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The Age of the Wasp.There is heavy noise
in the other room and my head
bounces full of heavy
heavy weighted things
that I wish I could tell
I know or knew. The building
feels flatter and flatter
beneath my tired shoes
and I release air with difficult
pushes out into the still gentle a/c that
tickles over my arms, a goodbye from fair
weather, a rattling doorknob. I kissed
you and then,
for a different goodbye lightly
brushed my hand on your face and neither
could have kept me warmer. I will always
be in the twilight even if the sun somehow stopped
the earth and returned me back
to June, to the hopping / hotel rooms and the / rippling island of sidewalks
and dirt paths. the secret green heart I heard shaking its
own trees against the sheet glass
only grew for a time of honeybees and its now
the age of the wasp.
I am stingers and fear in others
and myself. I die on the window
and the death at all points
afterward will need to be cleaned
Fragment 2conventional development of a memorial out of bland symbolism and a "contemporary" sensibility involving phallic steel work + endless dematerializing glass or untreated raw roman concrete like the effigy we were too self obsessed to set on fire we were saving for the long absent libido
SonarHonestly don't know
Where the Hell is
Our light house, stood up
On fallacies of rocky coasts
Awaiting night time liners.
We turn days, years over
Nights that swim thoughts
With wading tidepools
And deep ends oceans old,
Unspecific. Past points
In existence where photons whir
To silhouette Earth's tumbling
Light houses stood up like pins
At lane ends, each of us
Soon ricocheted, collapsed into
Honestly don't know
Where the light house
We eyed with curious fear
A serpent more afraid and prostrate
Than us, than its cobra raise
Or rattle might entail, a tower made
Derelict by global position
The Elderly.cover the elderly in flowers
and go ahead and give them their architecture
their hollowed fluted columns covered in vine
ivy vines and corinthian florets and vegetal
give them doors. closing and opening at their focus
and at their "remember the opening of
the memorial highway?" how they could now
borrow suzie's husband's pickup any old saturday
and be there in half the time
to the endless heaven of open marketplace
can buy anything there
in a peace of mind haven treehouse in the blood
jungles spilt nectar and flies all about
just let the elderly have the joy
infants get coming in
with comfy strollers and
expectant children. with colors
marketed to them and a shower thrown
when the date is set to celebrate
the going out, the deathday
it was not planned, but it was in course
so let the abandoned asphalt fill its cracks
with lemongrass and resilient roots
sing joy to every pillar in its rise or its fall
the presence marked until the marker's overgrown
You Asked for Even More.Here is all I can give
Today the blank hedge of clouds
Pitter-pattered out of the room
On toddler's sticky feet--
Did you ever guess how incomplete
The breathless moments of ardor
Might be?? I labored over the black
Cauldron of love & being
In crimson love with pretending
Do the flags flap around like so?
Or was I without comparison,
Hindered by my blood & sexless
Indecision, my steps not sobered
Not drunk enough yet
Not to say regret out loud
Or to scrape the bottom of the trash
Bag for rancid sicknasty leftovers
Of the clouds prickling behind our kissing
Necks, stretched and strained
Out for the next guillotine raindrop
Lost our heads out of respect
For the cage fight we held between us
The crowds battering the bars
Pouting, snotty lovechildren.
Trajectory EchoesI cannot lose what I have lost,
I’m forced to apple bob
For sinking fruit, dense in vinegar.
Deeper in the barrel,
Until I’m the bullet that makes it clean through.
I still land on the floor,
Ripple my skin until it is metal
Screaming in the night time
Into and back out of the sweaty adolescent basements below.
I won’t make it to the phone
Until I’m retconned
Until a different sentence rattles chains in my chest
Until momentum, until no more
I will always slide toward the valley
In the winter, and feel it coming
Right around Halloween. The horror
Of one year ago: me, being happy and in love
While over one million rotten apples sit in the grass,
The rectangular orchard. The columns and rows.
The perfect was lost well before I had it,
Before it left ribcages and winked
Like the hero through the first set of unlocked lips.
Credits roll and I fiddle with plotholes
To calm the richter of my (I once thought)
.just try not to
that memory, that one
wolf that calls
for the rest
of the pack;
you'll spend all
with them inside
.some people are dead
long before they die -
there's just no burial
for the spirit
gossamer loveyou will love a woman
who uses the word
too often. she will
diagnose dead artists' descents
into madness and laugh
too loudly at jokes
no one understands.
she will braid crowns of
flowers, she will write poems
in constellations, she will
try to walk like a dancer so
no one can hear her
leave. she will be
an ice sculpture, and when
she cries, you'll convince yourself
she's melting, she loves you, you've
changed her, you've
changed; she will wear you
like a comma, like
an incomplete thought,
in her story, and
she will leave you wondering
crooked kissesAn old man sits at a bus stop,
his ragged clothes soaked
through to his creaky bones.
He grips his beggars cup
tightly, but instead of coins it
overflows with rain water.
Passersby pass by without
giving a second glance, brief
cases clenched in swinging
hands, Bluetooth plugged into
their ears. A little girl dressed
in pink polka dots prances
to his side. Her mouth moves
quickly and his takes time to
form words. She giggles,
drops coins into his cup, and
gives him a kiss on the cheek.
He laughs a crooked grin.
a little more
(or maybe we'd just go broke).
To the one I forget to loveSunshine girl,
your feet are itchy for the miles
between your sighs
and hunger scratches
at your throat
but you have a smile
that swallows oceans
and your heart
into the Marinia Trench.
this heaviness in you
is a dandelion
coming home to rest
A Daughter Now BegottenIf reason could challenge the knowledge of infinity,
the blindness of justice;
should we not call ourselves Gods...
And Gods are we not, for if justice were truly blind,
it would hold the same fate for rich and poor alike...
Under the celestial heaven that shines above,
the beggar's crying face and the rich man's arrogant gaze...
So of The Creation we are, living in throngs of solitudes....
Each solitude made torturous by the lust for more money,
yet eased by the kindness of strangers and the love of God...
Which power of change is made,
unto glory from a prisoner down trod,
to a man of faith, who helped a dying woman in need till loving eclipse.
A daughter now begotten, of starry eyes and golden sun ray locks...
Cherished by God and adored by both parents,
though mother soon to be with the Creator Almighty,
this daughter grows up knowing the brittleness of mortality...
...As her lips of red rose blossoms,
her heart aches as the mourning moon that hides behind the bosom of clouds...
The same messageI keep expecting one of these waves
to gush pearls, one of these hours
to drop out of the sky
and speak to me.
I walk back and forth
over the unleavened bread of wet sand
as a stray dog leaving the shallows
shakes off water
in the same way a galaxy might
For the moment there is no pain,
just the tip of my tongue
pressing against my teeth
while the water,
in one of the oldest gestures on earth
skirts across the sand, etching
and erasing the same message:
kringle.should i be smiling as the christmas tree shrinks?
america's sistine chapel full of fat basketball angels
absolution in six easy payments of twenty five ninety nine.
should i feel shame that jesus is in a survival backpack
for the next apocalypse? it's miniature and mother is
sharing videos of soldier presents.
drop the faithless adolescent bomb over a dead bird feast.
winter's in a dead heat with loneliness
and i'm drawing a finish line
but even sharpies fade with skin.
i'm peeling off my wrapping your gift is entrails.
sorry i don't pour water like a fountain.
hot piss on the black friday mailers.
should i be worried about should when i live in the
united states of hedonism? i am the godless one
but its easy to be a jesus freak and still listen to lil wayne.
should i try to understand the twisting that snow brings
to arthritic fingers clutching remote controls
like scepters to thrones?
HomesickI am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More