Kitten's Litter

I have invented a word* to sum up this phenomenon: Psychodrama.

Much Love

*of course, someone may have used it before me, but I had not heard or known of it used before. I would rather say that, far from being a creator of this word, or any, that they are merely the culmination of the spirit passing through this vessel, or point in time and space, which could be refered to as "me".

 

Just a bit of warning, Actress is not a -self portrait-!

And osiris "Psychodrama" is exactly what I had in mind, such a relief you perceived it as such!

 

And then its gone...
choices are forever.

 

thank you for interacting, as you are.

 

Holy sweet heavens, kx... this is as about an accurate description of my ex as I've ever seen put to poetry by someone other than me! I especially love the mocking tone... it's so appropriate, to me, at least Anyways, I'd probably say more about this, but the plague affects my brain...

 

Plums tumble down
from the naked eye,
leave their dye on the
skin that rebels, screams
profanity into wind,
but is never heard.

I’m worn-out,
every green day
feel a little bit closer
to a revelation,
a sudden jolt,
of a blunt object
striking the temple.

Still the cataract
is an opiate.
Still I fumble
with blankets,
and handkerchiefs.
Swallow capsules
of anticipation
and stubborn belief.

Minty honesty
would catapult me,
into the realms
of the nearest euphoria.
I am amorous,
when you’re punctual
and fiddling
with my buttons.

But regardless,
of the outcomes and
expenses.
I hypnotize,
spike your drink,
camouflage cameras,
to feel a little bit closer,
lean a little bit inward,
and explore the anatomy
of your nebulous mind.

 

Tête-à-tête,
I will heal you,
not with aloe,
or alchemy,
not with scalpels,
or vitamins.

I will bandage your view
of all masculine.
Nourish you,
with an urgency
of a kiss overdue.

Make you forgetful
of memories.
Swallow the remedy
of my honey eyes.

Stay in my mute,
drowsy refuge.
So I may lick your
rough edges and nicks.

One on one,
tenderly, I will
patch you up.

Stitch you,
where you split
at the seams.

 

Thank you for this gentle heartfelt gift. Your presence is a balm.

 

Thank you again for your artistry.

 

Your hands are unfamiliar,
I’m disoriented in their creases,
sporadic lines, loops, and bumps.

I was unaware of that birthmark
on your right palm.
Lately, details escape my eye.

Your voice is so new,
you lower the volume,
step out of the logical comfort zone
and mumble, you love me.

I chuckle, nervously,
joke it off, brush it away
with an uncomfortable coy smile.

Then reverse the testimony, but foolish,
now want to grab you back,
want to blurt out a ditto.
But instead I’m tongue-tied.

You are so unpredictable,
crisscross to avoid monotony.
So I have to supply you
with questions,
or spontaneous antics,
to keep you on your toes.

I’m so sentimental,
re-read your letters,
examined the calligraphy,
paralleled it to my own,
turns out you’re not so unfamiliar
after all.

 

Wonderful beginning and ending. The middle was just as intriguing.

 

Thank you sylvan

 

Salute your stoic,
calculated movements,
weighted words,
measured breathing,
with my stupor.

Though you may
not think so,
I know your merit.

You think,
I am quick to temper,
for your amusement.

I told you, I am jealous,
of your freedom, strength,
casual tactics.
Life is no mystery,
you’ve got right answers.
And you could even
alter history,
but you simply lack right words.

Action, reaction time,
Speed bumps, mud scars,
Drunk bouts, near-death,
are more your forte.
You stand there proud,
arms akimbo,
impervious to any scolding.

So I just glare back and growl,
At the lack of your concern.

 

Card house trembled.
The queen of spades
jumped out the window,
forgetting her parachute.

Some evil traitor,
concealed in mantle,
spilled gasoline
and set the staircase on fire.

The pendulum yawned,
as a Roman bust shattered.
Bishop tackled the pawn,
knight saddled the horse
and galloped into the kitchen.

Book birds fluttered
their wing pages in vain,
trying to take off.
While wine bottles,
Aimlessly rolled to and fro.

I witnessed behind the corner,
As rickety fingers,
caused havoc, disrupting
the inanimate world.

 

This was my favorite stanza here, your use language is wonderful here, creating those crisp images! To me, this one seemed to build all the way up to this stanza, and then in the last, it appeared to relax a little, giving shape to the overall piece; very nice!

 

That's just awesome! Really... The personality leaps off the page in quick staccato bursts, mingling with your sharp observations. This one was fantastic, kx! Thanks for sharing!

 

Yes, it is tragic and
he knows first hand the effects of
the separation of family ties
due to unyielding circumstance.
....

On the flipside of the globe,
you eat cheap microwavable meals
off of paper plates
alone, ride your bicycle to work,
where workload keeps you busy.

Spinning on your axis all day long,
until weekends come to punctuate
the stark, void apartment.

A desk, a chair, a mattress
and a suitcase full of sealed memories.
No phone calls, never,
the telephone choked on its chord.
Turn on the T.V. for no reason other than
to drown out the patched portraits of loved ones.

And to postpone the arrival of night till dawn,
with a friendly bottle of whiskey and aspirin.
Until finally like a disemboweled pinata
you plunge from the ceiling,
when the dark haloed eyes cease to blink.

And the alarm blares 5 o’clock.
You are notified to get up, promptly.
Autopilot your way through morning routine,
drink yesterday’s coffee, read headlines.
Then appear only slightly awake but resigned
and pitied (in conversation only) by indifferent colleagues.
Who tend to avoid you at all cost,
in fear of being contaminated by some foreign disease,
that causes one to smile dimly, brood and not respond
to lively hello’s.

Your lethargic state of mind is contagious,
causes a dramatic decline in others productivity levels.

So you nod to superiors, shake sweaty palms,
exchange stingy, cordial words.
All the while counting down the minutes
until you may crawl back home, lock the front door,
lose the key, open left drawer,
reach for a revolver to
play Russian roulette all night long…

 

Shy and crafty imagery; playful chaos.

 

End, beautifully written, expires in full wilt;
forsaken by the solace
of beauty and tenderness.

 

*sighs* Seems lately I've been writing a lot of hard to interpret poems. :& Maybe I'm being too self critical and critical in general, I guess if I want people to "know" exactly what I'm talking about, I should just drop all the word play and fucking tell them.

With this one, read closely these lines
"the separation of family ties", "On the flipside of the globe" and "to drown out the patched portraits of loved ones"

Separation, loneliness, hopelessness!
Sorry for being selfish here, I'm a brat....:&