Monday, March 28, 2011
Still Here
As another drink slides lazily down
the back of my parched throat,
her face returns to the front, now
burned into the edges of my mind,
like staring into a hundred-thousand suns,
the walls of reality are jagged, and perception
is wasted on the meek,
time runs together like mollasses
while sitting at the bar, and the music flows
on the tip of our tongue,
the bartender pours another glass,
and the eyes follow my every move
unaware that I do the same,
in the silence of the night, my
afterglow, a dying ember
held in my scarred hands, does not burn
instead shines like amber in the moonlight
and reminds me
she reminds me
please remind me
of why I'm still here.
the back of my parched throat,
her face returns to the front, now
burned into the edges of my mind,
like staring into a hundred-thousand suns,
the walls of reality are jagged, and perception
is wasted on the meek,
time runs together like mollasses
while sitting at the bar, and the music flows
on the tip of our tongue,
the bartender pours another glass,
and the eyes follow my every move
unaware that I do the same,
in the silence of the night, my
afterglow, a dying ember
held in my scarred hands, does not burn
instead shines like amber in the moonlight
and reminds me
she reminds me
please remind me
of why I'm still here.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Night of the Poet
Dreamily aware of the full moon,
peering out of the window of a tavern,
as the light drips away from the stars,
falling like raindrops, and inside the
wooden tables, wet with with ale, and the air,
full of smoke-filled lust, betrayed her hazel eyes,
as he ran his fingers through her brown hair,
she traded vows for poems,
and the earth shook with fire below,
and the black walls of the tavern bled,
because this was the night of the poet,
a grand story spoken through honeyed lips,
and frothy steins, clanking all the while,
to the unearthly din,
until his feet found the way,
through the morning dew,
to the village road snaking
along the river's edge,
as the dawn shewed her rosy face,
the poet slept while the willows wept,
waiting for the night to return again.
peering out of the window of a tavern,
as the light drips away from the stars,
falling like raindrops, and inside the
wooden tables, wet with with ale, and the air,
full of smoke-filled lust, betrayed her hazel eyes,
as he ran his fingers through her brown hair,
she traded vows for poems,
and the earth shook with fire below,
and the black walls of the tavern bled,
because this was the night of the poet,
a grand story spoken through honeyed lips,
and frothy steins, clanking all the while,
to the unearthly din,
until his feet found the way,
through the morning dew,
to the village road snaking
along the river's edge,
as the dawn shewed her rosy face,
the poet slept while the willows wept,
waiting for the night to return again.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Oranges
Neon fingers touching black canvas,
against gods eyes, swirling about
the sun,
falling like snow, resting upon,
her pale skin, shining like
a sliver of the moon,
On the snowy meadow,
the ice melts beneath her tiny feet,
crunching along two by two,
while the beast lies in wait,
baring yellow fangs, fire
in the belly, drawn by her
scent, and cut into his mind,
like a chisel, Venus in the
moonlight,
snatched up at the final moment,
taken away to the ancient
mountains, as a white queen to
a bloody king,
drinking cups of crimson desire,
till the spring comes,
and rosy dawn bares her breast
to the bleary-eyed masses
once again.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
against gods eyes, swirling about
the sun,
falling like snow, resting upon,
her pale skin, shining like
a sliver of the moon,
On the snowy meadow,
the ice melts beneath her tiny feet,
crunching along two by two,
while the beast lies in wait,
baring yellow fangs, fire
in the belly, drawn by her
scent, and cut into his mind,
like a chisel, Venus in the
moonlight,
snatched up at the final moment,
taken away to the ancient
mountains, as a white queen to
a bloody king,
drinking cups of crimson desire,
till the spring comes,
and rosy dawn bares her breast
to the bleary-eyed masses
once again.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
March 2nd
A day like any other, nothing much going except that I am writing for another blog now: http://paranormalpdx.wordpress.com/ This is the paranormal group that I am a part of now - and I'm pretty excited about where we can go with this group. In addition to writing for the POPS blog, I am also a case manager for the inner city Portland area for future paranormal investigations. I really need to get out there and pound the pavement on my days off so we can get more investigations as soon as possible - I can't wait till our next one :)
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Skulduggery
A taxi cab, and I, wilting
in the black vinyl seat, torn,
wasting away, like a corpse
not yet discovered,
one day gone, feasting
on the fumes of the hatter,
dripping yellow glue on my
tongue,
Ah, the sickness of this city,
we've all been sorted,
like tasty little candies,
unaware of the children, with
grubby sausage hands, grasping
to expose us to the heavens,
tearing and tossing us into the
sky like the green grass,
only to settle again on the
fragments of a pure mind
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
in the black vinyl seat, torn,
wasting away, like a corpse
not yet discovered,
one day gone, feasting
on the fumes of the hatter,
dripping yellow glue on my
tongue,
Ah, the sickness of this city,
we've all been sorted,
like tasty little candies,
unaware of the children, with
grubby sausage hands, grasping
to expose us to the heavens,
tearing and tossing us into the
sky like the green grass,
only to settle again on the
fragments of a pure mind
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
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