[x]

7.34mmA simple measurement
can make a man
lose himself; a blurring, no more
than a grainy smudge

a scant 7.34mm long
this rice-grain, seven weeks old
with one hundred and twenty nine
heartbeats per minute

—all this, from a mere sesame-seed of a heart

The Thin HoursI.

Those of us here in this skeleton time,
this time of the year when the nights are thin
and dark, and dark with anxiety, peeling
as layers of an oyster shell, brittle and effaced
and somehow iridescent.
When the bell tolls out the time the sound is thin
and reaches into fractured air and softly
seeks the spaces between the atoms and
misses the vital Os and CO2s in a lasting,
failed pinball. The bell sound dies in
some space between midnight and thereafter,
and each tock tock of slipping cogs is
a repeat and not a moving on.
The air is filled with each dull sound,
each tock a repeat and a repeat again. And the
slip betwee

ConfessionLips met in clumsy haiku,
against each other, pressed,
the way the earth touches the sky,
soft and whimsy as the dusk.

Tongues painted passion-
          sunset colors,
          halcyon atmosphere, infused,
-upon every awaiting space offered.

Metaphors dotted the hallows of limbs and tasted like the seasons-
          a bursting and vibrant spring,
          a hot and passionate summer,

l'hiver.(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
the grand church of dizzying space - )

and the trees are yellowed in cowardice, raking the sky
to the ground and around and around.

listen to your organs: the almost grand piano of the
churches i'd never attend.

and never mistake the courage of the sky for the cowardice
of the ground. never frown, never frown.

listen to your palms: the salty swing of the old snow
burning up on silk and splendor.

and visit the dying snow birds in their graves of the
ground, and they drown and drown.

(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
a grand church of dizzying space w

31:12N, 121:30Emy Dear i just noticed
my balcony is shaped
like wings

and the wind is billowing
the moon up, up to-night
in her dusty purple garb

and i think
no Dear i do not want
to leave here: where men

build bridges over oceans
and live inside of mountains
like river dragons

where the sun shines
not at all at noon but gleams
like an orange at sundown

where the moon walks home
surefooted to where my neck
cannot crane

to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blue
china bowl):


     afternoon's slit of sun slips
     between thick curtains
     & woos you to ripeness.

     it chooses you
     not for flecks of honey-russet
     held low in your seam of shadows,
     nor your symmetry & swell;
     but because

     you slink in shade, sink
     behind green pear & clementine

     & cannot hide
     from each spear of light
     that ricochets
     through--

even now
     nested warm
     against these lips

     even now:
     a tea-stain stone
     hugging close
     the trashbin floor.

petrichorNiobe weeps.

gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.

some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.

listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.

Niobe weeps.

The Death of VenusIf there lived in the world a man
as rugged and as strong as I,
who could forbear with me yet go against,
who took to the black woods and the silver hills
mostly unafraid--
who savored salt and the lay of fur
with fingertips of dirt and weather,
whose lips rolled words like smoke, like fog-
I would creep into his arms in the prologue of the night,
air sweet with the scent of new-cut hay,
alive with the nightjar's call.

the hanged manThis little red book you call the human body:
take it up and shake it. Shake the flaking pages
out of it, shake it from endpaper to endpaper
until the last of the phrases are gone; shake it
until it's aching and empty, the soul of a bird.

I will give you new words.

leavetakingi.
the world is brighter where
dregs of strangers' revels remain --
i keep this half-light for my own.

ii.
i'll stay until the wind sighs a scotch-and-smoke
cliché, til the Muscadet's slipped from the lip
of my wayward
hello.(i know you're there before you do.)
iii.
your night is told in
patchouli-pulse wanders; mine,
in whorls of liqueur-breath. come
close and i'll find the warp
through the weft, the trails telling tales
in synaesthesia --
Platinum Blonde's been 'round and gone.

iv.
(-- closer, find syllables strewn
in an exhale's wake; stolen from my throat-
ful of careless farewells, spin and sway

Birth of PoetryI tangled my fingers in the curls of the universe,
pulled. The earth fell out: round, warm, spinning.

Awkward and shy, she wondered how she got here; how
a rock that got wet and grew moss could be significant.

