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AstrologicalI have lost myself to
Venus & Mars,
tangled in their mismatched limbs.

Just dream dust & shattered prayers
begging for a new set of skin
(she can't remember where she orbits).

Pluck these fractured wings;
the Sun & Moon no longer ache
to see me fly in their luster.

lies, she wrotei. just a mimicry, really;
uncompromisingly
desperate to shine.

ii. counterfeit & clockwise,
tasting words on her
unworthy tongue.

iii. with a dysfunctional mind
& apocryphal dictionary,
she cannot clone it all.

iv. "say anything," the pen
whispers as she trembles
among ink-scented fraudulence.

v. but she just laughs & plays the part,
forgetting what the pages told her:
"truth is stranger than fiction."

The Pen, The SwordJust lovely
I was happy to fall asleep
in the welcoming arms of your words and
you were unaware that you held me
so close, and so carefully
from the moment I didn't hear you speak
to the taste of every sentence you spoke
I knew you were the very truth that I'd
been seeking all along
Just barely
I was loathe to fall so deep
in the sharpened edges of your words and
you were too aware that you had me
so close, and so carelessly
from the second I heard you break
to the taste of every sentence you broke
I knew you were the very truth that I'd
been avoiding all along

Death of the PoetDear poetry,
This is your challenge,
my eternal chore,
to restate the truth
like never before-
but I’m imperfect
at my very core
and hypocrisy
is what I abhor
so you may expect
my work to be poor
enough for me to
be crushed into gore
with failed attempts
to take wing and soar
when all I wanted
was something much more
than emptiness and
inherited war
and pointless details
of imagined lore
which most of us tend
to simply ignore
at the piercing sound
of a lion’s roar
or the convenience
of a nearby store…
what am I truly
writing these words for?
Let’s merely pretend
that this isn’t me
but the voice of God
or L. Ron Hubbard
or whoever you
wish for it to be
since facts remain facts
no matter the source,
no matter the cause,
since the trustworthy
are also humans
prone to failure;
so prone to a fault
that we hold dearly-
the sum of our faith
measured in dollars-
rewarded by credit
and paper money…
for some odd reason
I find this funny!
So I conclude

False EternityDisillusioned youth was less common in those days,
I assure you, the people even more set in their ways,
murderous and unforgiving, yet unaware of the lie they were living
convinced that faith is stone, they cut faces into gods, they thought
ignorant that being made rendered useless the very gods they wrought.
Shiny carvings into stone, faces, figures, blessed unknown,
Murders, slaughters, sacrifices of the weak, preaching sins and what they seek.
Forgiveness is not for all, all who do not have will now fall!
Greed consumes the mortal mind, rage is all that's left behind!
Amidst it all I rose and found the sun, disowned him for the moon
then sought the horizon, again and again warned my father that doom
would befall him if he didn't seek a better way to live and be
I wasn't willing to follow the dark and deadly rules,
trying to bring some light into the lives of these fools.
Guilds of anti-gods were formed, wars rose higher, nothing to atone!
They all represen

ArrheniusThe birds are
keeping to themselves
this evening
as the earth shifts
slightly-
ever so calmly
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have
to move).

Here and there, I
witness these
beautiful strangers
with perfect bodies
and long hair
walking down the road
in tightly knitted packs.
They are animals
like we are animals-
like we are
animals without
claws and fur,
with scratches on our
skin that yields to
fragile and
familiar hands.

The winds respond
as quiet birds rush
from telephone wires
in panic and
in beauty; she
tries to brush the hair
dancing circles in her eyes
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have to move).

False ProphetsPoems and love songs breed dead dreams,
strangled by weeds, face down in the ground
with no roses to mourn them.

Singers are poets that croon
(if you happen to lose your little heart to their tune)
and poets are false prophets -
true love will last forever
if they care to write it,
but not if you swallow the lines...

yet, they always do.

We all have a place
set for us in the shade
in our own private garden of weeds.

False eternityDisillusioned youth was less common in those days,
I assure you, the people even more set in their ways,
murderous and unforgiving, yet unaware of the lie they were living
convinced that faith is stone, they cut faces into gods, they thought
ignorant of the fact that being made rendered useless the very gods they wrought.

Shiny carvings into stone, faces, figures, blessed unknown,
Murders, slaughters, sacrifices of the weak, preaching sins and what they seek.
Forgiveness is not for all, all who do not have will now fall!
Greed consumes the mortal mind, rage is all that's left behind!

Amidst it all I rose and found the sun, disowned him for

Within A BoxIt's a prison for the minds of haunted souls
an odd prison, not large enough to contain its prisoners
and yet it encompasses every fiber of their being
in silent, silent spaces.
Haunted souls are searching for the key
there is no key, but they don't know any better
and what harm could it do? Hope is better than nothing
here's an unlocked open door for you.
Little trinkets haunt souls with their questions
and we want answers, but they won't give
anything away. Very smart,
you know the world is ending soon.
(The best of which are only
crude descriptions of the magic
they are looking for.)

On The Collapse Of Modern Society"I've never seen so many folks
putting their hopes
in packaged air,
as far as I'm concerned,
and from what I've observed
misplacing material worth while
rushing back and forth
to get nowhere."
my Grandma said,
shaking her head.

