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The Prince and the ShowgirlA milky mound
her tummy pooled
between her hips.
It sat there
swaying, a pendulous
With the prince
she dances, giggling
like bright champagne.
My prince is not
so dashing or handsome
though his suits are as fine.
I forgave him long ago
for never rescuing me
from the dark.
My belly does not
shine like hers, even so
I love him still.
Mr Smith Wears LipstickMr. Smith in the snow
awkward as a boy
beneath palm trees.
His white gloves
heart light and easy.
I feel black-edged lately,
feeling along the edges
of the past that was and should
have been. Crushed velvet,
drowning in grey and soft
Butter-tinted English roses
I wanted with lawn mown
and bed made. No little
tins, no long parades, no
sitting in the stale smoke
drinking the weak tea of
forgotten women's kitchens.
My mind is away with the Feri
as I dream of black lasciviousness,
pure, childlike, fathoms deep.
All the window-dressing of gender
running off in rivulets revealing
the tongue & groove, the rabbitted
joists fashioned snug underneath.
So many people made of two by fours
glued together, shaved thin as will pass
inspection by the the priest, the shrink
and the confused teachers. Finding
a well-made human, who's built to last
the angry ages is a rare find. Not often
purchased at yard sales from unsuspecting
souls eager to clear out their debris,
Right Words Wrong ManI hate it when they get my order wrong.
One man: free as a bird, light as a song.
The stars align, the omens connect.
Values become a cause to reflect.
There is no hope though you try to see
A way to salvage mis-spent chemistry.
From this connection an exit, oh please,
Didn't I tell you I didn't want cheese?
Love Song To The ShadowMy shadow, dark twin.
The Spanish poet says
you are all I am not.
That you walk in places
my fair bright feet
Like a hunter you stalk
my periphery, out in the woods
beyond the firelight of my world.
Your rustling of leaves, snapping
of twigs stirs my belly, fiery imps
race along my skin where your
darkling constellated eyes
trace a path of wonder.
I knew you then, in a field.
The blue of sky, green of grass
pierced the heart. I never knew
color before, nor sun, nor wind.
Never moved intoxicated,
pushing through the atmosphere
sharp as a knife, deadly cold.
You I know, the shadow you are,
shadow of no bright thing, virgin,
whole, pure in your blackness.
Unmoored shadow, moving without me
across September fields, vivid, lucid.
Lover, I saw you, imperfectly,
through Depression glass, thickly dimpled,
yet fulfilling an essential symmetry,
your heart like melted chocolate
coating my chapped whiteness
in rich rainment.
To touch you was to see color,
to know light, to feel the worl
Hair After the Long SummerRed leaves and amber skies,
strands of silken hair falling
to the ground.
Delayed, like a pain
the bodies reaction to disaster,
despair and worse.
Clumps, like drunken spiders
tangled in the excesses of orgies,
come loose in my hands.
A Man Without WordsI want a man without words.
No vowels. No consonants.
I want a man in silence,
the cotton-sleeved essence of him
like the sacred sense of the Sunday morning streets:
bare, hopeful, comforting, expectant.
I want a man of quiet action.
Small touches over sweet nothings.
I want a man in motion,
his sinews sweetly moving
in a kaleidoscope of marvelous machinery:
orderly, simple, dependable, steady.
I have grown to find words quite dreadful.
I want a man without words.
ClotsThey rush to and fro,
over antiques and dead revivals.
The crickets remain. They are constant.
As is she.
She with her high-tide eyes,
her rough-seas thighs, remains.
It's calm here. The air hangs thick
with anticipation. The storm stains the horizon
dark as soot. She remains.
The furtive depths of her heart are with clotted crimson.
No one knows this. She scarcely imagines it herself,
her brain colluding against her, painting rosy
landscapes along the edges of her corneas.
All is well. That's what the trick-turner's say.
In the silence none is well, and well she knows it.
The crickets remain. Their refrain is endless,
a never-ending orbit around the soul.
They go to and fro, the newsreels flow
and the passions are less crimson
than her hidden little clots.
