Kitten's Litter

Candid

[font=&quot]I’m an imposter of true talent,
a fiend who shamelessly stole somebody else’s verse.
A fraud, clumsy poetic dabbler,
full of recycled phrases, reused emotions and restricted words.

I have inherited keen senses
to harmonize incessant, inner euphony.
But lack the grace
to permeate the souls of others
and to perform a literary symphony.

I search for the divine,
to capture the seraphic breath,
secretly, hoping to suffice
I tread, instead, down the familiar path.

It’s such a sin, indulging in polite praise
of petty scribbles
yet harboring inside baseless ambition.
The agony of sour knowledge
stings the pride
that I am not as clever or proficient. [/font]

 

Berlin.
Was it autumn or spring?
Dreary day,
With graying strands of hair.
Rain.

You and I
Met each other
Under the cover of oak trees.

Did not utter a word
There was no need
For a whisper or sigh.

Scanned my mind
Through the eyes.
Stole last breath from my lungs.

Nervous.
I trembled not from the chill.
Locked in desperate embrace.
Vulnerable.
Anticipating
Complications.
Insomnia.
And impending grief.

Our moment,
Last fragment of rapture
Brought little relief.

 

I pay attention to your chance affection.
Your flamboyant, flaky traces.
Your superfluous cravings
Of primitive instincts.

Your soiled eyes need
To be washed in light.
Your ambiguity and anonymity
Attracts and repels
All at the same time.

And I don’t want to sink yet,
Sink in the milk of bed sheets.
You said, we’ll drown together.
And I believed you.

You said you want to get lost.
But I’ll panic,
I need a map of your landscape.
With the heat of your breath,
You tease my nerve endings
And mutter nonsense.

Then leave me flabbergasted.
And guessing.
Leave me dozing off, wrapped
In your velvet curtains.
The aroma remains.
And the clock always dictates,
Parading its imminence.
As perverse silence
Dissects my trauma.

 

You’re my religion,
My blind faith,
My perfect
Symmetrical snowflake,
Or a Greek mythological creature,
As I worship,
Uttering a prayer
Of three simple words,
I sacrifice my time,
Slitting its throat,
And letting its minutes, hours,
Bleed for you,
I await your return,
Draped in shadows,
Cocooned in my mind’s
Synchronized spider webs.

In time
Prosecuted,
By the Great Inquisition,
Thrown into society’s dungeon
Of shame,
With condemning eyes
Tearing my flesh.
I’ll be torched.
Yet all is in vain,
When my faith and my love
Have entered new phase,
A metaphysical state,
Yes, after all,
There is some witchcraft at hand.
For you I will burn at the stake
Or drown, or fly off a cliff.
It is nothing to me.
Because you are all that I see
And will ever believe.

 

keep writing. dont you worry.

 

Don't Worry? About...?

 

Press the chewed up button.

Lit in dimly yellow light.

Wait.

Plastic boards
Mimic wood.

Finally open mouth,
Greets with inept graffiti
And unmistakable urine scent.

I’m accustomed.

Counting numbers on the panel,
I need 13.

A burnt in, shriveled, charcoal key.

Familiar,
Paralysis grasps the wrists.

Cautious.

Slightly, claustrophobic spiders
Shivers slip down the spine.

Doors close.

And so we climb.

Listen.
Heart beat of my uplifting apparatus.

Estimating current floor,
Anxious.
Awaiting mine.

Solitary light bulb,
Emits faintly.
Too soon to decline

Contagious air,
Leaks into pores.
Frustrated,
With the sluggish pace.

Open doors,
Liberate.

I leave the desolate mechanism,
Return to its inner structural dusk.

It stopped forever at 13.

Patiently waiting for others touch.

 

I think she was referring to your candid cantata, kitty.

Here, have some milk....

 

Auctioning off my flesh
I nurture the augmented soul
Who will take these bones
Grind them into dust
Or use them as you must.

Carve out the pulsating heart,
Or buy my healthy lungs,
Rip off this elastic skin,
Undressing me - so carefully.

Drink the sweetest marrow,
Or use my blood for paint,
Memory of muscles,
Frozen in restraint.

Who will bid the highest,
For my unseeing eyes,
Who will bid the highest,
For these scattered useless thoughts,
For my paranoia
And for my tantalizing,
Mediocre mind.

Punctured by the needle, leaking,
Pinned down by the stones of words,
Choking on the wretched and commercial,
I am contemplating how much longer,
As I calculate how much my soul is worth.

 

Assembled, arranged and asserted.​

Truth is​

like a vinegar drenched mantra,​

with hollow syllables, symbols​

burrowing in​

to plug your cardiac arteries.​

So you welcome denial,​

like blooming daffodil fields​

set on fire.​

Rising and torching​

the innocence with a fatal desire.​

Welcome the patience,​

of an ancient infamous surgeon.​

A sculptor with scalpel,​

performing a scrupulous service​

by slicing off days​

from your vain, fragile existence.​

Questioning …​

purpose, merit and price tag of living​

Question…​

Your immortality, your spiritual guidance.​

Asking the questions that lead to same answers.​

Accept the eternity in last paralyzed glance.​

Stare outside from your black velvet cradle​

Welcome necrosis, welcome indifference​

 

We’ll deteriorate into nothingness,
In vain, stitching our feelings with words.
We are the crippled, disfigured embodiment,
Of universally lost, muted souls.

