Something real

I want to believe you.  Write something impactful. Be expressive, give meaningful; forget words, give me feeling.

No bullshit.
Make it good.
It doesn't have to be short, but if it's long it better be fucking worth it.

(If it doesn't fit the category or if it's too long, i'll be happy to withdraw)

ward 18

This is not a story about sex, romance or some kind of zen, a philosophical search for life. Finding thee in nature, poetry, rain, dirt or tea leaves; nor about a soulmate in some technicolor kaleidoscope discombobulation of some sort.

It's a story  
about unrecruited love
a systematic pursuit
ritualistic daily motion
slow  
sweet  
savage
ravaging

Death of all things in love of Death.
*
*
*
*

When does being enough occur?
Collapse of all things meaning-full
following ghostly track.
To do it differently, consistently
gripping unto the next thing to save the present
to be a woman who never knew anything
but pleasures of being used, usefully  
inventing so much, building haphazardly.

Isn't life about revisions and perversions
knocking all possibilities?
Three million tries can't be wrong
tied at every stomachache like stepping stone
while the universe gushes from my pores.
Somewhere I'm spinning, stunned and alone
a stranger to myself
centrifugal.

Even the clumsiest fate is perfectly shaped
at every wrong turn leading to
lesser gods, goddesses kissing shrine of hope.
The world shrinks to size of a bed  
without a headstone
underneath, is the brewing earth
air above, another storm.
I swallow it whole; feeding parts I love and hate
to come alive at every full moon
my body bare
beneath a sheer veil
eyes as coal as the night  
matching ovaries roaming in dark
carved ebony and ice.
*
*
*
*
A story does not exist without witnesses
and we never tell the tale the way it happens
fresh pages replace frays and scraps
moving on, as if one moves as much as a tree would
to physically forget pains and regrets
limbs'n leaves tempt just enough to remember.

I could sleep for days without a map
and everyone else can celebrate  
hoax of boundlessness and infinity
holding wishes of spring.
Springing: a reward from nature
waiting, holding, perseverance for nothing.

All seem collapsible into one moment
details and colors are distractable, blinding
burrowing within a dream
What then is life and deathless death?
To seek that one last word, a footprint
Will it matter in the end.

If no one was there to recall, have we existed at all?
This amazement breaks me, pervasive rhythm of thought
feeling heat of a bullet in my throat
absorbing astounding force
in the same terror
same space, volume rises in my head
voices speak but all they do is speak through me
as if sound is not part of the body
diffracted through scrim
attracting what was repelled.
*
*
*
*

There are bruises in the most unimaginable places
admirable museum quality uprooting from veins
bones rise freed of obligatory weight
a repulsed decay.

My mouth craves salt and sugar  
simultaneously
gathering perfectly shaped pearls in my hands
counting one by one
there's enough to kill three lifetimes.

I cant stand myself
waiting another noon to become midnight.

wavy [&] particle       [misc. climatic climactic physics and chemistry of love, chaos and whatever]



when her numerous pores breathe in the free form verses
from his seeping in rains, a deep bluing nightish denseness
expands in a deadly silence from her exploding petrichor turfs

touches half hazy moon in hide and seek turns

of a bitten mesmerism in exchanged vulnerabilities on one side
and the other simmers in impossibly delicate volcanic dynamisms
  -    miraging waves moisten like a miracle
       pencils intermittent thin-lane relay-flows  
       of a molten mirror stream, holds to reveal
       the coalescing symmetries –their  reflective
       imageries  and their lived [loved] in core truth:
                       
his unwavering eyelights shimmer, fallen unto her dreamy eyelands


gravity has no equations



sometimes, greys in bunch  –the eclipsing shadows
shape a sweltering darkness cohabited, something
almost feels like loneliness but not, as its groping
strings branch out in search of his merging
eyes often read and reached at a gasping ace , yet rarely
plunges away like this time, to cerebral sweatlands  
swelling in black humidity, in its very own
hapless and harsh whip-hands
reduced to pained and pulled back
strands of rendered immobility
  - a choking smoke from burnt cochlear wick’s ashen tip
    that just was in its last spritely lap of cyanosaffronic  streaks  
punctuates small dotting clouded deaths  
in the many so many serially following
full-stop’s beginning atmospherics ....


.....her.
“I am  the levitating rainfire strings
in rapturous crackle, falling upwards, around
and against your unconscious kelvin core
waiting to drain back to [y]our fullerene fusion

origin of a transcendence, wavy [&] particle

in pervasive holy haziness, climaxing smokes  
arch in startling artistic flairs
unto nothingness [space]
newness [airs]

and in the sedimental silverine ashes
in some sown meditation"





p.s: I tend to be more abstractive with words. neverthelress strive to reach out to my depths:) plz. feel free to ignore the entry if not suiting your comp rules

BULL SHOULD-A

You should'a
No!  You really should'a
If only you would'a
I could'a
Now look what you made me not do
So shouldn’t you say you’re ‘sorry’?
Instead of telling me,
‘FUCK YOU!’

                   ambient dirge


the rain like sorrow falls
it falls from broken sky
it has no song to give

my cottage dimly lit
in bleak environs rapt
to curse the somber dark

the road runs east to chance
to seek a stranger’s touch
or spend the night alone

a man is born to hunt
and woman feels the same
while fate but spins her web

we drink, we speak, we dance
and in our secret hearts
we light a fragile spark

the passions that we dream
in common ways, unfold
we barter love for sex

the stars at last will sleep
and when the moon departs
the rain will come again…

If we say
nothing
and pretend
we do not see
would our conscious agree
that we should persuade
our morals to believe
it was just a figment
a broken piece
of fear and pain
a child
dragging
her broken batterd body
from the shadows
of a filthy ally
into the crying rain

She was born to grow
yet she screams
in silent
tears of pain
blindfolded and raped
again
by so many
she cannot remember
when
with her arms weighted down
by corruption and fear
with the last of her strength
with her skeletal grasp
she still desperately
holds on
to the book
of common law
as the corroded
buckled scales
of peace
slip slowly past
her finger tips
her heart
slowly breaks
hearing
the silent weeping
of all the young
who are dying inside
a place
where we hide

The day we die   Inside

We can run
and We can hide
We can pretend
that We are blind
but that day
will come
when our tears
caress our fears
as We stand
with our kids
with our head
bowed low
at the end
of a barrel
of their guns