Category Archives: Prose

Fragment -2.4

There was a time I would chase you.

One where I’d want to win so much I’d fold all my pieces I can tell you would adore before peacocking around in displays of a lesser love.

I’d flirt like an Eames Era harlot, victim, or assassin depending on the best to suit you.

These falseness fangs allude me most days now.

I’m tired.

More human than ever.

And it just doesn’t interest me really. Not quite like getting to know someone’s bones or celebrating their victories over their loses.

It’s left me on other planets.

Or swimming in tesseracts far from the fingerprints of such a vain instant gratification world.

Ultimately,

Left me in such solitude, I already so greatly admire and adore, I may just dissipate much like I appear.

So I leave it to everyone else to ask about what they need to know about me before just flittering back to the places stars are born.

I used to care about this more too.

I’d feel bad about owing someone something for their time or attention.

But it’s beyond me lately.

It’s my hair I’m growing to several feet of length for other dues or dedications.

It’s the only thing I can do after work for other people anymore.

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Fragments: Floating 1.0

Somehow,

I believe he holds all his favorite skylines in the recesses of his heart

A safe vibrant, little, large, brilliance given away by his laughter.

So, the clovers rise from beneath the cool earth.

I wait for the roses that grow from his sorrows, his doubts, his overthinking,

his words, his hold, his holy grins….him.

Egress Empire Epics

Paint a gypsy caravan on a new canvas. Imbue it with scarlets, ocher, burnt ashes, tangerine, tungsten and copper before you’re done.

A small space that doesn’t take much time cleaning yet expands into a worldwide way home because it’s not the earth any of us belong to just yet.

Write upon fond illusions, scrawling without fail and fear until the difference between the two lines meet like sockets and carpets that electrify everything near.

Facets of button boxes lining gothic metal bodies and other pieces of history that matters only to the roads and dive diners we discover.

Give life to living by making the storyline of hellos that turn into phone conversations about original prints and favorites with strangers almost bypassed in small square spaces.

Unwind the past into strings sparkling with possibilities as scarves soothe the skin of your lips and longing until days explode into riots of verisimilitude gilt of gold and vermillion breathes between tired days of winter and everything in the yonder.

Then knock gently three times before one enters because we must be different with the painters at rest. You have to care for the brushes and oils and liniment and colors to get them to bloom like oceans of wildflowers.

Quartile Quarterly Physiology

Visions of a comfortable hut with smoke billowed like clouds.

Night visits,

Of a boy in red trying to facet a new kind of door that takes a certain type of dedication,

A intimate intricacy to open.

Sticks,

Leaves,

Favorite gleams of memories,

Puzzle games of stone,

Quietude laced with dying fireflies,

And

Dreams interlocking with scenes imbibed among sweet treat treasures.

Then the gaze I cannot turn around while I watch with lullaby heart beats that he sings along with but doesn’t feel like he once could.

A Nightsky, all about Formica swirls paying the dues while all I do is remain loyal and lost in the evening dew strewing around the world like this is the place I’d rather have lived with before a botched suicide or two.

Words: m(e)

Timberlands Tim and his star stride: David Schermann

Creed of the forest fires and the people that set them:

Looming Velocipede Know as Sister-yphus

woman-in-mirror

Full of doubt

Sitting,

Waiting with out.

The tears comfort themselves now

Because I’m always such a fool

For how words form

In that beautiful mouth.

I’m sodden now with

All the things you can’t with.

Even showers neglect to clean me

Before dusk falls on my thoughts.

My heart sings believe

My smart mind knows better

No matter how much your touch

Brings life back to my shatteredness.

Why,

Why rolling heavy losses up mountain tops,

As I wait for years of time to finally catch up.

Even I was unaware the torture

Would eventually turn on itself.

Nothing left of this field of sweet

smells, black top, and hopeless tires rolling as intended wanting to miss

the boulder set to meet me at sunset with only a man running the

opposite direction instead of

towards the helplessly lost.

Brace for impact.

Or not.

Villt hross að fara

This years best season,

Ending on such sour notes,

Giving way to good harvest,

With a lesson-remote.

Curled lying lips corrupt,

Undue, unjust,

Never makes for loving so much.

Faded memory still passing like thinning fog

Only at the bottom of mountain tops on Tuesdays-

Leaving room for another’s endless hope I collect

Like the sun’s rays beaming trust.

So sorry for that luck,

I’m bundling up:

Emotional blackmail,

Piled on the porch untouched.

