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It must have slipped my mind-

The essence of your purity

that gets covered in ink and singed

with a single

cigarette.

You're like carpet

after it's been burned by my lighter;

and you smell like

dirt

after the rain decides to pour with all

that its got.

You are rough against the pad of my index finger-

But the skin under your jaw

is always smooth.

Have your arms around me at ten and two,

point half past my back

and a quarter till my shoulder-

Sometimes your eyes tell time,

but I've never been too lost to be late.



Through garden windows I'll peer at a lopsided smile,

and I'll know your warm against the bench

safe from life

and mysteries.

Your comfortable being stand offish

and I go crazy

just standing still. . .

COMMENTS

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MasterMel2
08:40 May 18 2012

I like the imagery you're isomg here. It gives me the impressions of personal struggle and wanting more from life, although being met with frustration at every turn

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We go around the circular amusement;

ride clay antique animals heads

the spin us across

the earth-

Is it criminal?

This carnival that makes us

smile?

Perhaps, it's always been

the man with his head

in the lions mouth . . .

COMMENTS

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MasterMel2
08:42 May 18 2012

I like this. To me it speaks of needing questions to be answered in life's puzzling difficulties. Very well done.

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She shivered and her skin

unzipped itself-

Fell to the floor

and pooled around her ankles like

silk.

Breathed in the bleach noise,

static air,

and plugged her fingers

into electric sockets

to feel the pressure underneath

her ribs.

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captainglobehead
18:03 Apr 11 2012

I like it.



I need to come by here more often.

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I have a migraine from the sun

where the heat has closed my throat

and blasted me from sand

to glass.

I'm see through invisible

and I smelt

back

into the grass.

Where,

afterthoughts sprout from the dirt

and bloom open-shut my mind.

My brain-stem is plucked. . .

Spread my seeds with your oxygen.

Today I have psychedelic lips

Last night I played chess

Covered in feathers

and tomorrow I'll take a drag on the sidewalk



—-



All the armless men dig;

and lose their minds

House of usher brain waves



—-

Legless women

Covered in slow dust.



—-



Because the keys don’t blend in wet ashes down your throat.

In a fools world--

The trees will lick the clouds,

while meadows bite the sun

and splatter on the ground in blush dust.

Where it suffocates the the rain

and clots the busy city drains.

Shoes carry us,

and we slide along ourselves.

In your world,

the hills will chew the stars

and bleed behind the moon,

where but a shadow so glorious

sends the rocks to quiver in their skin.

In our world,

sea side remedy tastes the wind

and grinds the mountain peaks for dirt

to collect in autumn keep sake jars--

Our hearts fill the sky

and it topples over.

COMMENTS

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BlackLullaby
10:51 May 17 2012

cool

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From the valley of lowest lows,

forlorn she gazes

In admiration

for the one atop the highest mountain peaks.

Separated she feels the gap.

Despairingly striving,

To reach.

To touch.

To be with.

To find common ground.



Such adversity known,

The oppositions of above and below.

Cannot help this unquestionable attraction:

It just is . . .

Perfection--she sees this creature.

To be so high in stature he must be above the rest,

For she sees no other in the light of glory upon such

a hero.



She thinks of him in reverie to be with him,

Where he looks the way she's always seen him...



Though



Alas, she awakens.

Forlorn to find herself

In the valley of lowest lows

And him upon the highest mountain peak-

A distance

Only valley to mountain.

I've never wanted to be pretty,

or cute in all innocence-

I'd rather rough it out in the rain

and get my palms bloody,

my face covered in dirt.

Dresses were for prudes and i'd never lace

my shoes.

I'm one of the boys.

Love doesn't have these frilly emotions,

my mind process's happiness with

silent smiles;

and wit is what affection underlies,

my lips are red with smoke rings-

i never claimed to be irrational,

rather laid back enough to kick it

up in the mud.

Wrestle with journal pages

and cover my brow when I look into the sun.

Perhaps I'm not classy,

my mind is me

not my body-

But,

no one seems to object.

There is a window opened with

a glass half full-

That perspires in bubble drops

and pulls on the ledge.

Open frame,

moving paint thinner objects

that are seen from the inside-

That waterfalls

and then dies . . .

Dirt soaks it in

with a greedily luring mouth,

mistress Earth and all her forthcoming's

of half-spent summer heat waves.