[x]

ScrutinyAnd when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin…
~ T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

I am going through the keyless gate
to watch and wait,
to wander here and there among the proud,
among the white and old whose wisdom rots, repressed, untold:
the soporific royals wreathed in leaves of gold.
And to them I shall read aloud from the Book,
read of the sins their lips have took
and upon me they shall look and patiently reflect…

“I am lost in my own depth,” I will say
in a slight, impartial way
(for I lack violets and an antic prin

fat.I once
knelt to kiss
my mother's belly
as it spilled fluidly
over her waistband,

the milky, mottled
soft skin stretched
taut and drawn
in thick puckers

of flesh. I pressed
grateful lips to the swell,
the feathery, darkened scar
where they wrenched us
apart.

picking flowersdrunk on dandelion milk:
this dragon-fly, cotton-cloud haze
dulls my ears to each petal's cry
as I seek a flower's counsel in love.

Unfinal SolutionJim and Dave shuffled down the street in the hot summer sun. Occasionally they would encounter an obstacle, such as a shopping cart, corpse, pile of trash, or burned out car. Depending on the size and nature of the obstacle, their zombie intellect would kick over into high gear, and a conversation such as this might ensue:

“Braaaaaaaaaaains….”

“Rains! Rains! Raaaaaaaains1….”

“Brains….”

If the object was large, such as a chunk of flaming airplane wreckage, Jim and Dave would do the Zombie Shuffle around its perimeter, sometimes bumping into each other and the obs

RaskolOur son and his wife sleep in separate rooms. They are painted the same colour and bear identical scars but are separated by a hall so long that by the time I walk from one end to the other, I am too tired to compare and know what is different.

That is the convenience of an oversized house, I think, that we did not have in our small one-room apartment—they never have to see each other’s faces. You remember the nights when we were given no choice but to lie next to each other, against the hard corner, when we were seething in each other’s anger. How wonderful it might have been to stare at a blank wall, letting the heat of our

songs about slumber

I.

our city is a bed

.

a man tries to straighten the wrinkled
sheet of road – gives up, sits down,
pans the street for change

.

the apartment building thrusts, phallic,
making love to an empty sky. a burst
of pigeons coo shut up shut up

.

a boy tries to fall asleep. his nightlight
is a myth that burns out once a day

.

the girl walks off her roof

.

.

our city is not a mattress

.

i am falling with youi.
there is no need in this, only want.

ii.
i fear for my safety, and you know this.

i don’t know if i should be disturbed by your telling me that you would kill them if they ever hurt me, and yet you are nearly a man too. i am disturbed by how far i let you in and i am glad you can’t see how you are the one who could hurt me most of all, and

only the trust i have in you will prevent that eventuality.

iii.
i have always been an obstinate creature. my mother spent years telling everyone who asked how i spent days clinging to the inside of her womb, unwilling to come out with the rose-tinted, nostalgic wis

               an·te·ced·ent

     And I spoke to my walls, discovering that the only difference
          between them and her was
               a coat of paint and a pulse,
                    and often-- just the pulse.

The Breath of GodI.

My bones have been like cabinets;
the hinges all dust, wood punctured.

Breathe, hope, stamina (the grains wheat enough to take on
absence, sweat, and nausea) were misplaced.
Their dearth rearranged my skeleton in certain places,
and I stuck out here—sunk in there.

The nonexistence was pushy—
bored with the fractures,
ignorant of setting the bone.

I was ignorant of setting the bone, too.

Mirrors were poor reflections,
wasted glass, unable to diagnose.

I was intact. It appeared
that way. The angles spoke of it—
they expressed the wholeness of body. Sure they did.

They did.

II.

It spoke of other images, t

Farmers' MarketFarmers' Market

At daybreak, we make our aching bodies rise,
caffeinate, survey the still pink-patched sky,
pray for a dry day. Once loaded, we truck

bushels of produce, potted plants, sawhorse
and board tables, stabilize crates of pie
between bins and strawberry boxes, drive
down the mountain, into town and set up

the fruits of our labors, hoping neighbors
and weekenders alike will buy, eyeing
vendors wares, wishing there was cash to spare.
Down-street, a bow begins to sweep the strings

softly, bringing bed-headed children out
to watch the band set up. An old pup roves
over to the barbeque cart, gambols
off when the butcher

reasons i wont ever leave1.
Today in the children's section of the library there were two books
'international terrorism' and 'how i feel when people die'
what happened to innocence and fairy tales?

2.
this day two months from now i won't be here and we won't talk ever again
i don't know how i'm going to function normally without you.
i've been rehearsing things to tell you,
excuses why i won't be here any more.
i can't think of anything that won't break your heart

3
with you i am either more alive than ever or i have never felt more dead
this again brings me to the dilemma of staying or going.
feeling alive feels so good

4
i don't know how to fall a

This bulletproof vest
is mere muslin to your hands;
strip on, strip on, love

omg lol"omg lol w8 4 meh!1" cried Wendy as she hastily grabbed her textbook and slammed her locker door shut. The second bell had rung five minutes ago, and her two friends were already across the hallway. They stood in front of a door with a sign that read "chatsp33k". Mary Beth, the eldest of Wendy's little posse, waved her hot pink painted fingers at Wendy.
"hurry!!11! were l8 lol," she beckoned.
"im coming lol," said Wendy. She trotted down the hall towards the two, who were already heading through the door into the Chatspeak classroom. Wendy panted as she took her seat, which was located directly in front of Mr. Parsley's desk, the Chatspeak

In case of emergencyI saw the roots of prairie grasses
Like carrion beetles in their yellowing shells
Nibbling angrily, at the concrete beneath my feet,
At wood sheared to fence posts near the road.
The very earth they rejected, drawing what peace they could.