VoicesDo you hear the moan of morning rhymes
By the people in their endless time
As the morning dew breaks the day
Back to where the city-lights once laid

The lamp-posts are filled with black starlight
As the children run in their flight
With cries of sorrow, cries of pain
The old houses creaking with disdain

Acidic puddles of blood-wet tears
Remain on the street through all these years
As the cracks have hid the crumbled dust
Within these roads of bone and rust

The melody of the birds is lost
To the screeches and screaming loss
There are people cowering in the dark
Murmuring, whispering their tortured remarks

Flames ignite the world in fire

Lovers and assassinsNight
walk

WakefulI remain awake with dreams on my mind
and stories that wait to be knit into books.
To never find comfort until my pillows are
stuffed with thoughts instead of feathers
To never let go until I made sure that
the moon smiled back at me
Until the trees, the grass, and every night creature
has whispered good night...
And yet I'm still as wakeful as an owl
afraid that sleep would somehow
grab my neck and drag me to my grave.

HumanDear Hypocrite,

What do you do?
Throwing insults when you're insulted.

Dear Coward,

Where went you?
To your "peaceful" sanctuary you have bolted.

Dear Liar,

What say you?
Your poison corrupts innocent ears.

Dear Human,

What are you?
A sinner trapped in endless tears.

bad nightmy mistakes are on my head,
and the cigarettes taste like metal;
on the street curb of a suburban block,
the lights jaundiced and flickering
like drunken fireflies, your reflection
that emanates from me covers every face.

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Are We Blessed or Tragic?First, I must insist
we collide with oncoming traffic.
Decide which way to twist
just before impact;
it's the last decision you will make
before geometry takes over.
Then we can look fate in the eye
and laugh or cry accordingly.

Messages lost in ambient noise
replay again and again
attempting to be heard.
The shriek of metal and metal
drowns, as angels sing a hymn that I remember
from Sunday school.
You look on me with torn eyes,
as fate would have us part.

FingersRusted fingers stretch and curl,
leaving whisps of smoke.
The widow manages a smile
as she steals a glance at her reflection
from the bottom of the ashtray.
Her skin is like burnt paper;
her eyes stained
a mixture of bloodshot and poison gray.

Still, she carries that fire to her lips
elegantly. Maybe that's why:
it hasn't killed her yet.

OverpopulationCrowded graveyards hold thoughts
like delicate birds, fleeting and fragile.
The dead wait calmly
for gears to spin and grind
as pulses fade above them, joining ranks
until the ground declares 'no vacancy.'
Ideas churn, in empty skulls
leaving the living to collect the whispered,
faintly manifested destinies and put them to use.
The skeletal decline hinders any attempt
to find a solution, and time
continues to take. The living
pretend not to die, and proclaim refusal
from an overpopulated grave
even as the earth is piled above them,
wishing they had listened.

Life, Death, and PhysicsConfidence calls, blaming eulogies
on the subject. Citing verses
obscurely to protect themselves
from the label of specific gods and angels,
the living mock the dead
with standards and practices.

Climbing down a branch, extended
far from the tree but no less attached.
Everything falls with the hands
of gravity; of man and myth alike.
As grave men dig more holes,
another fills. With dead insides,
the living laugh and point
to physics. One day, maybe
a god will strike them down.

Darling, PleaseDarling, you've been
sitting at the window, staring
days away.

Wipe off the charred, black soot
that gathers on my shoulder tops
when my brain burns.
Inhaling fumes that spin,
the diamonds in my eyes are swirling
backward, forward and astray
from where they ought to be.
Somehow I've got to make odds even again.

Darling, don't be kind.
I'm trapped underneath the wreckage;
a hunk of metal contortions and cold
Santa Clauses staring, trying
to make out my heartbeat.
I think they mean to take it from me.

Gifted, granted, but I'm looking up to be
nothing in this pile of beauty
gone wrong. Save me
the pleasantries and focus.
My

CaliforniaQuiet in hospital beds,
comatose patients sitting up
to catch a glimpse of California
through television screens;
living episodic lives.

The windows pretend to whistle
tunes the decades have forgotten
as California calls, invitingly
over the static of intercom speakers.

Tall waves eclipse the sun,
revoking light, leaving skin
dry and cracked
beneath an unnatural shine.

Sunny California, maybe there
I could heal.

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Monochromatization

by *nawkaman, Dec 5, 2012, 10:34:11 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

The weeping West,
broad in the late-given hours
of ozone and cinnabar
shaded lips, sighs
deeply into context. Sleep
is lonesome in the fast, empty bed
and the ultramarine of irises
washes out with the ferruginous tides.

In pace with the thick-tongued wind
the Pacific pushes the boundary,
shaking limbs and branches.

We are deciduous creatures
building to a colorless apex
quickly, but I'm sure
that the seeds fall far
from our reach.

And the ground will sow us together
in time.

Monochromatizationby *nawkaman

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Quiet in the aural pause,
shedding leaves and losing color
to the land and sea.

I write to keep my eyes
blue, and my bones full
of strength and purpose.

I noticed the other day that my eyes seem to have lost some of their color. That led to this in a roundabout way.