deepundergroundpoetry.com
Breathless
A rush of August
in a morning
brings this conducted interlude,
and what am I to think
of innocence and you?
And your offering,
prodding questions,
returning requests
and persuasions,
follow a build up
that for far too long
has needed what you are.
And so, in this eternity
of the now and so close,
this split in the cosmic egg,
the hair of non-ambivalent seeing,
there is only you,
arms covering my head,
holding my face,
nuzzled up closely.
My cheeks
and lips
and tongue compress
voraciously hording
the taste of you
as you swing
in your measure,
a metronome priestess
whose fortunes
are told
in metered ecstasies
and sighs
of eyes whose
dark shutterings
are glimpses
into the midnight
of all being.
runningturtle87
in a morning
brings this conducted interlude,
and what am I to think
of innocence and you?
And your offering,
prodding questions,
returning requests
and persuasions,
follow a build up
that for far too long
has needed what you are.
And so, in this eternity
of the now and so close,
this split in the cosmic egg,
the hair of non-ambivalent seeing,
there is only you,
arms covering my head,
holding my face,
nuzzled up closely.
My cheeks
and lips
and tongue compress
voraciously hording
the taste of you
as you swing
in your measure,
a metronome priestess
whose fortunes
are told
in metered ecstasies
and sighs
of eyes whose
dark shutterings
are glimpses
into the midnight
of all being.
runningturtle87
Published 19th Aug 2012
| Edited 21st Aug 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 2
reading list entries 0
comments 7
reads 1017
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
20th Aug 2012 00:22am
Yes: what is close to you is what matters: the world is too vast to care about much less the universe. Love and life may well be in the circle of your arms. As always, runningturtle87, your speak true beyond the surface.
20th Aug 2012 00:40am
Thank you, and I could not help be wax nostalgic about your contest....innocence is such a rare commodity anymore....Thank you for listening....
21st Aug 2012 2:58am
The last stanza was fucking brilliant. For real.
I feel like the preceding stzas weren't as holy-mother-effer as the last one, it was like they were trying really hard, they were the kickstart, and the engine started towards the end.
I liked it.
Happy writing,
Betty
I feel like the preceding stzas weren't as holy-mother-effer as the last one, it was like they were trying really hard, they were the kickstart, and the engine started towards the end.
I liked it.
Happy writing,
Betty
21st Aug 2012 3:32am
Betty, you see something...help me tune it up...this is an important piece to me, a special moment. Can it be made to sing like a 12 cylinder?
21st Aug 2012 3:43am
[OPEN WITH A BANG. SOMETHING ABOUT MUSIC OR PROPHESY, SOMETHING OUT THERE MAYBE... LIKE... }
Like waltzing voodoo dolls
Or
Just like the rhythmic click of a
tarot deck being shuffled on a
dusty pianoforte,
OR
just like the chills on the back of my neck
when she clicks her nails in time with
forever,
the mind never sees
what the body knows so well
* * *
I cut things I thought were slow or cliche. Go back in with black thread and stitch in new phrases. But really pull from the crotch, OK? Fuck it. Then, pick it up, and offer to drive it home afterwards and see what it looks like the morning after.
* * *
that the wheels have turned
so the miles of wear
show the traveling travails
of a heart made so.
To wake in the world
and know that life
is no different
for the decades gone by
is to live each day
with the telescoped feelings
right here in this second
is all that there ever will be.
And so, in this eternity
of the now,
there is only you,
arms covering my head,
holding my face,
nuzzled up closely:
my cheeks
and lips
and tongue compressed
voraciously hoarding
the taste of you
as you swing
in your measure,
a metronome priestess
[ THERE IS NO LEAD IN, NO FORESHADOWING. PUT A HINT OF MUSIC IN THE OPENING.]
whose fortunes
are told
in metered ecstasies
and sighs
of eyes whose
dark shutterings
are glimpses
into the midnight
of all being.
* * *
Hope this helped?
Betty
Like waltzing voodoo dolls
Or
Just like the rhythmic click of a
tarot deck being shuffled on a
dusty pianoforte,
OR
just like the chills on the back of my neck
when she clicks her nails in time with
forever,
the mind never sees
what the body knows so well
* * *
I cut things I thought were slow or cliche. Go back in with black thread and stitch in new phrases. But really pull from the crotch, OK? Fuck it. Then, pick it up, and offer to drive it home afterwards and see what it looks like the morning after.
* * *
that the wheels have turned
so the miles of wear
show the traveling travails
of a heart made so.
To wake in the world
and know that life
is no different
for the decades gone by
is to live each day
with the telescoped feelings
right here in this second
is all that there ever will be.
And so, in this eternity
of the now,
there is only you,
arms covering my head,
holding my face,
nuzzled up closely:
my cheeks
and lips
and tongue compressed
voraciously hoarding
the taste of you
as you swing
in your measure,
a metronome priestess
[ THERE IS NO LEAD IN, NO FORESHADOWING. PUT A HINT OF MUSIC IN THE OPENING.]
whose fortunes
are told
in metered ecstasies
and sighs
of eyes whose
dark shutterings
are glimpses
into the midnight
of all being.
* * *
Hope this helped?
Betty
21st Aug 2012 4:05am
22nd Aug 2012 4:36am
BETTER!
WAY BETTER!
This was really quite lovely after you ruthlessly kicked its ass and let the writing have its way with the words.
Good job, turtle.
Happy writing,
Betty
WAY BETTER!
This was really quite lovely after you ruthlessly kicked its ass and let the writing have its way with the words.
Good job, turtle.
Happy writing,
Betty
