| All progressions from a higher to a lower order are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue of nameless rage. So. Here are the dead fathers. Their spirit is entombed in the stone. It lies upon the land with the same weight and the same ubiquity. For whoever makes a shelter of reeds and hides has joined his spirit to the common destiny of creatures and he will subside back into the primal mud with scarcely a cry. But who builds in stone seeks to alter the structure of the universe and so it was with these masons however primitive their works seem to us. Cormac McCarthy Blood Meridian |
Featured
SouthThe People North of the river have wild snaking hair that reaches upward from every place on their scalps and tries in vain to wrestle the very pale blue from the sky. On their smokey faces,South
sit round lunar eyes, that snatch lost glimpses of ghosts and devils and hold, like burning coals,
soft amber pupils that flicker this way and that by crackling campside fires.
Their skin is tough but supple, like hardened shea butter, their teeth, a foreign aura of ivory
and when they laugh the deep reverb sends
nocturnal animals flaying into the night around them,
noisey winged om
by *brassteeth
Time, Tequila, TelevisionThe hands of the clock are two jail wardens and a leashed dog, circling their perimeter, keeping me caged.Time, Tequila, Television
A crack in a wooden table. The bottles are long empty,
the worms are weightless, my vices have saved at least one collapse
tonight. I turn to her,
and she is framed in Chinese black plastic, and feeding injured animals, without her knowing we are watching, so we know it's ok to love her.
I stub a cigarette out in the dark and kill her with a red button and dream of a judgment day
that involv
by *brassteeth
Young WidowerI always slept on my left side and you on your right and when it was late and we had finished our daily tales, I would feel your breathing on my cheek. It would always reach a certain soft cadence and I would know you were dreaming then.Young Widower
Now I sleep on my right side, so the last evening glimpse and the first grey morning scenes are the same, a faceless beige wall, flaking paint, crumbling brick.
I 've turned away from the unused pillow, away from the undisturbed sheets, each morning so rigid, cold and clean.
You’re not on your side of the bed anymore; instead you’ve been replaced, by all
by *brassteeth
Featured
PhoenixThe dark skies' autumn stars rain a storm of living sparks, of curling weighted, orange carbons, upon this fractured moment,Phoenix
upon this stifled earth.
Out on the crackling hearth, the dancing heat,
a cadent beacon, lights your amber suit, imbues your wintered skin.
Far beyond your kin, long past the unheard prayers that sit on vast, crackling voids,
far beyond the transit of the flickering Venus,
there is the living spirit sitting still and true, in rock, and wood, and wind and gods eyes
a
by *brassteeth
travels in the lower casefull, with a tank of philosophytravels in the lower case
and black coffee. we took back roads, like cheap poets, to places time breaks chains to flee.
tuning radio frequencies. staring straight. avoiding discussions, intimate conversations.
hearts beating around brown axle orbits,
across the flaking continent. tire drones and hums. rotations of rubber.
the sun rises, with mad sightings and camera diaries. coloured buses, country kids kiting, they offer sky-on-red distractions.
crossroads with old droughts.
isolated islands of please slo
by *brassteeth
OCD and the False God GilleseThe three false and dangerous Gods, Gillese, Jenkila and Boronte are masquerading as empty blue chairs in the doctors waiting room. I noticed them when I arrived, immediately. Their powers of camouflage are becoming known to me. Indeed I sensed their presence before I saw them. I am not fooled by the apparent inert nature of synthetic and plastic objects. We of the Kurullee seldom are.OCD and the False God Gillese
The two guards who think they hold me, the ones who cuffed me in chains and escorted me from my pretend prison to this room, have not noticed this seemingly peaceful waiting room is filled with a trio of dangerous deity. The guards, these humans, t
by *brassteeth
The Great LakesWeatherboard suburbia, after heavy rain, just before the sun pushesThe Great Lakes
through spotted humid clouds, the pure rushings of storm water
would pass by our house, laced
with bouyant leaves and twigs and
the strewn discards of plants and bushes,
newly detached by the gale of the storm.
