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Son of a Cannon BallI’m just the son of a cannon ball, hard and heavy,
blacker than any snow white dove. Cold to the touch,
my blunt metallic skin siphons heat away through your fingertips,
leaving your hands cold and clammy, but that’s not important
because you probably only touch me with gloves on anyway.
And I know I’m dull to look at, but if you take me out under the sun
and look hard enough, you’ll see a glimmer of sunshine in my eyes.
I was born in a furnace, in the middle of heat and flame, hammers
and all the hard and heavy things in life, pounding my brothers
on the anvils and pouring out my sisters into molds,
each of them their own tool, implements of sturdy metalwork.
I went out the front door with warlike aspirations
but I never thought about the cost of that, the price
that so many men must pay just for a few brief seconds
of a cannon ball in flight.
I’m just the son of a cannon ball, and my father
and I never talked much. He was just as hard and dull as I am,
Summer WindA weary tire swings from a tree in the warm, evening breeze.
The wind blows through it with ease.
The gust meanders around the log pile,
in these summer months,
and turns to wrap around a tree
that perhaps you and me
And following the August air,
through the yard and all the youngsters there,
we find enough soul
in all these summer days
to buff away the mundane glaze
and climb out of the City's hole
to bathe in the fresh sunshine.
A weary man stands by a tree in the warm, evening breeze.
The wind blows through him with ease.
The cool croon of a slow sax
the radio speaker on my desk,
the platinum blonde said as she entered in
"Please allow me to apologize
couldn't make it to the funeral."
begins to tear up, shimmers like broken glass.
"It's alright, did you see the file?"
"I want to solve this even if
Her voluptuous locks bounced with a casual determination.
After a pause, I looked her square
shards of an iris, carefully speaking
my words like a wild gambler.
"Mrs. Simmons, I have to tell you
that killed your husband, shot him in the head,
The saxophone harmonizes with her eyes.
Communion of Two TonguesTwo tongues speak and slither words,
magnificent in quickened speech.
The journey of their thoughts is heard,
the meeting of the minds of each.
The tongues that dream of stars and skies
beyond our gloomy human view.
But tongues cannot see like the eyes,
that give form and shape to me and you.
The tongues give form and shape to thoughts
which eyes alone can never see.
Their loud, blind sight sees farther out
than men are ever allowed to be.
Thus, two tongues shall here begin,
unraveling their ambling thoughts,
and as they kiss, expose their dreams
beholden in their juicy mouths.
(Loving a) ToothbrushAlas, the gaping maw is opened wide,
to let my dearest love, Toothbrush, inside.
She cleans me up and makes me pearly white,
restoring all my beauty in her sight.
The bristles scrub and scrape with all their rigor,
and thus rejuvenate my ivory vigor.
Now I may shine with alabaster glint,
and sing to her with breath of cloying mint.
Oh, how much I do love my dear Toothbrush;
when you are brushing, sir, please do not rush.
Dream HorseDreams in open fields aren't really dreams,
they are in fact the horses of our mind.
And we are thus the lonely desperadoes,
chasing these mavericks, falling behind.
We ride across our mental desolation,
and desert winds propel our silver steeds,
the iambs in the clip-clop of the hooves;
this poetry sounds better than it reads.
As we, the dreamers, lost in stallion smoke
at last give in, and bid fancies farewell,
we must awake, we must record the journey.
Our heads are full of dreams ready to tell.
Rainy Day TrafficIt's a wet, oily, cold, pastel-gray-blue day. The sky looks like the ceiling of a pub, with low-hanging cigar smoke choking out the sunlight. The puddles on the ground appear like old, dirty, murky, muddy whiskey, and are about as appetizing. With a tired labor, cars and trucks trudge down the slippery city streets, racing through water to slide and splash the imaginary passers-by on the side of the road.
As I sit in class, the lecture obscured by the noise of the earth revolving, I am present for that from which I am removed. The soft bustle of vehicles, the gentle choke and cough of gasoline engines thundering down the road. I am moving with them.
But as the weary drivers watch the green light yellow, and the yellow light redden, their sluggish feet depress the brake pedal, and their mammoth motion halts at the stoplight. And it is now, while these cars are stopped and the others go, that the drivers observe motion without experiencing motion. They witness the bittersweet sensation o
Life is a VaporIt has been said by some, "Life is a vapor,"
and true enough, their lives have blown away,
been carried off by wind, gust, gale and weather.
Their work was not heavy enough to stay.
Some men are small, and thus live their small lives
secluded in some small forsaken town,
and all in all, live in this world deprived
of any chance to garner some renown.
They work their 9-to-5, then they come home
and have their evening meal with family,
and, sipping through the amber beer-mug foam,
resign to kick up feet and watch TV.
They live, they die, their children do as well,
trudging on toward that same grey fate.
The Preacher won't admit they've gone to Hell,
but no one says they passed the Pearly Gate.
These men are not the men that we adore,
the glorious of whom our History boasts.
They leave us hungry, wanting something more
than the ordinary meal befitting most.
The Human Soul demands, by God's Design,
the satisfaction of a life lived well,
a legacy that's worth leaving behind,
a story that is
The Boy Who Wouldnt EatIf you can flutter
I have failed you,
for you were not forged
to be so insubstantial as that
You were writ
to be an epic fable
of endings ignored,
of outlasting your body
through the sheer will
of a writers starving heart
through a broken, bowed
but bravely abiding body
that fights the soul
to comprehend Beauty.
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
................written in a frenzy and run-on
and exclamation points
used in rapid succession
words all blurred
so bare bones it's bloody
strung out and on display
in a frightening combination
of paragraphs and stanzas
punctuation gone mad
ellipses my new black
used and abused
then spit out
in gratuitous repetition
there is no word count here
no hearts dotting the i's
just a string of letters
done up in cursive
but not very pretty at all
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
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 -
Sound PoemIthrumden, ithrumden delsum
nith mul thruss elmrissull.
Eth rut mundelliss
Curmiette dessel renrin
irme trell ithrumden.
The partyFlashing lights
Smoke all around
About to pass out
My head starts to hurt
I can't take this anymore
So without saying anything
I find the exit
And escape that place
"How can someone have fun in there?"
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.
Coming HomeComing down the ramp I spotted you in the crowd
Your tenderloin skin always stands out
Your aura was particularly bright that day
Whirling dervish colors in the pale sun
You wore a chauffeurs cap and held a sign that said “Anyone”
I knew that I wasn’t anyone, so I walked away
“Strange days,” someone said, and I agreed
I hate crowds and old garbled memories
Arriving home, my wife and cat didn’t recognize me
I looked in the mirror and noticed that I was someone else
Still carrying my old baggage, I turned away
I should have taken your limo
BloodBlood is the essence of the heart,
and Music is the wound.
Blood is the essence of our life,
stored in our heart,
pierced by the song.
And it is pain that frees our blood
to bleed and drip and run,
to live outside the confinement of our hearts,
and to stain the garments of our world.
Music is the pain that frees our lives to bleed.
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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