Kitten's Litter

XXXII.

Home is mandatory rest
after a life long journey.

Home is unconditional belonging.

Home is when I step over the threshold,
the molecules of past still linger here.

Or maybe home is just a place, a location
of previous nurture.
A certain arrangement of furniture,
chairs, tables and wallpaper.
Stability while everything else
has been modified to fit
the demands of the future.

A race of clouds outside the windows,
running colors on asphalt
and spurring ants beneath my feet.

Our lives have metamorphosed
into a beast, a pulsating mechanism.

The city’s chomping teeth grind
and digest us daily.

But home is supposed to be haven,
where we could hide behind these walls
locked doors,
no light and cozy kitchen safe.

Now we’re all grown up, aged, changed and selfish.

Home is a volcano where we simmer.
Home is where love hates the most.

I want to turn away, sink and bite back
my need to scream.

I am overfilled with
pity.

 

XXXIII.

Fear is the backbone of every act .

XXXIV.

Parental love is ownership
by the possessive fiends.

But we did not choose to
come into this world.

We owe you nothing.

XXXV.

shedding thistle gloves,
shedding skin,
shedding blood,
the trails leave
harsh stains on carpets,
shedding light into
the mouths of liars
to scorch
their tongues and tonsils.

 

XXXVI.

Counterintelligence agent offered first hand experience,
war stories at midnight, horror stories at midnight
and Cognac gurgled in the plastic cups.

Dismissed his concussion then fell asleep
to the rhythm of train wheels clunking.

...and I was sleepless.


XXXV.

The Metro is a bee hive,
an antique museum with torches and chandeliers.

The escalators take us deeper, deeper
where we get lost.

 

XXXVI.

A patch of pink,
like filling in the center,
the clovers carpeted the field.

I was hiding in the trenches,
hiding in wildflowers.

Mosquitoes got a bite of me
and prying flies explored my toes.

With wind in one ear and thunder in the other,
I played dead in a bed of moist rose clovers.

The birches whispered. The sky was metal.

I made a wish.

 

XXXVII.

The church bells knelled
by a river bed,
their crystal voices sang,
soared and pled as
I neared closer.

XXXVIII.

I strolled through a wall of
pretty girls.

I beamed.

I hope they thought
I was insane.

XXXIX.

In a poplar country I am a polar bear,
meandering on all fours
and kicking summer snow.

Fluff settled on my shoes
and the sun was sleek in my eyes.

But I got no love from the onlookers
and my paws thawed.

XL

We sat in a tight knit circle,
drank beer in the dark and laughed,
pretended that we were happy
or maybe for a moment we forgot
that we were not.

 

XLI.

He said he dreamt of me
two nights in a row.

Today we finally met,
pupils dilated and he kissed my hand.

XLII.

From my height I feel omniscient
or like a spy with my binoculars and giggles.

XLIII.

Plankton fulfill their prophecy
every time they accept to serve
as food.

XLIV.

Last night, you and I lounged
on the olive couch.

Barely audible we masticated
on our past,
you diagnosed
and proposed
that I should run away.

But tomorrow I depart,
move back in time.

XLV.

In this matrimony of shadows,
love is symbiotic destruction.

XLVI.

Don’t leave.

Just stay with us.

 

Say nothing, Inspiration.
You, beyond diamond.
Make me cry, hurt, see.
Want to absorb, revere, save.
Thank you, purr, purr, purr...

 

ref. XLV- It is the bursting of Light, indeed, from the violent and vehement collision of heated contrasts, that destroys the shadow pall, veil and all, for that indefinable moment- relinquish not the taste of that nothing. Investigate it, as often as possible. Be insatiable for it. But tread softly.

I smiled.

 

*sighs* too late I realize I should have put my Scrapbook in a separate thread, c'est la vie
But thank you for reading, means more than you know.

 

I am not bread nor am I water.

I am not a messiah.

I will not be read or heard or worshipped.

I am a needle in the haystack
but I want to be found,

I want to sprout,
I want to live to inspire.

 

There is no messiah, no great prophet(and is it not true that among all of those ancient cultures "prophet" was synonymous with "poet"?), no sage, no guru, that was anything but a man.

There is no god but man.

(Add, if you will, Wo in its proper place)

 

http://www.hipforums.com/forums/showthread.php?t=102848

 

An erring cycle, salt and exit wounds.

If only to hear you say
those careless words,
and then have me – calm –
carefully blot them out.
A little wistful, yes, but at ease
with self,
for they no longer make me swoon
and somehow feel rewarded.
Your discontent is payback
for the days
when I lolled before you
begging to show me
love, for days when
I would cry into the
naked palms
and writhe.
How complicated in their
simplicity,
but truly, these words do not
survive,
when there is nothing more
than vacuum,
when all your actions never
correspond.
And yet again, you can’t restrain
from uttering.
The silly phrase is not
a band aid for my pride,
nor does it hold much meaning
to you, personally.

 

kitten, i just wrote out this whole long thing to you about the 'scrapbook' thing and how much i like it but it got lost or deleted or something.
anyway the point was i like it a lot.
a whole lot.
and when i read it i got this feeling like 'wow, i'm so glad she wrote that'.


my deleted response was worded prettier.

 

fatal passions luring to a response, unwithheld

 

Bellowed like birthing
a knot in the throat
to the eyes, to the eye,
"I love"
Then to the crown

 

your scrapbook was amazing.... passionate and so very real on many levels. I love how it's detailed at moments and reflective at others. -home- was stellar... very powerful observations there! thanks for sharing this, what a great read!

 

oh mannn...I did it again...wandered off too long and have alot of catching up. Loving the scrapbook! Lost in thoughts they have stirred.
ty so much beautiful shining one!

 

the words of one
are heard by none
to feel your pain
is just a pun
those who listen
know youve done
nothing more than have some fun

be original you cheat

 

Adameistervousier:

Guerilla tactic or will you back it up, continue or run ?

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