Malicious, sloppy rumors roll over the undulating landscape of public opinion. The topographic map of regret is filled with many bulls eyes. My name was hauled out of mud and dropped into ash. My ambitions computate the beauty of a last sunrise before the sun begins to follow me everywhere, the light burrowing into my dreams. I used to hide from monsters in the dark. Now I follow them in bondage under the reign of the infectious light. The human tongue is a wrecking ball with spikes.
Tag: Prose poem
Osteoarthritic Mind
Nutritious music feeds my osteoarthritic mind. In my closet, glowing bones white hot with the fury of ideas discarded. In a pond in the wilderness of memory, a monster patrols. My face is a floodplain. Many drown in the gravity of my sunken eyes and the whirlpool of my ceramic breath.
A Jellyfish at Heart
I am a jellyfish at heart, soft and pink and dangerous. As I drift through the miasma of life, most of the blue toothed predators don’t think I’m worth eating. What a blessing to be so inconsequential. The blueness everywhere haunts me like a sister dead set on revenge. In the reefs, fish float upside down in the flotsam, not dead, but only gymnasts frozen in time.
My Love and My Lover
My love and my lover are opposites. My love is a plump, juicy, neurotic thing encrusted in velvet and peridot. My lover is stony, imposing, a boat fighting currents deeper than fate. When I wake in the late, crumbly hours of a scrumptious morning, covered in a concealment of love and merriment from my unwashed mind to my perfect thighs, I dream of his love. Leaning over me, his love whispers a realm of goodness into future legacy. What binds us together is stronger than ocean and faster than light. In the evening we swap blood and ghost stories.
Insanity is a Comet
Above the filthy hills of my insolent mind, a sun rising. Ideas are suns and stories are planets of diamond that revolve around them, cold and spectacular. This sun is chartreuse and smells vaguely of old valentine’s candy. My private planets puncture preconceived notions of orbital perfection. A circle is a key. Perfection is grift. I long to embody a sun so bright God will put on sunglasses and say, “Well done, daughter. Enjoy the thrill of uncontained creation.” But I am constantly dimmed by insanity, a comet that flies overhead and casts a long shadow into my life
Fat, Frilly Sound
The fat, frilly sound of dream white clouds slipping and sliding across the cerulean atmosphere is a music that comforts me. By the dishonest river, the ghost of T Rex hunts. I planted my name in my man’s garden and now sparkling roses preen in the underside of his brilliant, turbine mind. I build dams with beavers when he is away. How many carnal valleys can I flood?
Love Poem With Death and Diamonds
Hard rock pours out of the rocks in this wilderness of whiskey and wishes. Why is my personal sky purple? When you embroidered your name on my collarbone I felt diamonds shine inside me. Now, by the river, the ferryman asks for my fare and looks at your name carved into my collar with longing. But that is the one thing I will not sacrifice to cross this river. Behind me, hungry trees with grasping branches watch me, ready to devour and dissolve me into music. The earth itself opens its jaws to reveal a hellacious plane of pain.
Sail Away to Paint it Black
My personal cloud plays Enya as it leaks across the middle years of my life. I can’t say where the road goes, but this packet of ambien and tourmaline justice is going under my tongue. I danced on a blue velvet stage once for a hunter who at the end of my dance decided to kill me. But when he shot his arrow the stage collapsed under me, and I fell through to a world where the crimson edges of knowledge fade to black. Light a candle for me on the lip of the conquering darkness. Take my life and paint it black.
Party for 2
The balloons have had enough of me and my parties. Their pity is gone, replaced with fury, and they begin to bob up against me on purpose. I don’t like the attitude, so I slip on my brass needles. Now they back off. Helium makes real cowards. I examine my rib cage. The contents are a box of instant photos in an old violin decaying in the rain. Have I really been a ghost this long? Is that why no one but Desire comes to my parties?
Futuristic Hellscape
Maroon rain terrifies the uninitiated in this futuristic hellscape of IRS and FBI and all the other 3 letter agencies of death and moral decay. The cyborgs hunt bunnies with lures of love, the sweet taste of carrots a distant memory. In the old city, remnants of humanity hawk their human wares. Behind me a lurid green ghost of electronic regret follows me everywhere, learning from my failures and noting them on a loudspeaker. Every time it calls one out, (numbered in the hundreds of thousands now) predatory basalt crows dive down and peck at me like philosophers of old.
Miniature Moon 