shamrocks float here I. sir isaac newton couldn’t spotlighther analytical components administering cerebral processes. mind set, genetic blocks built rectitude, built orderly chainsof theories implying piety constructs behavior, balances knowledge into parables scripted in this binder. II. four leaves on a clover________________sign a compass and lay a foundation(,)__________________hold magnetic fingerprints on a disciplined disguise,_____________and maybe a time will come,and____________________________maybe it’s in minutes, the seconds tick the hours she spent in___________retrograde till the simple facts________________________________________opened her eyes and vision returned. heliocentric orbit:_____________________celestial circles and elipses; comets form___________________kinetic energy, the heavens are revolving doors_______________________stained by debris eating up hydrogen._______________________________
outside in the sunlight, you’re a million dreams brought together, expanded by a picture I took, framed and placed on my desk to look at. so what if you’re unaware; it exists… like you’d do anything, just stare, wanting to tear out my throat, oh-so pissed off. reality’s pretty fucked up. it instills instinctive protection of your macabre self portrait strangling every blemish.
I’m okay. I’m holding up. I’ve a full cup of coffee and packs of perfect intentions sewn up in the uneven stitching of covers drawn over your shoulders. You were shivering from cold, from nervousness, from fever-dream and sheltered in retreat, hunkered down, hands pressed hard over ears as stealth-craft flew overhead surveying the ground for gaps and drawing maps for direction there. an apparition between my fingers: soft skin & purple/pink nails. these wrecked hands held together by an aching squeeze as sign of comfort. I’m collected. I’m strong arms. I’ve a kiln pre-heated for hardening, that tightens down heavy thoughts that won’t crack those thin clay seams patched over tremors, creeps, and concern. tomorrow affection is shadowed, eclipsed by incomplete conclusions. I feel I’m a folded up umbrella collapsed to feel the falling rain.
deep in these cryptic walls, assume nothing is wrong until conversation goes nuclear, radioactive sub-atomic particles mixed into select memories of you jumping on the hood of your car, screaming; of you asking me what lost love turns into while crying on the phone, threatening suicide. my chicken soup advice nursed you to health, & I know you were surprised afterwards when my recipe became so attractive. looking back, all I have to say is fuck! … fuck! … fuck! what dumb fucking luck… you talk around corners to preserve self respect but anyone can get over corners I only want to get over you to return to singularity, that lucid dream state barely remembered. I’m tired of hearing your paranoid delusions about so-and-so talking shit behind your precious back. don’t be a bitch, just plead guilty, I don’t even care if you're pretty, all done up in your best summer dress. turn me loose, let me go quietly, gently toss me to the wind. the days are gone when I lifted up your hair, brushed perfume from your neck. the days that I cared about you are gone.
hi there i like this one alot.... what energy you write of from the human heart and mind but remember your reality is as fucked as the world around if you choose it to be,so let it go blemishs too, life is all with all its cruel sides in the so called year 2004.. love n peace from saff
thanks for the comments, all! I held onto twelve, but winters freezing minutes ticked and the electro blanket broke, her arms hotwired my hands and hours went one two twelve. I read parts of chapter five, the paragraphs on power trips and analogies to don quixote, his delusions of grandeur, and best not ever forget the power of a windmill. bloodstains on the bed sheet: surely signs of excessive fighting. the impact of a fist, a hammer a battering ram to a body; the results of the weapons? just sit back and breath the weight of wrecked, heavy air. but maybe that’s too theatrical and the punch was a pinch was the digging of fingernails at the height of passions might. staring at that falling man on painted paper on the ceiling trying to find, then fight the fire while choking from smoke inhalation. calm down, let’s count to ten, taking deep breaths between numbers, and I know it takes forever, but we’re there in only moments-- oh no, calm down, let’s count to twelve.
*this was a collaborative effort, with me and the infamous ex passing a notebook back and forth. two voices not quite cooperating I hear the wind howling my name the stairs creek, she walks down sits on the couch looking for cigarettes found that lighter went where? found some fire? she was lighter, cigarette-little boy shirt tails flapping in the wind, went away south for the winter sunny Florida warm swimming pools, g-strings bronze girls looking for lotion all over the beach, and boy I could use a vacation a new life far from here away from so called friends their broken busted bodies inch their fingers closer oh god, the rings are back time to go back to Baltimore the dirty snow and crowded roads so should I go? yes, go but don’t forget me the girl that was nothing that seemed to do something that grew up from the ground and I tell you now, I’ll remember emeralds energized her eyes sometimes sometimes blue ocean waves collided but she was nameless and unfair but the end is never fair it fucks you up and you’ll hear hurricanes little girls voices in the rain the wind taking the roof, the proof you’re always looking for the next best thing but that’s being mean it’s not the future or memory something in between nothing clean chaos tapestries patterns emerging splitting colors blue and green a rare perfection you come across that fills holes hiding in everyone anyone can recognize the filling it falls into near everything
she looked through a telescopic lens searched for a comet to bare her name, that’d stretch the letters millions of miles in an inky cosmos, on a winter night. I held her hand, emitted coordinates, and attempted to sink her battleship and hear the big bang and wouldn’t you know C-4 scored… she wilted, tilted her head, the spitting image of a punished puppy. using gears, circuits & silicon I engineered psychological bandages for crippled synapses wounded neurons bleeding neural paths stained into exhausted cerebellum. she squeezed her eyes merged with darkness beyond the window and dreamed of floating in space, kept cold at the comets core while pulled toward fiery fission. she approached solar flares as impurities boiled and poisons were expulsed as contagious dust on gravitational gusts formed the fan from her vivid coma; her chemistry rebalanced, returning equilibrium.