We’re the blind leading the blind,
Chasing, orbiting, our last ambitions.
We are the spheres with cosmos inside,
Everyone of us with old scars and lesions.

May we finally meet one another,
Let our blood mix and flow down the stream.
And in hopes of surviving together,
We’ll hold on to our fate and our dreams.

We’re the children, the aging, the useless,
Outstretching our limbs towards the sky.
Begging for an iota of blessing,
May we still be alive at the dawn.

 

Wind.
Dust and Smoke.

Boundless sky
stretched over the steppes to envelop the folly.
Omnious conquest - his destiny.

Thuds.
Earth convulsed from million hoofs.
Nomadic hearts. Pumping.
Matrial drums. Louder. Closer. More.
His fearless sons riding.

Two impervious black voids,
slanted windows to the soul,
secret passages to his mind,
gaze fixed. Calm and silent and waiting.

Countenance masked
signs of hesitance,
in no need of assurance
to draw out the weak,
to taste foreign fear.

Embrace their fatality.

He watched,
as blades slashed
butchering the putrid
and eager arrows pierced
the flanks.

Breathing air of
horse and human sweat.

A stream then at once a flood
of enemy’s foul blood.

No mercy.

Beg for mercy,
in your crippled tongue.
Howl to your gods,
hide in your ashen monasteries,
where you shall perish in flames.
While we crumple the infants
and our horses trample the old.

The superior race,
his hand covered the map.

He broke the spines of the slaves,
desecrated the land,
clamped and choked and shook
the divided, bewildered,
emaciated kingdoms.

He stood alone,
looking over the human debris.
Stood tall,
compiling skulls for souveniers.

His shamans could not fortell
that this untamed wilderness
could not be harnessed forever.

People would pay their bounty
with coins, souls and flesh.
Harbor their vigor, strength and endurance,
inherit it from their mothers’ milk.

But for now,
he was looking over the conquered.

The wind rolled through the land,
spreading the news of the fall.
"Beware," it whispered,
"They’re here."

Death itself, dared not to face
the assassins.

His Golden Horde.

 

This is a different Kitten piece...... I love it's story, not so keen on some of the word choices - they're too familiar, but then at the same time, that also works because they are humanity's mantras....

 

It was one of those break the writer's block poems. I know what you mean about the word choice though.

 

"Departure" really is superb! I read it to cheer myself up. Which is odd.

 

That makes me happy when I unintentionally write pieces that others really enjoy. Merci

 

I breathed,
And spoke the verdict,
The flickered flame – repentance,
No momentary, resolute relief.

I self-inflicted,
And scorched the skin,
With my acidic medley of thoughts,
Betraying everything that I indeed believed.

I blamed myself,
For all relinquished hopes
And all the lost horizons,
My chiseled, chivalrous mirage,
Wrecked, buried and devastatingly deceived.

I’m culpable for all
The burnt out suns and desiccated seas,
For cowardice, and malice
For being renegade, verbose and tactless,
And for the time,
I simply had no will to seize.

 

close my eyes
look through the transparency
of these blue eye lids.
first, the delicate veins
then kaleidoscopic light,

on the train,
monotonous song,
must be close to midnight.

i am still wide awake,
in the calming blizzard,
past the dead cities,
and their frozen veins of rivers.

street light’s blurry flicker,
hypnotize me.
wind leaks through,
the window gaps.
gasps.
don’t interrupt,
others vague slumber.

thinking. thinking.
i’m unworthy
stitched, wrapped in winter fabric.
close my eyes,
lucid dreaming of
train tracks
taking me deep into the past,
into shadow tunnels of the time.

painted, melting memories
are near by the magma heart.
i am weary.
restless epitome,
full of eager concern,
where am i going
what am i doing

i am simply coming home.

 

Lately I’ve been preoccupied,
Contemplating premature cataclysmic episodes.

It is not a phobia,
Yet certainly an alarming and unsettling epiphany.

Increase the dosage of my morphia.
Would be better to simply disregard my nightly turbulence.

Could I be a subconscious masochist?

Triggered by the inevitable, undeniable paranoia,
This new nuisance vexes my already inflamed, fertile mind.

Arbitrary plucking at the nerves,
Jab the nails in the palms for temporary ease.

Coiled, startled and illogical,
How indecent to consider possibilities of abrupt decease.

Let fate take care of the rest,
Jupiter smile down, I require a little luck my way.

Unpredictable yet so confident,
In deciding when to strike or trick or trip the unsuspecting prey.

So I could not choose my birth
Let me indulge in picking out an unexpected death.

Strutting certainty without excuse or preference.
A secret burial without mourning or an aftermath…

 

You’re not a friend, not even an acquaintance,
And trust me, most definitely not a secret confidant.

I loathe it when you pad me down,
When you grin with your toothless mouth,
And stare with absurdly vacant eyes.

No, I’m not troubled by the glaring, murmuring, evasion.
Indeed, avoidance is what I seek.
I’ll be silent, appear introverted and reserved,
The perfect milieu for you to prod my patience.

I loathe it when you’re quasi pleasant

How you maneuver, slither through with words,
I loathe all your erratic actions. all inane answers and your banal thoughts.

You’re not a lover, not a neighbor,

Not even a distant, unknown relative.
I won’t oblige and give exclusive peeks inside.

I owe you nothing, nor will I ever be your replica.

My trust is earned not bought,
My patience – weary, skeptical.

Your cellophane intentions hold no interest,
And your anemic tendencies are greeted by my repulse...