So I scooped her up in my fingers, breathed her scent:

(lilies and oceans and ozone and forests and fish and birds
and whales and rain and the empty elegance in wolf howls)

death and life. I found chaos
and knew beauty.

how lilies weepobstacles
are a kind of faith,
bleeding through
intention
as if through some
amorphous skin,
red silk,
a bruised clock
covered in
veins and cloaked
with skin,
timed to burst.

i am nothing
if i am not a dream
of yours, waking
from the geometric light
of my window
into a shimmering cup,
poured full of your words
my hips dripping
their tiny mechanisms,
whirring impatiently
my mouth
made raw,
swirling in incense,
growing new teeth,
finding ulcers
to bleed through.
i drip and cough
and sleep and bleed
and hope
that i am strong enough
for someone like you.

i am taped
and bandaged
and covered up

Own SkinI bought myself a Moleskine
to emulate Picasso, Hemingway
was never seen without his
in canal-side cafes, Spanish bull rings.
My fingers grease its ebon spine
over and over in tactile search
for some hidden leak of creative essence

I found Dante's house
down an old narrow street
alongside a crowd of German tourists
I did not enter only stared
at his stones, the exterior.

The hotel room is filled
with the buzz of the alleyway below,
restaurant kitchens' backdoors opening
for cooks, waitstaff, rubbish bags and oaths,
effusive shoppers admiring new pashmina
scarves haggled from vendors
in the adjacent market square.

I close t

Old hauntsNumb fingers fumble at coppers
and a dodgy purple lighter which is unfit for purpose.

Giant splodges of stars
as if God - in a frolic of youthful exuberance –
went wild with a paintbrush.

Granite delicately held by shape and contour alone.
Slotted together: a melee of ankles, hips, spontaneous larynx.

Careless hopes, dreams wide, menthol cigarettes.
Thoughts all quiet.

Awake For The SunriseI despise every solemn sunrise spent without you,
the pink flesh of sunburned skies peeling away
and resting in my bloodshot eyes that say
I will cry before it rains and the sun
will always be more bright than our future.

But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try,
because the moon loves the stars enough
to be with them at least once a day.

The way rain clouds ploughed their way
into yesterday and tomorrow reminds me
of the time I asked why you were crying
and you told me "Today won't last forever."

So my heart broke
like it had no other options;
a water-filled jar being frozen
and there just wasn't enough space
left in my chest

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Redthis is the way we are set loose:
like bulls released from their pens -
all anger and bucking fear,
unaware that we have thrown away
the most harmless annoyance

& quivering, we await
the wrath of realized
mistakes - the end
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A Tale of Two Buttocks (Community Project Results)A Tale of Two Buttocks:

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It always came down to choices, and if Anna Beth had chosen to squish herself into the half a seat not occupied by the left buttock of the rotund woman in front of her, she would not be in this situation. Anna's eyes darted around the train's interior as the hooded man behind her shoved the knife deeper into her back. He twisted the knife screaming insanely "Welcome to hell - you whore," wiping away the blood that splashed back into his forehead. Anna Beth was grateful her attacker had no i

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Desolate

by `LiliWrites, Mar 3, 2011, 4:37:22 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

if you are parched tonight,
the pale of your lips cracked
with thirst for that which
will not claim you;

if you hunger -
the deep and shallow collapsing
into slivered vibrations;

if blindness rejects you, says
no, watch now.
this is the way of it;

if you are breathing the world
into cinders, inhaling each poison
on purpose, striving
toward an apocalypse
because that is chaos
we can categorize,

then you may understand.

Desolateby `LiliWrites

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

©2011-2013 `LiliWrites

I found a title that fits it.

DD!

Thank you ^lightningmonkey and ~jswebb! I simply do not have time to thank everyone for their individual favorites, but I do appreciate them. And I will respond to all comments.

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-01-21

I have received many suggestions for =Kneeling-Glory's work, and while I recommend you give her entire gallery a look, I've chosen to feature Desolate, a small, honest moment of a poem. ( Suggested by ~jswebb and Featured by $wreckling )

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~craazhy Dec 13, 2012 Professional Writer

There is no sound, yet this piece does echo.

Reply

`LiliWrites Dec 15, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you.

Reply

*b1gfan Nov 12, 2012 Student Writer

inhaling poison on purpose...that's an awe inspiring thought and a wonderful phrase

Reply

`LiliWrites Nov 30, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Nice to see you around!

Thanks for the comment. How have you been?

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`jade-pandora Nov 10, 2012

Your wonderful words are featured here: [link]

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`LiliWrites Nov 10, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

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`jade-pandora Nov 12, 2012

Reply

Mood: Love

=CrematedMan Aug 2, 2012 Student Writer

The first stanza.

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`LiliWrites Aug 13, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

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`HaveTales-WillTell Mar 3, 2012 Professional Writer

I am still stumbling and fumbling my way through my deviation backlog. Congrats on this; it's deserved.

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