I admit it third person narratives are dangerous, characters that cut their arms don’t bleed or ball up on their bed with nothing but nothing but benadryl dreams to compact a heaving mind to pull the covers up and still characters choke on the space between details: you don’t look left or right just pull out in the road hoping for a pop a bang a clarification do our eyes flash like tv’s when power-off is pushed? if an eighteen-wheeler impacted when you hit the passenger door would your soul be cast out to come to a standstill hundreds of feet away? I know it seems familiar so don’t even…. pretend you aren’t screeching lullaby tantrums for valium and alcohol there’s always an "and" preaching "not enough, something more, stronger than _____, higher than _____." these superhuman needs entertain the notion of going numb on a combo of tranq’s to become a zombie night of the living dead not even aware you’re alive or here and isn’t that your fear? so you picked up the phone called me at 2:35am tuesday one week from your birthday talking about problems at home but that’s not the problem you’re never home long enough for problems to build so you tell me to shut up that I’m stubborn & exaggerate the weight of my metaphors and so what if I said I was the oracle of Delphi it was only an attempt to lighten the environment and you took it seriously yelled "liar, you’re not that old" and hung up like a gun-shot off to ride your razor equation that messy self-help section band-aids can’t cover up leaving scar tissue novella’s you show off to friends as if you’d won the pulitzer when you really only got nothing but nothing you can rationalize, weigh scales, whatever I’m just another lever pulled to make it alright
-telescopic coma- Wow, this is just too good for words. Quite frankly got me a bit chocked up. It's -gotta- be one of my favorites here. Plus ya know I'm gonna love this... [using gears, circuits & silicon I engineered psychological bandages for crippled synapses wounded neurons bleeding neural paths stained into exhausted cerebellum.]
What a beautiful piece. I love the way you spelled shamrocks with the first letters of the opening work. Part II is vast, open and expansive. I wanted to see it without the fill-in-the-blanks. Seems to amp the flow and power. Wonderful work. I'm re-reading the rest. ~* Really enjoyed the first stanza of 'across the sky', fifth stanza of 'those days are gone', first stanza of 'twelve', all of 'two voices not quite cooperating' and all of 'telescopic coma'. Thank you for sharing these wonderful works. Well done.
thanks for reading! the fill in the blanks aren't really supposed to be there, it's just that these forums won't let you space columns out, so I had to figure out some way to seperate them. I was hoping to avoid confusion, but each column in Part two is a different piece, or can be read together, and is "floats here" on one side, "shamrocks" again, on the other.
I gave up brainwave signal as null void distillery donations wrapped around ice cube clink and burnt fuzzy route down into dark appetite. The blinds were open, sun rays beyond were warm and glowed spanish bullion plush so I pushed the pen down leaked ink sleek, sly, and slinking troubled as the split-end blonde bawling glycerin in the bathroom and chopping off her pony tail, a spiteful wick for molotov hell. with no metaphorical solution, the solvent became a crumpled vaseline tissue planet, tossed in the overloaded trash. I caught it all, the manual grew on the corner of the coffee table. tipsy, my anesthetic empty, autumn’s varied hue falls million colored outside, and yet, her soundtrack wails pitiful, painful because it’s over now and she just won’t leave.
for the love of God, stop the recap. that reliable excuse: abandonment’s rudiment relieves moral responsibility has gotten old. worn out. overused. the whole world, by now, knows an avalanche perpetuates accrual; that fusion is self sustaining; that you lie, cheat, and weep to disguise the least deceit. that sinkhole’s suction vamps rational conduction, and multiplies repulsive piles of problematic conditions, it’s the same old-same old another any every day.
Man, this chick fueled ya with poetry to the max! -any every day- yer just screaming frustration. Those first five-seven lines are fab! -it’s the same old-same old another any every day.- This is where problematic becomes mundane, scary!
The soda can on the counter spilled, maybe you hurled it across the room cos you always do when you’re pissed off, screaming, and I can’t claim ignorance. The t.v. stays on 24/7 and if you aren’t sitting brain dead on the couch, crunching cheese nips; the radio drowns all attempts at sound. I’ve no 2000 watt words to throw. I’m all used up and wondering why the hell I’m still here. But I don’t get mad, retaliate, or go crazy shifting up-speed. I don’t know your motives and can’t calculate panic. I might be incapable of tackling impact zones but at least I give a damn and contemplate reform.
Since it's appropriate, and by my personal favorite poet.... Birthday Poem ************ Do you remember it? I brought you to a field on your Birthday, told you to watch the sky light up as fireworks burst, showering the night with Birthday rainbows. I did this for you... or so I told you, though you knew it was just the local celebration of a long dead hero who killed a Brit and named this little town. I watched the display in your pupil's reflection; every explosion was a shooting star in this dark void, a shooting star for me to make a wish on. I wished that heaven's bees would form an arch above your head, make a sticky halo of their honey, crown you as an Angel Queen to guide all heaven's creatures toward the gates of ecstacy. Later that night, having reached those gates within your lithe arms and legs, I thought of those black and gold insects swimming through the firmament. They owed you for the thousand Birthdays before this perfect one. For tonight, they owed you nothing. ********************* (c) 1995 Shlema
