acceptance
It's starting to really get to me-
the way you said you loved me and then moved on.
I pretend to be okay,
but my heart can't be tricked, it knows you're gone.
And as I lie in bed remembering the good times,
your words float around in my mind.
You told me we'd do everything together,
that you'd be my partner in crime.
You said you wanted the world with me,
you said you wanted to see the world- with me.
But you left,
and in your place, the sunset is all I see.
I see the beach we always talked about,
the sand, the waves; I smell the ocean breeze.
But thinking about you brings back the pain of it all,
and I cry until I wheeze.
You really are the one my heart will never forget,
you make me glad to be alive.
But you're also the one who makes a crying session
out of every late night drive.
I might never tell you how I feel again,
but as long as I have the memories of us,
I will never stop thinking of you and me and all we used to be,
because nothing and no one else will ever be enough.
affair with words
A prelude to the ghosts of word
I'm an ocean oscillating
sitting in a Thai take out place
Spice infused the big FEELING rippling through my veins, explode out my chest with cumin
All the waters of me in attempts to confine press wicked against their own death, flooding to turn a void into an occupied deluge.
Some have a fling with words sporadic out of lust...
inflamed in temporary heat until the sweet and self serving release undoes them-
Mine's a love affair ethereal and engulfing...
indugled in privatized entanglement complete with rawness, newness, numbness and endless seas on fire …across all time and galaxies hung silent in my eyes.
Wore my comfy clothes to sit and wait for sustenance, so please do not disturb.
I am an event in process
in constance… situated between a pick up counter and someones loud breathing...and they have no idea about this wild ride I'm on.
My words are finite just as each letter begins and ends with the mouth of a pen- gives life to a word and ends its purpose with a graceful but heinous withdrawal from the page.
I will end not the words but the fiber that breathed life into them.
As I nauseously sit in my waters.
Holding an Ocean within my small frame is imploding...
Each drop on fire.
It's thunder in my throat.
It's lightening in my teeth
Walls around me closing in
I'm crumbling.
I am not made for love stories
Le boîte et la lune:
Distorted time calls for misfortune lines,
Its Been a while, simmered down,
I best leave to prow,
“Prow what kind sir?” said the lady avec le fur
Idk, I’ve been strapped in this club a little more than one could love,
Another night that has reached beyond my sights,
Exacerbated by my obligations to hedonism.
Stuck in the mud with my spiralling thoughts, a light and a few mannys (oh what a delight!)
Wondering if I’ll make it out tonight attached with innards and equipped with my facades which perpetuate this ever living nightmare that I cast once the sky becomes slightly dark.
Ouais, ouais, ouais,
Je vais au parc avec ma dart, belle bouteille and an empty heart,
I provide a justification,
Not an illustration,
To try and downplay my obliteration,
My innards went on vacation,
I suppose brain finds it hard to resist temptation,
Probably a testament to my lack of patience,
I find myself On my way to living like a vagrant!
I Dig a French Bikini on Hawaii Island Dolls by a Palm Tree in the Sand
I Dig a French Bikini on Hawaii Island Dolls by a Palm Tree in the Sand
She danced in the penumbra
Her shadow became as iridescent as the leaves of the trees accompanying her
I was intrigued at the spectacle
Once she turned my way
Once she lifted her head
Once she opened her eyes to make contact
I was gobsmacked
I was smitten
I was beholden to her beauty
And she knew it
She never spoke to me
At least verbally
Using her “come hither” appeal
I was unable to resist
I was unable to want such a decision
I left my drink on the table
I left my paperwork to the winds
I might have counter-offered her beck and call
I might have cured world hunger
Such were my odds to endure the inevitable
Every year, we return to that locale
Every year, she displays her growing portfolio of skills
Last year, our child arrived in situ
This year, he arrived in hand
Even at his age, he watched his mother dance
As I always will
Title: Courtesy of the Beach Boys, California Girls
Water-Toothed, My Brother Slips Into A Stream
Salmon go home to die
I saw you there, in the stream
You were so young there,
Fish rotting on the riverbank
Meadow-child
Three-trickster-ravens
Picking out the maggots
Their eggs,
You stepped around them so carefully,
Like separating salt from water
Skin from blood
The living dead,
swam all around you
red-backed
and hook-jawed
but you didn’t seem to care
And you are destined to die in the place of your birth
Because this is the place that made you ugly
And this is the place that made you angry
And this is the place that made you soft
And the salmon will always be there to rot.
A Poem For The Burnt Out Belarusian Houses
this is the poem,
for the 628 belarusian villages
burned alive
matchstick-frame houses
with their people inside
while they watched you die
they led you to the square
and slaughtered you there
this is the poem,
for the grandmother
laid living dead in the street
why bother, says one to the other
they killed you with laughter
this is the poem,
for the mother
who tried to push her child
out a window
clinging to your shirt,
wailing, your babies
died screaming
this is the poem,
for the father
trying to shove his way
out of the flaming barn
they shot at your feet when you wouldn’t listen
beating your fists bloody on the door
this is the poem,
for the boy
turned partisan
the one who escaped
hidden in the trees,
a rifle over his knees
he no longer dreams
This is a poem,
for the children of the Khatyn massacre
that is to say,
the ghosts
left behind
in the belarusian countryside
immolated
for nothing.
Pablo Neruda’s heart, god of Rusty James, history soup, Bob Ross paints, spins, and a fireside story.
In number 23, on Prose. Radio, Pablo Neruda sets the tone, and a wave of talent numbering 8 takes the wheel and drives us through some dark alleys, and some sun beaming through the window. RustyJames blends into the six to appear, each shining down in their own untouchable light, with Huckleberry_Hoo taking us into the firescape with something beautiful.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LxQOO-4ROs
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/811409/i-am-alone-there-is-no-god-where-i-am https://www.theprose.com/post/811326/simone
https://www.theprose.com/post/811410/sharing-history-soup-with-a-friend https://www.theprose.com/post/810851/bob-ross-paints-his-eden
https://www.theprose.com/post/811211 https://www.theprose.com/post/811248/on-the-road-by-myself
https://www.theprose.com/post/811317/the-24-spinz https://www.theprose.com/post/811208/two-stiffs-and-a-weirdo
https://www.theprose.com/post/811397/the-pooh-tutorials
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
die a kind soul
When it comes to death,
I'd rather die helping someone
than with blood on my hands.
I'd rather give up everything,
all of me,
hurt all the time with no remedy,
than become someone I swore I'd never be.
I choose to let someone tear me apart
for their sake
than to hurt them on purpose;
rip their heart out and stomp on it.
So I'll keep opening up,
and letting them take pieces of me
to get the relief they so desperately need,
if it means that I die a kind soul,
having inflicted no pain I could have otherwise healed.