And I am returning to sender,

A forked tongue and angled tail benders.

All the stagnant,

Unpragmatic-

Three soul mates a year sort of romantic love.

Along with the hateful glances of a barely mortal man’s drunken red anger

Based somewhere in the what I have’s-

What you should entail,

And the what happened not’s.

I leave it world’s away

Trying to control so much while-

Fabricating nebulous notions

for ornamental pickles.

Dangling  for the sake of art’s sake.

Emotional courtship only,

Floating the bragard’s specter boat-

Like it’s a hold you up crutch keeping hope afloat.

So it’s my serendipitous road from here on out,

To the golden ocher leaves of real adoration

And undying crimson devotional lust-

Hidden In his soft kiss and rough handed soul

Plucking strings like Santana,

Healing the troves of

goodness,

And just his burning blue eyes,

Making diamonds out of my scars,

Between the planks on ocean pier moonlit walks.

 

 

 

Fragment 9.03

The solid ground,

Replenishes with every element.

Changes only under the momentary

Permanent scorching of rebirth in the form

Of ash fructifying barren landscapes.

Forrest fires should be more

Adequately chosen

By visitors that pass,

As they inattentively drop

Their selfish burning wants

Upon it’s shell.

It is guaranteed

To outlast it all-

For the remainder of the centuries.

Like the haggardly cowboy,

Illusively seeking

His own-

Ragged,

Torn,

Determined

Few short seasons of destiny.

Dressed in black,

Prepared for every

Ceremonial dedication

To the insignificant

Breath gasped by the living,

As they are ushered back into

The cold black silken sheets

Of life’s only certain guarantee.

 

Your Deconstructed Devastation Destiny

love_is_at_your_feet__pink__by_aureliens-d98hjzkHumbly I was laying my love at your feet

But you used such incredulous claws

To examine every piece

Your eyes  became black and jaded

By only what you wanted to see of me

Deforming

Any good that could be

Into monstrous ghosts

You’ve already seen

Claiming your hands were made of healing

Instead of the sharp weapons

Proclaiming

eradicate everything

Prodding every caring breath I could exhale before

I could say a thing

Instead of holding a fragile

Scared, sacred treasure

Like the heart of another

Isn’t fragility

In a fleshly

Beating

Patron

Giving you a gift

Of eternity

Since you want to shatter

My last remaining pieces

Like a scientist

Experimenting

On the snafued being

Then,

I’ll recover all the remains

bind them in gold ribbon

And return to a shelf

Until softer hands

Want to pick them up

From the scattered,

Charred

Desolation you created

In front of me.

Words: M(e.)

Humble offering: AurelienS

 

 

 

Front Porch Hints of Absolute

imageThe nameless,

meowed stirringly

As I exited.

Not just the house,

but the summer’s life whims of others.

This time I sigh,

I have grown weary

of a life filled with seasonal beings.

Swallowing this truth,

like a pill that sticks in the throat

I begin to inspect  the current state

The wounds from fighting he always has

The current weight loss

New spots that now adorn his

Pristine white coat,

As though this short passing

Solstice had stained us both.

Yet, we both seemed more content

Than the year prior.

Uncertain really,

That 100 days should truly hold such a vast amount of change.

Yet, it had.

So I lovingly greet him with a smiling honesty I myself had yet to know.

Gently, caressing his favorite places,

I grin and say,

‘You’re early,

Or right on time cursed familiar

I never really know.’

As I exit the porch,

Close the car door,

And only make less time

For the important things.

 

 

 

Penumbra Boulevard

dark_passenger_by_corporalphantom

Wrapping my favorite,

Gray and black rose cloak

Around my low hanging shoulders,

I hit he door way to another world again.

Heavy head,

Too heavy to understand.

Black hat,

Hiding only tired eyes.

I just let my hair be wild now.

I no longer care what the world has to say.

I let my eyes carry their sorrow and growing disdain.

One thousand, one hundred and twenty-five days.

A taste of salt that never strays.

Sleepless nights,

Dreams twisted and frayed-

Constantly choking me when I wake.

It’s four lanes whether

I’m barely breathing or burning alive.

Shedding that tread like each new skin.

Makes me wonder,

Which darkly named

Street corner shadow

Is following me now?”

Because I don’t even turn round to see.

I just know,

It’s never going to have me.

There are too many miles,

Full of beauty, life, destiny-

Just ahead of these gnarled, erratic, and decayed trees.

Words: M(e.)

Backstreet Healing: Corporal phantom