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During the warm Summer, Sunday evening

of yesterday, light reclined over your lone

highlights that sparkle golden as the ring

of stars on a mid-night bay, before they are mown



with the breath of cloudy sweet chills blown

down your spine with a gentle



sway-in-motion

as you smile wider, and larger than Andomeda

beneath its watchful eye, and our universe:

your vision - as its cosmic sight elongates

the horizon with its gallery of art, deemed ephemeral,

yet fades not in spirals hooded by swirls of black.

In abstract flight, blue gleams from outer space

and falls victim to gulfs of your midnight, drowsy sight,

where the spirits of lost virtue light with fires

of our Milky Way as existence revels beneath

your smile, brighter than the embroidery of Orion.

Hinder the binds

of a brittle sarcophagus:

furls of yellow-white

suffocating the sightly remains

painted on the walls of a tomb;

red on yellow on stone,

leaking pulp through each crevice

like nose blood

on a dirty lip.

Bloody bubbles

pop

away the silence

through frothy screams

down the corridor

caked with centuries of unmarred dust.



Is someone awake?

Soft, yet powerful,

a faint echo of our song pulses

to a beat that time cannot recall,

reverberating through my mind

to remind me that you were always there,

but never to listen.



Its calm lyrics are unclear, yet I shiver

as they crescendo

and your forte

has just become a fortissimo

that drowns out the fragile quivering of my mezzo piano.



Back and forth, side by side

our harmonies clash and weave

but never sound just right,

like the composer couldn't decide

on a single tune to reside on.



As it nears the double bars

it slows to a soft, poignant ritard

that finishes in a long-held fermata;

but then our song returns to its beginning phrase

as if it ends in a neverending repeat.

And its soft, powerful, pulsing beat

follows along to the metronome of my heart.

I am hollow,

a moon-dried skin

seeking refuge in the back of your mind

and finding shelter

among the seamless guilt that consumes you

in pieces,

like a thousand angry butterflies,

making a feast of your tainted flesh

and playing your intestine like a meat harp

(which clashes with the soundless screams

of children raped by your voice)

It all overflows as a river of white noise,

plaguing your innards

with turgid apocalypse

until the butterflies have nothing left to feed on



but my timid emotions

that had once been your draft,

and now lay idly on your bottom lip

because you couldn't hold them down.

And I still have heart-shaped bruises

left by your fist on my (otherwise infallible) canvas

when I cowered in fear and embarrassment

at your drunken rage,

only you were drunk on my proclivity to flinch

at the ghost of my father in your face.



A din of crimson bone shatters the air,

followed by my crackling shell,

blank as your bleeding visage

that lies mangled in a puddle of skin and sound

with remnants of a sharp-toothed grin

(your soul is my vessel

and I will drink deep).

COMMENTS

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dabbler
00:23 Apr 23 2010

Intense!



Are these your poems?

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Sqweegel
11:39 Apr 23 2010

They are, indeed.

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POST COMMENT

She was made of porcelain,

a melodic superior

to the harmonies that

swam over her alabaster curves

with all the wrong intentions; they could only dream

of hair so coiffed and white, lips

full and succulent. And the perverse way

they dove into the twin, cerulean seas

on either side of her bridge

would blind anyone

who was any less than perfect.



She was made of porcelain.

How else could a small girl grow from

a dragon's womb,

callous and fiery, an abyss of

violent depression, and come out

painted like heaven?