Goddess WithinI often forget
the Goddess within.
Her hands are white.
Her hands are red.
Her nails are lacquered black.
Her breasts are generous.
White as cream.
Dusky as earth.
She touches you
in the fragrant evening.
She is wise as old wine.
She knows as little as the morning dew.
Her breath is soft as lambswool.
She has strength enough to pull you in the grave.
Her lips are honey-dipped thorns.
She draws within, gathering
all the passion, storms and inky seas,
until you are a listless husk.
I often forget
the Goddess within.
Don't WannaI don't want to write a poem today.
I want to live in the backyard, beneath the trees and rise with the sun and sleep blanketed in moonlight.
I want a kitchen all my own, each spoon lovingly nestled to spoon, each pan spick 'n' span in it's own little niche.
I want you, bushy of beard and sleepy of smile as I fold myself into your warmth.
I don't want to write a poem today.
So I heard you wanted to make them like you?So I heard you had someone in mind
Perhaps something more intimate and
So I heard you wanted him to like you,
And I heard you didn't know what to do.
And so I heard you wanted a friend.
Or maybe just one..
And I heard from you, that you want me to like you too
but how, you ask?
you don't need to try.
I mean I heard you wanted to make them like
Wondering how getting the attention of that special someone works?
or perhaps just the friend, you know.
I'm no somebody and preferably just a nobody but
I heard you wanted someone to like you.
So be You.
Expensive LiesI sit and stare at the toilet bowl.
A guy I know is bulimic.
When we compliment him
I see the twist of agony in his eyes
as his brain reprograms it
to sound like an expensive lie
that costs him another tear
in his tattered dignity.
Friends hurry to him,
to reassure him, to love him.
They tell him how beautiful he is.
We didn't know him before,
but he's definitely not fat now.
We whisper things in concern like;
body dysmorphic disorder.
'I know you'll never believe me
but you are so gorgeous -
not just on the inside.' Not just.
And they're right, I join in,
because they are right to say it
because it happens to be true -
he is stunning. Not just on the outside.
And we want him to see himself
the way we see him, beautiful.
And I join in because
I've felt that strangle of pain
in my stomach, bowels and belly,
when someone used to tell me lies.
So I know how he feels.
Only, he is beautiful on the outside
and I'm not.
He's not seeing reality in the mirror
and I am.
And people rush to correc
BeautyI'd rather wear flowers in my hair,
forming a delicate chain
Than diamonds around my neck,
covering my tender blue veins
For with every precious petal
and every lucent leaf
I'm a living lesson
teaching beauty can not be bought
But rather it grows and flourishes
with every living thought
Fearing MeI'm not afraid to cry
and I do it
a lot more than you would guess.
It isn't always sadness,
I just feel like I need to,
feel everything so strongly
that it's the only way
to let go for a moment
because if I hold on for too long,
if my grip gets too tight
I'll break myself,
I will break you like glass
and we will both
I am a good guy
who hasn't yet found a way
to show it,
I am a good guy
who still identifies with the villains,
hides everything important
anything to throw you
off of my trail....
and I don't know why,
but I am trying.
Maybe I think
that if you could see me,
the real me,
you wouldn't want to look anymore,
want to be anywhere near me,
and the idea
that I can't add up
to be enough for you,
to be enough for me,
is so fucking heart breaking
I can hardly fathom it.
I can't say that it doesn't hurt
because it does,
it hurts a whole hell of a lot,
I've come to depend on pain,
to befriend misery
A Kiss not Forgotten (a special tribute)Like a frost spread across valleys silent and dreary,
ever my longing lost in shimmers of shadow & wind
And days bled into years, the seas became deserts
But thoughts of thee would not perish
Thru memories untamed I staggered far and long;
upon solemn nights lit by the torch of your soul
O’ how deep I miss your fragrant cheer ..
Of warm evenings shared across Lake’s reverie,
watching horizons journey into Autumn’s dream
— wherest our hearts once bloomed a fabled sky
Those passions shared will forsake me not
Lest the Moon would bestow solace upon my ache:
I will lay marooned, haunted by thy seraphic-figure,
Or the ever fleeting caress of your gaze ...
