The world of eviscerated blueprints
Marked the postmortem beginning
Of the primordial sun.

Eyes peeled back layer upon layer
Of its dying warmth
Searching for some searing pattern
To melt into, absorb, glean
From it
Essential breath, heat, and movement.

It cooled in its death
Moment by fading moment.

She wrapped her arms around ash
And wept with regret to extinguish the core
Of its final ember; tears sunk deep
In searching.

The tiny ember felt the first tear,
Combusted into shards of a million stars
With the force of a billion ravens’ wings

ERUPTION

This volcano lies dormant in its pleasure
Sultry and sufficient
Counting measure by measure
Sentient
In leather and lace… I caress your face
With words-
Cautious
And invasive… enveloping
And persuasive…

You smile
Light in your eyes
A sign in all this darkness
Its time
Experience all the pleasures
That are to be offered
Grabbing your hand I pull you towards the bed

I cannot resist
These moments in my head, a coffer
Of fire, blazing- permitting-
Sunken by lust
Hot lava emitting from futures spread widely
Lost
Inviting

Such aches as viral as the season’s unleashing
These sacrilegious moments
Heeding the most primal desires…
I’ll wait for you
On future spirals…

When your time becomes my time
And our time
Sucks the life out of the vacuum
I’ll be here, inflamed and consumed
Like a paper puppet
Soaring down-stream, drenched and moved.

I wait and waste away
A proverbial grape
Scraping legs, knee to shin, a viral win
As far as I’m concerned.
I’ve learned far too much
About feminine sin…

The fight for this freedom
Spikes dormant anger into lovely sparks

Reconsidering the space I occupy
Doubting ingrained abilities
Unlike the newspaper boy
Flinging papers with acute accuracy; I
Could write an account of his daily endeavors,
His character and his angst, but never
His spirit.

He keeps it hidden
And I hate to pry.

Boundaries keep me at arm’s length,
Shame keeps my eyes closed
To his horrors; when I look, I cannot
Kill him. And that’s a shame.

I’ll only buy a newspaper to read
My own obituary,
With all it’s unglorified journalism of names,
Dates- just the facts, ma’am-

The chittering of coincidence has resumed.
For the love of words,
I can only wonder how this has happened.
Refusal to see and hear
And draw the lines dot-to-dot
Is an option, but
The sinister grin lying under the exterior plane
Is the master of refusal; a face
Made of stone, immortal.

The passage of minutes courses-
A thick pulsing gore of moments
Lost to the memory of those partaking.
So many moments (I’d like to say) I wish
Belonged to another but
Those words would get caught on my tongue
If ever I attempted to try.

Coincidences breathe heavily,

Where’s the worm in the bottle of tequila? Drenched and bloated. I understand that but I don’t understand why they take your sight from me. I sat on the dock for what seemed like 5 minutes but what was really 5 years. 5 years. And then 3 more. There are times when tequila sounds good, still I feel as though there is too much hype for my taste. There’s too much hype spiraling around what I see and lay down before you. It shouldn’t make any difference; what I create should be buried at birth or swallowed whole like a worm on Xanax. I don’t understand. I just don’t understand…

Mystical bodies float in and out of the minds’ eye
Unleashing an image of
Perfection
Perforation
And dilation. Who says
What the eye can see as the soul sees
As the vexation?

It will kill you- guaranteed.
It fills you with the need to
Biopsy
The initial seed bled into the weeds of the Earth.

Do you feel the cut
Ting?

There are no strings attached to the blade.
And no blade attached to the strings.
All I wanted was one string… uncut
And unfiltered. All I got
Was one string… blunt
And forever splintered.

BUT THAT’S OK…
That’s alright…

I need to write more of the story
But it's getting harder and harder to feel it.
Like waking up out of dream,
It’s getting farther away.
And it's really something that I need to let go of,
Let drift away into sleepy time memory. I thought
I could write my own closure.
I don't think I can. Creating an ending
Would mean that there really was a beginning.
Maybe I just need to believe it never began in the first place.
My mind, my soul, my heart... all tired. Some battles
Are never meant to be won in the way we'd like them to be. And some dreams... We wake from.

Dead leaves give way under my feet, the cold air
Pulls at my soft, warm lungs
As if trying to give birth to violent tyranny.

There is death here.
A frigid sunset laid to rest
On gray, heavy clouds. It neither weeps
Nor mourns. But
It breathes-
Broken gasps of profanity and helplessness.

It’s freezing here…

Stars appear
One by one
In falsely illuminated brilliance. Moonlight.
You’ve been told they are suns,
Burning
Creating light from within. Lies.
All energy is reflected.

Bitter.

Cold.
Lies at the end.

©Jen2011 12-17

His hand on my thigh, his face close to mine…
Can he feel the intensity of my sorrow…
The depth of despair his closeness inspires…
The painful void I’ll feel tomorrow?

Like a war traumatized child, I sit mute,
Eyes cloud with numb confusion,
I simply don’t know what to do
Unsure if he’s real or my latest illusion.

Does he know the fire that rages under his touch
And how many pages of words his absence spurs,
How deeply underground I fall and how much
Love I bleed out daily searching to heal this curse?

His lips touch mine, tongues caress in honest agony…