caesuraToday, impermanence is 5 weeks of raincaesura by thetaoofchaos
and pine limbs spindling clear above the house
and things I’ve left underground:
a cavity in the storm
a stark white coat.
How do we perish yet
still lounge eminently
sharpening the catalpa
pacing the gutters
in our wanton monotone?
My jealous imperia do not ruin.
Innocence is never lost.
It grows back like phantom vertebrae
and rebuilds the animal.
the lessonFollowing the last communiquethe lesson by thetaoofchaos
of any order
we'll not find a posteriori death
no grand apocalypse
carried off in bits by ants
or hurtling beside us
like dark matter twins
nestled in our bullet blue capsules
fighting us for singular dimension.
Under stones, behind the clouds
sleeping in fire, circling in bodies
we'll turn over nothing in nothing
that doesn't lead the way to these:
of my judas tree;
I would have you do thisHere.I would have you do this by thetaoofchaos
this is your prayer
your mantra, your news.
I leave it as I found it, papering in the streets.
as godless a truth as you will know
it’s still a ghost of a dream
smaller than theories of infinite resolution.
you will believe it because it has no industry
no acolytes or storefronts.
it’s not an embezzlement of fascination
or confabulation of missing histories.
you will not doubt its truth because your design is hollow
the space inside your car
the adventitious spine that vials through the weeds
the ice of march on adam’s needle
the ants, crickets, beetles under sandstone
waiting in a music box for the catalysts to wake
and split them out into the breen.
you will speak of your awareness
without knowing what inhabits it
like a colour that doesn't hum
or passing through a future forest
of apparitions in bald park meadows
egothe willow is a gorgeous idiot.ego by thetaoofchaos
she does not fathom why her feathers
vault to the grass
like gouges in a green fount.
do not praise my derelictions
and unpracticed mourning,
the angle of my slump.
i have given in to gravity
and furious flights
but even so,
my envy has a blossom
and a leaf
and i may seem to wave you in
though, i am barely present,
bitter sap in a blind pillar
and i do not deserve to feel
the distant murmur of your affection.
The wrongs of spiders. Suddenly,The wrongs of spiders. by claytonwoolery
Shuddered the metro car
They were inside of me,
Pulsing me to shoot forward,
They forced me, going into the dark...
He sobbed a horn into the next station,
I held in a laugh in my throat
Caught behind teeth, halted
The train will never be free,
A fair fare would be tragic
For slave drivers, web spinners.
So why tell him that I was one of them,
Digestive system commuters?
Just let him to wail on.
The Blackbirds AThe Blackbirds by msklystron
black wings beat in time to the bellwether.
Rising stars burst with shotgun bangs.
Birds fall like burnt hailstones
named after trees.
--by M. Alice Ch
Escuchar A La MadreConnectivity crackles atmosphereEscuchar A La Madre by jimfleming
Symbiotic systemic continuum
Human Rock Bug
River Cloud Fish
Easter Island Rapa Nui
Our Mother speaks
non urbanyou promised to call menon urban by northernmost
with a handbell you
promised to calm
me - - - - - -
ConfirmationThe cold was unbearableConfirmation by PoetsHand
As I awaited your return
In this circle of false friends.
They offered no warmth, no comfort.
They could only display
Betty Crocker smiles
With Tupperware Party manners.
I was alone in this horde:
Those who simply take.
That's when I felt I saw you
For the first time:
The centerpiece of this room.
ThirstyThe evening sweatsThirsty by leyghan
small feet drags
to swig the moon
Spring commutes 20111.Spring commutes 2011 by Immy-is-Thinking
I spent too long watching the mayflies
Struggling to swim upstream against the warm air rising from the tracks.
I warned them but in the end I can't improve their day.
I'm the kind of commuter who should know better.
There's a beautiful old man on the platform.
Wiry tarmac-black hair with a monk's bald pate.
A beard taller than me (almost).
Yellow running shorts,
Smile the size of a half-moon.
I think he is a work of art that belongs in the Tate.
He beams he thinks I am quite daft.
There's a giant on the train.
6 bags over a triple seat.
I ask if his bags have tickets.
He looks sheepish, makes room, folding up legs like deckchairs.
The giant strains to look at my drawing while I hand over my ticket.
Nice try big man.
He leans forward, adjusting his excess baggage.
Caught you again.
Shoulders like railway sleepers sink, conceding.
Loads up luggage like a sherpa and alights.
I feel slightly mean.
Cleaners are on the bus whi
SymphonyIt's the measured breathing of someone on oxygen, here in the small hours. I don't know where it's coming from. I hear it beneath the white noise of the air conditioner.Symphony by Bark
It's the faint jumpiness of a phone ringing, a monitor flatlining on a loop in my memory.
It's the droning in my own ears, the hum-buzz of the tinnitus, the electricity and insect sounds.
It's the whistle of a train, much louder than it should be. It soars over the top of it all. There are no trains nearby.
It's four AM again. The silence is not golden.
If We Are To Be GhostsIf we are to be ghosts then let us be good onesIf We Are To Be Ghosts by murdersdawn
Let us not rattle sorry bones across a chasm
Until one or the other
And sighs again
If we are to be ghosts then let us be glorious
Haunting incarnations of what could have been
What should have been
Let us cry folly across the battlefields of an ordinary life
Burning lantern bright to light the way home
Screaming sacrifice for the good
Or the other
If we are to be ghosts then let us be gentle
Let us whisper words half heard on empty nights
Cold comfort in the absence of warmth
Silent strength reflected from the ether
If we are to be ghosts, then let us be as angels
|my favorite dA poetry|