The first thing that impressed people about Bastian Celeste was that he could speak two dozen languages. What they didn't notice in all their admiring was that language was about control, and Bastian had an intent so complicated even he was unsure of how far down he’d crawled. He flicked a glance at the pinnacle … Continue reading I’ll slip into something more comfortable…
Maybe I’ll never post anything again so I can keep this at the top of my page. Crow, you kill me.
hope is the thing with feathers
despair is the thing with scales
i am the watermelon man
reduced to a slick white rind
my seeds swallowed on accident
or spit into the street
for angels to pick and peck at
eli, eli, i’ve been thinking
some days the color leaches
out of everything
some days the everything
tastes of pine resin
and trail dust
if you swallow a watermelon seed
one will grow in your belly
and then what will you do
always feed them to the angels
with the oil slicks around their necks
i’ve been thinking
It’s still National Poetry Writing Month!
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‘A month worth of laundry and a month worth of bus ride.’ Dang. Check out this beauty of words by the superb, ankandas.
Lot of things don’t make any sense,
my sitting on the incinerating surface of the Venus and listening to this somnolent melody coming out of nowhere.
But it’s moulded with moroseness there,
Raping every fossils of this creation.
Numbness has it’s peculiar language to convey the turmoils within.
I wonder what if, of all people i could ever attain that,
my brain cells know about the guns and the tranquility after every bullets.
Am I too vulnerable to do anything or even to think anything?
I guess everyone is or isn’t.
A month worth of laundry and a month worth of bus ride,
living race only got these to dance through this aesthetic circus.
Indifferent city smoking away the scrumptious craps, honey like violence…and smitten hallucinations.
Thank you very much for this starless spell.
Sandcastles and sanctuary. Delicious and thought provoking prose from the always glorious Orchid’s Lantern. Soulful Sunday methinks.
The beach. Where water meets earth. It is damp, flat, open here. There are steep, grassy cliffs leading back up to civilization. I think I’m supposed to feel something in this place: happiness, excitement, or humbleness towards our great planet. I think creativity is supposed to bloom here, born of a new found appreciation of the small things and just being. Of smelling the ocean air, of feeling the sand between my toes. But the truth is, I don’t feel any of that. Instead of beauty I think of soliloquies, Stephen Dedalus and sulking. I feel uncomfortable; my mind awash with greyness and a longing to be Somewhere Else.
I look along the coast to the bustling amusement arcades and eateries. That isn’t the Somewhere either. I’m starting to think the Somewhere doesn’t actually exist.
Children play happily on the beach. They don’t mind the cold wind that tangles their…
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Sometimes something is so beautifully crafted that you can’t let go of it. A poignant and wildly beautiful piece by the gloriously talented, John Potts.
Jankowski was an odd fellow.
He locked his house at night like everyone else, except when five minutes lapsed—to the second, mind you—Jankowski made an extra trip downstairs to check each deadbolt, twice. Permanent markers stained his bathroom sink so he knew how far to twist each knob; red for hands, blue for teeth. Every third Wednesday of the month a package arrived with his household supplies and paper goods, and when he recycled, his bin was filled with the same three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle that waited for trash day.
Food for Jankowski was ritualistic, and controlled. He bought groceries once a week and prepared most of his meals on Sunday nights for the work week ahead. Lasagnas and casseroles were frozen in his basement icebox; chicken seared and sliced for salads; veggies cleaned and prepped ready to be reheated; egg mixtures sat in milk quarts for scrambled Thursdays or omelet…
View original post 1,902 more words
Snap on your dark poetry feels.
Do you miss itstill being able to feelthat defining line of before and afterthe darkness injected youand the shock wore numbGiven the ignorance of blunt thingsbeing able to morph into sharp triangular headswho suspected anything more than a returnto the dull, blunt thingsWe were warned about pointed objectserected dicks and heroin needlesabout pens that couldn't sign the checkwithout a college educationBut you know as well as I dothere was a darkness before all thata terror rocking the cradlewith a long black nail clicking on the railimpatient with our innocence © 2017 Tammy Mezera
When I was fourteen, I saw an angel. It was likely 8 feet tall. And looking at it was like looking at the sun. I wake at 2.30am. Someone is shaking me, asking me about canons. I don't remember. 'What would it be like, to meet an angel?' they say. Their voice jumps in soundbites. 'Hell, that … Continue reading The anatomy of angels