Late December Evening
Smoked gouda, fire on,
Double milk stout at midnight -
Not a bad life, this.
love or lust
his eyes pour into mine
and for a moment
he knows all of me
every dream, every fear
the songs i listen to
when i am sad
his fingers trace my skin
and i am no longer my own
but i have fallen into him
and i am not alive
until he touches me
his voice is soft when he
moans my name, and
its as if i cannot peacefully
sleep until my name rolls off
of his tongue
Like liquid coffee smell pouring
With fanciful flare,
Hazelnut or French Vanilla-
Hardly matters, entropy electric,
Buzz of laboring bees each confiding
On old sassy gravity-
Dazing dancers spread
Shallow sparks zapping
Mental confetti murals.
Like checkered tiles
For the Captain’s ball,
As hi hats bounce and echo
Night’s melody, slowly
We meet and depart,
Strangers we are
Seeking a final trial
To reclaim each tie
We cut from those closest to us.
Like the end of a great film
Or show- more, more, more!
Encore or not the curtains
Have shut the mouth of theatrical
Wormholes we will never confront
Because ultimately fantasies will never impale
The true killer of each dream and existential calamity.
It sinks as a final note from a playful piano,
Forever taunting until released.
... is like not having a permanent home. Moving from place to place, a roof over your head, a place for your things, a bed to hide in from the night.
Sure, you have a place to stay, but it's not "home".
crunching on memory
like cubed ice
turning a Ruger
at the empty
Some days I feel like a girl.Somedays like a boy.Its not explainable,since it’s not just because I don’t feel like abiding by girlish or boyish stereotypes. It’s this tug in my gut,something unsual.Something which is sometimes uncomfortable when I’m a boy in girl clothes or doing stereotypical girl things. It’s a pain which not many people know about.But it’s also a blessing since I can be who I want to be.
it always happens in a bar
a shattered heart
on what was
sits with wide
eyes at his
by his own
he has been told
not to come to
the wedding ceremony
when the bar stools
swivel and we
turn to face the music
he got served
the wrong drink
and my heart
heart’s pounding down 7/11 polyrhythms,
nape’s a pin cushion,
earlobe’s puffing up cauliflowers in hell’s oven,
and the platoon of sweat emerging from the hairline’s
making you sweat even harder.
they carry in their knapsacks and bandoliers
a holy mission of scouting the lungs. they’ll
check for traps and openings in the roots
in preparation for an ambush whenever, wherever.
watch your step kid, read some line from a book about pain -
about sonorous waves pulsing like some typhoon’s scorn?
you’ll trip their claymores, losing your legs again,
you’ll cry out, drowning in the pool of sweat. and
lodged in between the Os and the Hs are suns, but they’re not beautiful. no,
the spike tendrils that snap and whip on the surface are your sins. those
blazing balls are so bright and so heavy, your page’s plagiarized from sisyphus and icarus.
and you’re stuck back before galileo, thinking it’s not the center of all things,
you idiot, you selfish bastard, you shameless-
some uroboros waterfall, this is. it
halos your outline chalked
on the skin of your mattress
and wets your moth-riddled bedsheets;
old friend underneath
takes its ritual showers
while you try to sleep. readying
its ingredients, boiling scarecrows in a witch’s cauldron. the
vapor’ll pierce through the veil of your dreams, blackening the sky, wintering lungs,
and instead of yawning when you wake, you scream.
That was Awkward
It's the drool that seeps between your neck and collarbone and gets your shirt wet, signaling to everyone around you that you just woke up. It's the chaffing underwear against your thighs that tear your skin more, making you hate your reaction every time someone attractive walks past. It's the black ghosts that appear under your arms and around your collar right before a big presentation. It reddens your cheeks and the tips of your ears and makes your shoes suddenly exciting. It's the sting on your lips after you've subconsciously torn off too much skin and the crimson hue that stays in the patch you've exposed. It's the little smile to keep from crying, the pulling your hair out of your face so you have an excuse to look away, the little shuffle you do like you have to pee to signal that you urgently have to leave. It's the sigh as you lean dramatically against a wall, the climax of the red cheeks, the humidity that floods your eyes once you're finally alone. Your hands cover your face, the heat throughout your entire body goes from 100 degrees to 1000, and the humidity threatens to spill down your cheeks and show everyone you've been crying, which would add one more embarrassment on top of what just happened.
Have you ever looked at something so beautiful that there were just no words? I stood at the very top of a Greek island last summer. There in my vision all around me was a sight so beautiful that there were no words. The sun on my skin, the smell of the breeze, the way the sky met the sea with its perfect shade of cerulean, I have never seen anything more beautiful. A life long dream come to fruition, now in front of me. Words escape me and there are only tears.
2:00am Musings of a post menopausal insomniac mind