When did stained glass become the standard?
I have forged narrow mountain paths and stumbled over
Bottle caps secreted between the mica flakes and quartz.

In this city, in the sectors most pregnant with age,
Trees testify shamelessly into the sky.
Clandestine, one coils his reach toward
A flimsy cable, twisted and strung precariously
From corpse to shabby corpse, on and on.
Graceful and altoge

Stella PolarisThe little dipper is square on
your hip. You always have trouble spotting
the stars, but I am not surprised that they have
made homes in your flesh.

I knew some part of you belonged
in the sky. I had suspicions you were
unnaturally bright.

Which picture are you?
What myth do you have?

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 363 bytes more ▶

More from ~nonamepsalmist

Black and White PhotographyYou smell like half-hearted sex,
she said, recalling the afternoon’s events.

I was tired.
It wasn’t working.

Our bodies- bent on the same end-
could not agree on a beginning.
On top of my bedspread
we repositioned limbs and you removed
my heavy sweatshirt.

I was hot.
It wasn’t working.

Left in a black tee-shirt,
I wore a white flag and
no underwear. You covered yourself
as you quickly dressed- while I,
in fashion, lay motionless and
mourned for the stillborn thing.

Later, we bought a jar of ink
and a journal bound like a book.
I don’t wear perfume, and
this

Neo LinguaI did not grow up speaking
this way. I shuffle through your language
with unsteady footing, with my tongue fat and
defiant. I am not a native speaker.

This dialogue comes up the promenade
on literal legs. You, to the brim with
word pictures, prefer them without the
fluff and fiction. In your tongue,
the best literature is in a pamphlet.
I have made sure of it- the little dears
are not bothered by this.

I did not grow up speaking this way.
I would leave the earth and wander,
finding new tools, new friends.
Narrative gave the shape to
my round mouth.

Their compliance found a calling
in my strong hands.

Your words sit fun

CompanionYou were wide across your middle, in
the breach at your eyes. You had a face like me-
a counterfeit of my mother’s. You, listless,
settled in old griefs and lied there.

I believed we were identical,
and that the strong red marks
on my thighs were courageous.
The brave nights we stomached
in the back yard with pieces of me
in the ditch were trophies not to be spoken of.

I wondered what kind of thing you were
and if I could have you
without becoming you. Being a fine host,
I welcomed you.
I gave you bones to erode and a cherry heart
to twist around your pink tongue.

I Wrote to HerI wrote to her about shapes,
about how hers was becoming unfamiliar
and incompatible with my own.

But she waited-
solid in her form;
she waited for me to more clearly etch her out
and to not limit her to geometry.

Because we fit the way stanzas break
(we fit
d
ee
p
er). We fit like a poet fumbling
through a line,
through her consonant
(k)
(she possess it)
And we
(two unsymmetrical lovlies)
have always been in the shape of a poem.

Our words lock like Africa with the Americas; our

MessianicI resonate with
the way she never says my name
like a Jew in prayer.
(but my Gentile tongue moves through
that lineage and is swollen fat with
thank you
thank you)

I stare shamelessly
at the freckles about her mouth and
watch the current of breath
move through her body. I am
approaching;
I am traveling there
(with only my hands.)

Her chosen palms have grace
on mine. I have wandered for
40 years
in search of her.
This is belonging to one another;
this is the promiseland

View Gallery · View Prints

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

Submitted: August 18, 2007
File Size: 363 bytes

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 71
Favourites: 390 [who?]
Views: 7,649 (0 today)
Downloads: 84 (0 today)

[x]

Manuscript

by ~nonamepsalmist, Aug 18, 2007, 3:31:33 PM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

I have written us down, typed us up, and sent us out.
they will edit us, and say some parts are no good.

but I want your run-ons, your lack of punctuation; and you are so easy
on my weak binding, my damaged spine.

Manuscriptby ~nonamepsalmist

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

©2007-2013 ~nonamepsalmist

Just a little something for a little someone.

Daily Deviation

Given 2008-11-12

Manuscript by ~nonamepsalmist is a short, yet sophisticated love poem with an interesting metaphor. ( Suggested by ~vix0r and Featured by !lovetodeviate )

~~joy 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~skittleflink Sep 11, 2009

I love this.

Reply

~Eternalist1 Apr 29, 2009

Lovely

Reply

~shadow120000 Nov 14, 2008

aww i really love it.
very awesome meaning and metaphor. filled with feeling.
<3

Reply

~TheChavsStoleMeName Nov 13, 2008

I can barely say how totally awesome this is! It made me laugh out loud, and think "Aww..." at the same time, I absolutely love it. The DD is well-deserved!

Reply

~kho13 Nov 12, 2008 Hobbyist Digital Artist

I kinda love it! but i didn't get the part about the damaged spine, i'm not that good at English maybe *-)

Reply

~TheChavsStoleMeName Nov 13, 2008

The damaged spine bit, I think anyway, would be referring to how a manuscript doesn't have a binding. XD It's just peices of paper. Although it could also mean they'd been damaged, or, hurt, in the past..

Reply

~kho13 Nov 13, 2008 Hobbyist Digital Artist

Reply

!wrenwatcher Nov 12, 2008

It's about time you got a DD. I still love your writing.

Reply

~AliveInLetters Nov 12, 2008

A juxtaposition of tragedy and virtue... and how one can bring about the other, this is beautiful.

Reply

~Asune-chan Nov 12, 2008 Photographer

Brilliant.

Reply