deepundergroundpoetry.com
Did i scratch the surface?
Is it your looks that lunge my breath from lungs,
your thousand burning yellow suns,
I have grown smitten
my sincerest apologies?
revolution churning fortress flags,
define me or you to doe from stag,
fire starter of the loins leering from the shade of branch & trees & sky so green.
pussycat;
tucked neatly away in my starry eyed mind's vault combination,
a certain shadows sadness grows in wake of rain and condensation.
is it my fault that your pixie cut threw me away
for re-use?
poised in a gaze that set me in possession!
crawling up tainted walls,
those draped in black mourn in procession.
ventricle,
pumping light and life to limb & words & lips in forbidden apartment stairwells kiss.
purr....
trace your perfect jaw line jousting at my heart,
trace your mouth with a pen sketched in the blackness of my eyelids.
a lovely lilac lured by the pond
standing out among the others; fawn.
squeeze my hand
i'll squeeze right back to show i'm still here,
...still here.
I respect your silent fight
yet still my heart has not the right,
I put you on display,
yes, to display.
in a southern sweet tea mason jar
my lightening bug
revolving infatuation: hug,
enough to keep the feelings leashed at bay.
your thousand burning yellow suns,
I have grown smitten
my sincerest apologies?
revolution churning fortress flags,
define me or you to doe from stag,
fire starter of the loins leering from the shade of branch & trees & sky so green.
pussycat;
tucked neatly away in my starry eyed mind's vault combination,
a certain shadows sadness grows in wake of rain and condensation.
is it my fault that your pixie cut threw me away
for re-use?
poised in a gaze that set me in possession!
crawling up tainted walls,
those draped in black mourn in procession.
ventricle,
pumping light and life to limb & words & lips in forbidden apartment stairwells kiss.
purr....
trace your perfect jaw line jousting at my heart,
trace your mouth with a pen sketched in the blackness of my eyelids.
a lovely lilac lured by the pond
standing out among the others; fawn.
squeeze my hand
i'll squeeze right back to show i'm still here,
...still here.
I respect your silent fight
yet still my heart has not the right,
I put you on display,
yes, to display.
in a southern sweet tea mason jar
my lightening bug
revolving infatuation: hug,
enough to keep the feelings leashed at bay.
Published 16th May 2019
Author's Note
Lesley Gore, death, obsession, and girls with pixie cut's.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDUjeR01wnU
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDUjeR01wnU
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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The author encourages honest critique.
16th May 2019 2:08pm
this is bad ass dearest Samael
so many killer lines emoting feeling...
love Brenda ❤
so many killer lines emoting feeling...
love Brenda ❤
16th May 2019 5:56pm
16th May 2019 6:24pm
I’m convinced that that god damn pixie haircut is responsible for brutally murdering the greatest love that could’ve ever emerged; before it just did ~ 🌹💙🔥
16th May 2019 6:28pm
Goddamn. This is poetry. Each stanza holds that fixation itch and chasmed inverted gravity found in unrealized desire.
Your opening stanza, the power and glare of a thousand yellow burning suns. The admission, I have grown smitten, and the confusion of the final line, it so succinctly captures the state of unrequited love, setting an indelible tone for the unfolding of the write.
Second stanza begins with this image of entrenched, protracted struggle, quickly translates into the relationship of she to you, in vibrations of animal magnetism, closes with this compelling sense of desire lurking in the loins. Heat emanating, eyes peering from shadows and the more conventional whisper from beneath the fig leaf.
Third stanza compliments the quick change of paradigm you effortlessly display, being a bit more playful, but the second line is winsome and the third melancholic. Pussycat, a playful term of endearment. Your mind is a starry eyed vault. You mention sadness, an image of perhaps standing forlorn in the rain, perhaps a rain of tears. Mellifluous changes of emotional tempo.