With silent understanding, we would appear from houses in the new found stillness, like
blinking Otters. Coming together as workmen to dam our flowing street gutters,
creating tepid pools of water, using garden rocks, sticks of bramble or mossy pebbles o
by *brassteeth
Newest
SouthThe People North of the river have wild snaking hair that reaches upward from every place on their scalps and tries in vain to wrestle the very pale blue from the sky. On their smokey faces,South
sit round lunar eyes, that snatch lost glimpses of ghosts and devils and hold, like burning coals,
soft amber pupils that flicker this way and that by crackling campside fires.
Their skin is tough but supple, like hardened shea butter, their teeth, a foreign aura of ivory
and when they laugh the deep reverb sends
nocturnal animals flaying into the night around them,
noisey winged om
by *brassteeth
Time, Tequila, TelevisionThe hands of the clock are two jail wardens and a leashed dog, circling their perimeter, keeping me caged.Time, Tequila, Television
A crack in a wooden table. The bottles are long empty,
the worms are weightless, my vices have saved at least one collapse
tonight. I turn to her,
and she is framed in Chinese black plastic, and feeding injured animals, without her knowing we are watching, so we know it's ok to love her.
I stub a cigarette out in the dark and kill her with a red button and dream of a judgment day
that involv
by *brassteeth
Random Favourites
FallThe soul tires of walking Amongst the dreary fall of burnt out days, As a painted oval leaf tumbles from it's place, Tired of lingering where it stays. The bright eyed child sits In vacant wonder of the many-coloured ways That hair drapes over a soft neck Or how the slender-limbed orchid sways.Fall
They might turn their eyes someday, In sweetness and desire, To fine that all the lovely things, Are blackened, burnt by fire.
So the oval leaf wastes To delicacy - an auburn skeleton caught with a slip of feather. And the foot of the staggering soul
by ~small-hope
the path to dublinThe path to Dublin is a devout nomad, wandering this way and that under the feet of a season sprinting off into a little town to smolder in the field or in the sky, to end a life turned over on its colder side. The path to Dublin is covered in dust. Sometimes it is disturbed by hooves crested with uncertain horseshoes or feet guided by a mind too shy to ask faith for directions.the path to dublin
Sometimes it remembers that the weight of the world once plodded above its head, curved its spine. Sometimes it just forgets and winds itself to the edge of a cliff where a lighthouse stands waving its yellow-sleeved arm in the distance, claiming to know
by *Solaces
Remember: Ivy Clings to OakI'm afraid of dead things and semi trucks and heightsRemember: Ivy Clings to Oak
and forgetting you after you die
because you haven't left me anything.
I still have nightmares about mom. Last night I saw her face and locked myself in my room before she could move.
I woke up gasping as if morning saved me from drowning, and I picture myself still blonde in summer, waiting to be rescued by the shepherd's hook, prone at the bottom of the pool with sunken oak leaves and shrunken crape myrtle flowers and bees pressed by the water, trying to breathe the air out of
by =bekkia
Critiques
by =bekkia
Hi, Here I offer some substantial feedback on your work as I held this poem in such high esteem that I thought it would be deserving of...
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Just because. ♥
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Hello world! I love you.
My father once told me the only opportunity you ever get to be courageous is when you are scared.
Just thought I would tell you that...don't know why..
Maybe just because.
--
BT.
"The truth knocks on the door and you say, "Go away, I'm looking for the truth," and so it goes away."
— Robert M. Pirsig
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle maintanance
Sometimes you don't need a reason. ♥
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Hello world! I love you.
shane
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The world is an eraser for these words
- Jack Kerouac
we must destroy that which contains us
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Some say I'm sane,
some say I'm not,
some think I'm all lost,
I bet I'm just stuck.
--
I gave the green tentacle a bowl of wax fruit, and then joined his band
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