So my soul shall yield to this mythic abyss; –
as I peer from my carriage to Nirvana
And thou away, from my arms, the Sun weeps
Unto eternity—my dear beloved, we are entwined
Forever our footprints cast in golden firmament
A kiss not forgotten in a ballet of light softly falling
I now bear the want
you're just a question marki met you so long ago
but back then our bodies were made of metal
and nowadays they’re made of the blades of
grass and dirt settling
underneath my fingernails.
my fingers are having a hard time
reaching the keys and
my organs are shaking mostly because i haven’t
eaten in two days but also
because i’m worried about the things you're doing to yourself.
we didn’t meet very long ago at all but it feels like forever ago
and you say you don’t know me
that you don’t know anyone
but baby you're turning into a skeleton and i’m peeling back my skin
to try and reach my bones, just like you.
i hope you're happy,
i’m covering the hard wood floors now
the bits and pieces splattered.
they are calling it a suicide but i’m calling it
a way to see my brain and
just how dark it has become, and honestly
i don’t want you to try and see about your’s.
i’m mourning the loss of my heart and wish you weren’t either -
Black hole BulimicThe Composition:
I birth poems — not amaranths
in graveyards — not gardens.
sows seeds of doubt
into skeleton weeds.
A farmer plucks the bones
from Apollo's hyacinth; his
I binge on broken
cracked collectors of rocks,
of pebbles kidnapped
from barren beaches:
where crooked kings
buried in books whose
pages creak to crickets
in an abandoned abyss
of an attic—caskets on
an antiquated shelf. I
choke on the dust and
twitch in recoil.
The bickering sky
A cloud coughs—
The clock's scythe hand
swivels to the beckoning
twelve. Spastic ticking—
each bleak stroke
of a midnight heart.
The sundials do not work
now. The vampires know
I kill poems—
obligation steam machineas always
grinding the cankerous
of your cognition
until the lack of compassion
leaves you unlubricated
seized frozen bound stuck
only then the machine of
your fears will burst to steam
squealing to suckle
at the genius of my
the unsung soiled hero
of middle-class ferocity
savior of the undeserving
winding slowly deftly dying
martyr to the self-justified cause
as love for summer fades.late morning-
there's the tease of
snow in the clouds,
in the air, and the trees
have finally lost their
the sunlight is damp.
alters the room
as it graces my skin,
and for once
i don't wake up right away.
instead i lay
between my memory bitten
sheets, and i think
about all the times he said
that he hated winter.
i don't remember
when i began to love it,
and i don't care.
nothing can shatter that.
give the poet a penit's just this town
is a couple of sizes too big
it's just it chafes a little
and it's underwires dig
and I don't know why
I don't love you
in all your humanity
you're just a strange facade
you always make me feel
like I want to wear a wig
I got a bad haircut
my shoes slide cause they're too big
maybe I'm tired of being stuck
behind this prison bar
where drunk men never wander
to wish upon a star
night after night
my feet continually itch
to sleep in the next county
under new stars in a ditch
all I really know
is I don't belong
where invisible rags gag
and hold back my freedom song
Red Letter Day - Prologue
So here I am, writing.
I’m writing, I’m writing – just as you told me to.
I’m writing, I’m writing, I’m writing.
Have you ever noticed that when the sun goes down, this flat changes? It does. The walls are white during the day and lingering brown at night. During the day, I’m with you and the light from outside paints the walls that heavenly color. But when that sun goes down, the demons wake and I’m alone again, even though you’re just a room away.
Somehow it seems less threatening tonight, and I think it’s because you’ve given me an assignment to try and fight off the darkness. You gave me a stack of papers and a pen and told me to write everything that comes to mind.
It’s a strange feeling to have complete freedom. These empty pages are mine to do whatever I please – I could even wipe my ass with them – but they’re also terribly intimidating. The blank page has always been a nemesis of man. It&
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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