Your fifth stanza closes with such a startling image. A forbidden apartment stairwell's kiss. The winding nature of a stairwell, how we move through by nature without pause. It speaks to me of a stolen moment, without the possibility of it being more. A forbidden apartment, much like that undisclosed place of rumination in the mind that runs over and over the object of desire, in a somewhat shameful circuit. That place in the heart where your desire treads the carpet against the grain into a rut of ruin.
Seventh stanza is such a visceral translation, drawing clear lines of delineation and connection. Jawline a lance into the heart. Mouth sketched into the blackness of an eyelid. Fascinating in its originality in a genre that has been circled, stalked, pounced upon and eviscerated for eons.
Eighth stanza I would call Tenderness. The image of the lily upon the pond has a kind of haiku zen. The close is utterly endearing to anything with a heart seeking a counterpoint within another, a moment of recognition before the sun peels our shadow off the ground.
Declaration in the penultimate stanza is a perfect climax. The author's voice plants it's feet, hands spread out to either side, palms up and open, the spotlight narrows and softens at this point.
Closing stanza is an equally perfect denouement. A lightning bug in a mason jar, a perfect metaphor and the small bit of rhyme lends that bittersweet lilt to close the piece.
It's a masterful write. I found the piece for the podcast.
You mention Leslie Gore in the author's notes and her perennial hit and feminist anthem, "You Don't Own Me," the queen of teen angst and infatuation. You did her honor here.
Daniel
Your opening stanza, the power and glare of a thousand yellow burning suns. The admission, I have grown smitten, and the confusion of the final line, it so succinctly captures the state of unrequited love, setting an indelible tone for the unfolding of the write.
Second stanza begins with this image of entrenched, protracted struggle, quickly translates into the relationship of she to you, in vibrations of animal magnetism, closes with this compelling sense of desire lurking in the loins. Heat emanating, eyes peering from shadows and the more conventional whisper from beneath the fig leaf.
Third stanza compliments the quick change of paradigm you effortlessly display, being a bit more playful, but the second line is winsome and the third melancholic. Pussycat, a playful term of endearment. Your mind is a starry eyed vault. You mention sadness, an image of perhaps standing forlorn in the rain, perhaps a rain of tears. Mellifluous changes of emotional tempo.
Your fifth stanza closes with such a startling image. A forbidden apartment stairwell's kiss. The winding nature of a stairwell, how we move through by nature without pause. It speaks to me of a stolen moment, without the possibility of it being more. A forbidden apartment, much like that undisclosed place of rumination in the mind that runs over and over the object of desire, in a somewhat shameful circuit. That place in the heart where your desire treads the carpet against the grain into a rut of ruin.
Seventh stanza is such a visceral translation, drawing clear lines of delineation and connection. Jawline a lance into the heart. Mouth sketched into the blackness of an eyelid. Fascinating in its originality in a genre that has been circled, stalked, pounced upon and eviscerated for eons.
Eighth stanza I would call Tenderness. The image of the lily upon the pond has a kind of haiku zen. The close is utterly endearing to anything with a heart seeking a counterpoint within another, a moment of recognition before the sun peels our shadow off the ground.
Declaration in the penultimate stanza is a perfect climax. The author's voice plants it's feet, hands spread out to either side, palms up and open, the spotlight narrows and softens at this point.
Closing stanza is an equally perfect denouement. A lightning bug in a mason jar, a perfect metaphor and the small bit of rhyme lends that bittersweet lilt to close the piece.
It's a masterful write. I found the piece for the podcast.
You mention Leslie Gore in the author's notes and her perennial hit and feminist anthem, "You Don't Own Me," the queen of teen angst and infatuation. You did her honor here.
Daniel
23rd May 2019 7:07pm
Wonderful choice. I appreciate the detailed critique. i can't wait to hear the new podcast episode.
23rd May 2019 7:16pm
It was my pleasure. Since the Spotlight segment is my province, I only choose works I can connect with and I really connected here. I'll be featuring you in our third segment, which is tentatively slated for release on the 16th of July. Thank you for your participation and I hope the podcast shines a deserving light on your writes.
