didn't, so they bought two separate half gallons every week. She was just waking up when he left for work but he made it out the door without her noticing.
On the whole, Grace was not very supportive. She acted as if she didn't believe him when he said he was going to work and had taken another job on the side for extra money. He always said he would help her achieve success as a writer but now she had taken the new job and rarely went to her
Blind Dates with Dolor
The eyes are closed now,
Or have they always been?
The man through motions many gone,
a machine of reluctance.
Whilst open the eyes seen only
the dark of reality, in only a literal sense.
It is by luck and misfortune that those
doors are shut by the fumes of a spent mind,
and reopened unto Hell in all of its ancient terror...
there in the realm where only
hatred outnumbers the flames.
They, the images of my creative mind,
are twisted round in defiance of fact and faith.
Spreading wide, the horizon of horrors that
I may witness within this,
my subconscious wonderland.
My truest baggage is beneath my weary eyes,
knowing I am weighed down to the will of adversity.
Here in Hell where my mind is
the devil upon my shoulder,
prod in hand, poking all in reach.
It is when I awaken the sweat
of a labored back
and sickly palms, that reality becomes
a temporary solace from the world within.
But again, the eyes are closed now.
Here are the words I had lost,
Unsung in some heated discourse.
Here lie the feelings in an exhortation gone mad.
A muck they ran in riots through littered
streets aflame in the discord
of what I once knew
as such a realm of wonder.
Like tombstones with legs of air,
the glide in chaotic function
through smoke and dust and ash,
crashing into all with image.
Here they are, without chains
to bind them in a book being
written by broken hands and a blind
set of eyes that still have seen nightmares.
Insomnia is but the air of their lungs,
pumping through them the processes of powers
that be within the open
tomb of a catatonic skull.
Strain, in a dead language,
is carved at their eroded heads,
as my tombstones fly in
the marathon of exhortation gone mad.
it's not yet time to kneel
before the absolute power of
.. to fortify the meat
instructions on building
a better homunculs
our words until they come true
the sublime and ridiculous
formative phase re-
one thousand wars waged in the space of an atom
\whirlwind of debris
and automaton hearts co-
llapsed in acquittal
a silent serenade to the sea
chasing uphill warsover time we have - overthrown time
and in becoming its ruler can see
of dark clouds above the delta
skies aurum and gun-metal gray
in the demonstrable distance
and sights of dis-in-teg-ra-tion
are felt savagely slowing
their innocuous prey
senescence will plan her revenge
like an animal held
out over a ledge by its ankles
for a taste of its own skin
GlowEach day marks the breath of another World,
the workings of a long lost God.
Darkness covers the face of the deep,
a feeble attempt to cover up the void,
the unfurling chaos
of want and tapestry,
where your face should be.
And with every morning there comes a dawn,
but before the dawn the candles sing!
A flame sings out in the darkness;
a swan song for the new Creation.
And I watch like a suckled babe
as the darkness cowers away,
her memory bathed in the sultry red,
and I close my eyes as the wax yields her scent.
The world was named as good, and all within it;
yes, the world is my mistress –
a fair lady girt in finest silk,
and Earth, our Goddess, sings for me.
Yet all this I would trade,
all this I would offer up on the moon-soaked altar
beneath the star-lit shrine,
that when next the world is made anew and my candles sing their song,
that the pocket left in the glow, that shadow moribund,
should be filled with the brightest of all lights
would that it could be your face that s
life in the exospherethere's a plague upon the cattle
but they can see
well beyond hermetically sealed skies
above savagely conquered revenge
tinctures of light and darkness
on the warm midnight horizon
where many things are learned
and many things are lost
chasing worms uphill and being
consumed by their debris
know heretofore as
a temporal causality
anamolymoths to a canopy star
confined by an atmosphere's proxy
arrested on our tangent to
but eventually we'll
all this bad medicine we've imbibed
and not contrived into a theory norm-
ative and sterilized
PurgatoriosI have sat in the mouth of Satan and heard his words,
Tasted his fear.
You also were there and rushed headlong into the black hole.
The sand caught fire and we ran,
Naked, noble, slicked limbs and flashing eyes.
I rejoiced in my torment, and still I ran.
"Sorrow, not loathing has fixed itself so deep within my heart.
It will be long before it is stripped away."
Time slowed and we were forbidden to run.
They ran around us, but you grasped me from behind
And I could not kiss you.
Higher we climbed, past greedy and virtuous,
Lovers and killers and tyrants, all
I am not sure if lingered long in the place where sins are burned away,
What penance we made
Or if the time for making penance was long since passed.
But when we reached the peak of Purgatorios,
We drank of the river Lethe and forgot.
pray into my collarbone
let your snake tongue slither
with the syllables.
i wish for soft-chested nights,
and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.
poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,
nurse my coiling tongue with yours;
tap my scalp like a silent drum,
and wind my hair in between your fingers
like broken guitar strings.
(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
Keep in Touch!
^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