SchijtIn bathroom hoursSchijt by thetaoofchaos
I attempt to live, pretend
the fiery grackles with their lizard hearts
clinging like devils to the front yard oak
are never the worst that they have done;
they give as they have gotten.
The highpoint sun, my closet door,
the window sill, all brook together,
wide-eyed, murmuring amnesiacs
in the throes of an instant opera.
I dream of stony wisdom.
Oh, how I've burned
through her weeping silhouettes
a perpetual abrasion
on the softest parts of it.
I wonder, in whose image?
The concrete scarcely
covers up my industry
and hindsight is a ghost
who sours my endeavors.
But I will make it better.
PromiseI thought I was a prodigal man.Promise by thetaoofchaos
It doesn't matter.
The sun holds true.
Perhaps, I am a priest of thieves,
redeemed in some cautery.
The air, still bountiful and sweet.
However life inlays my debtors,
and I have laid them, after,
I will leave an opening
The Cat in the Christmas TreeI have a duty to explain myself.The Cat in the Christmas Tree by thetaoofchaos
Somewhere, in microcosms, filthy habits
wrapped in entrails like a serpent
‘round the planetary grin,
lay the last frontier. Though, the masters say
do not leave your sitting place.
So here is where it bellies up:
outer space in the guise of skin.
I have a purpose,
Earthly and transgressive.
I have performed the sacred spells.
I have severed two umbilicals.
I spent the whole of Tuesday
twitching for egress, peeling bed sheets,
a wispy film of dreams
still playing credits.
Again and again, another false body.
The front door releases me, a mouth to the cosmos.
December is first reckoned by the lips.
Our warmth is adrift, there’s some great conspiracy
where the leaves of the Ash are all set ablaze.
Through the layers of enigmas, I trace your outline
sitting in the kitchen,
midday, rapt in reading.
Slivers from the window blinds
a quake of continents in your hair.
Shadows of oak limbs
scale your bosom.
Where are the divisions;
hymenopteracompassionhymenoptera by thetaoofchaos
is full of surrogates
like those brushing in the yard;
I would grant them their aspiration
one last, exalted scream
before the crisp disintegration
to be a crystal in the honeycomb
some edge of necessity
not yet worried off to the nub
I do see you
it was me
FishIt used to be that I spent my whole life running for busesFish by moon-electric-lives
Until I got my christmas present
and started waiting for you.
I'm still getting my stride back.
in a distant corner of the universe,
your perfect chest
a million episodes of Arrested Development
and the birdie we could never find
in the trees
But outside my window
My neighbor's stucco wall
is carved with mistakes I never made
and the excuses I always made
I know it's silly
Since our words and awkward smiles
tread on the wrapping paper
But I never really realized it was over
until I saw paper fish eyes
peering up at me
from the trash.
Two WordsLong goneTwo Words by VertigoArt
breakup breakdowni rarely touchbreakup breakdown by 007-seriously-serial
those seven digits
that make the voice
on the other end
UninvitedYou enter me a thousand times a dayUninvited by RequiemsandReveries
Uninvited, but not unwelcome
I caress the ghost of you
With my mouth, with my eyes
Feel the embers of the fire
That was always meant to die
I need only to sigh and you are gone
Sodium.the lavender stopped growing and the the vanilla stopped, too. and what was whole isn'tSodium. by Book-of-LostThings
nearly there, yet. everything turned to lemon on my tounge and there were lightning bolts
threaded through my stomach and salt seeped through my womb and into my liver. I tried to run
faster, but my mind was grey and my solar plexus was charred from the back-burning that left too
much smoke and too much soot through my cartilage. but I tripped and stumbled and my ankle
sprained again and I remembered that I didn't tell you that some things were out of obligation and
that I thought you were more glove-like than you are and I need to tell you that there are some
things that aren't, like how love isn't lust and your heart isn't mine even though it
should be and how mine isn't open; how there's still a silver-copper-nickel case around my heart
and it's strings but it's been melded so that nothing is even and you can see all the corrugations
and holes and how the metal is perfectly inpenetrable an
SatisfiedI can see decades aheadSatisfied by RequiemsandReveries
One chain-link secret at a time
I don't care if it is forever
Because I don't need anyone
To take any desperate measures
I am satisfied with my thread
And the last time I heard my name
Seagazingeres:Seagazing by londonrey
warm champagne for my insides
vos me caes
Autumn's daylight sliding down my throat-
seeping in through the holes in my skin until my kidneys glow
waves-like-wings to carry me cos
i've dreamt of soaring this underworld
with heavy limbs &
f o u r in-this-moment eyes,
keeping "Far" far away
Let's don't quite recall the deep breaths we took, only why we took them.
|my favorite dA poetry|
beingof all things
be in wonderment
souls high kites with holessouls are high kites with holes, the sky is like a crystal ball
Blue sky harrow:
How lost for adjectives
To break our fast up there
Sugar, tea, and birdsong?
Of course, kites, souls
Curiosities, wind being free
While we, ground strung Gullivers
Flat beneath the
Of the wolcen burnspot
What do I call myself?
My sex deliquesced
An epicene, I'm a lover of honey bees
A curling fern:
We slip around like
In Lilliput ponds.
We dive in as
The tadpoles stop
At the empty
Of an underwater statue-
Arms like levers:
Blackening the coats
And peeling back
Stripping time of
We see the sky
Where it is skyless;
It remains an opal;
In the bowl
Blackbird Pupilsdont look at me
with those eyes
bluebird green and hazel-ache
mine, already hollowed out
and daily leak-
i cannot bear your
youd see all those wax demonshades
youd know the clockworks run
i read some other poet,
his words were blackice bludgeoners, soundless suturing socket spikes, hammergods, each one,
the last cicada to flee the moult.
but he hasnt the orbs to ruin me.
almost no one has
(the triple lunes that
PetrichorI walk without an errand for the mind.
I must be homeless.
Neighboring enclaves separate our spaces,
belie their builders’ mirthless exhaustion.
Not even necessity can be blamed
for these mud-struck, brittle gourds,
these quick nests of vasculous organs
pulsing with their peculiar tyrannies,
briefly scuttling from their hovels
like sun refugees
darting into gleaming storefronts
waffled in concrete misery
all to forestall the end of their souls.
Where can we go when we only want to breathe?
Sitting in a park bench,
trillion-visioned, crowned with galaxies,
I can rest my weary invention.
I sense the weight of an unseen player,
a secret stratagem
as she moves her piece into the glade.
I’m set in place, yet unopposed.
Uncombined with lovers, children,
the slow parade of trees and heat,
I lay beside these stalwarts,
at once, still and hurtling
throughout the travesty of time.
I assemble a cumulus intelligence
near the playground,
threatening Summer with three days