Poetry-Thing Thursday: Beauty-Suicide

In the West,
with the rest,
should’ve guessed,
but was blessed,
on the edge,
of time’s ledge.

So indeed,
we concede,
that belief,
is a leaf,
on a wind,
in a bend.

What a task,
could the mask,
upon such a face,
of such a race,
contrive to hide,
beauty-suicide?

Perhaps when,
“we were then,”
is a thing,
to seldom sing,
and recompense
becomes suspense.

We must wonder if she’ll ever come back.

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Poetry-Thing Thursday: In Your Waters

Rise, Goddess;
Queen of blood,
of temples and beauty,
of madness and love.
Rise from the ashes,
of a life you once lived,
and rise to embrace,
the world as it is.

For hidden in shadow,
of legends tall,
of myths ancient,
is a magic that calls.

So rise, Goddess,
rise to its song.
Embrace darkness.
Enlighten yourself.
Rise up to greet
the world and,
make it your muse.

For deceptions abound,
and mystery surrounds,
but you’ll tear them both down,

For you, Goddess,
are rising,
and this world
in your waters,
shall drown.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Nothing So Cutting

Sweat Glistens.
You listen–
skin-to-skin–
to my lesson.

The heart beat is true,
but one of few,
yet to be felt,
‘tween thee and you

Sex clings to air,
fingers grip hair.
So sealed are your fates,
of impassioned despair.

Stuttered breathing.
Milk-white breasts,
heaving.
Hefted in-hand,
what devious seething.

Miles away,
‘tween millions of days,
none can deny,
the animal sway.

It could be wrong,
but long heard’s the song,
of those now regretful;
“don’t worry, just do it,”
and
“cause life isn’t long.”

But the sea’s in your eyes,
and though known to defy,
even shallow oaths,
should now make you comply,
for recall there’s nothing so cutting,
as the sound of “goodbye.”

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Haven’t Started

One more last page.
One more closed book.
I’ve said it all before.
I’m never on the hook.

If only I could write,
every thought at light speed,
perhaps then the pages,
wouldn’t be worth a re-read.

Until then the seas,
and sun and moon,
the stars,
serve as my guides,
my only prison bars.

So one last page,
and one more new book.
I’m nowhere near done,
keep on the “out” look.

I haven’t even started.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Frail

Goodnight.
Dead light.
Out of sight.
Born in terrible fright.

Sleep,
to keep,
or to weep,
no matter its creep.

Undue,
life through.
the wrecking crew,
a heart forever blue.

Wheezy.
Pretext greasy.
It’s so cheesy
swingin’ in a treesy.

Protoplasm.
An orgasm.
For a chasm,
and they who has’m.

Throbbing.
Wet, sobbing.
Kneeling, head bobbing.
Swallowed it for swabbing.

Distaste.
A waste,
of true haste,
and milk-white waist.

Feel.
It’s real.
how to deal,
with iron and steel?

Legs,
locked, begs,
for the dregs
to fertilize her eggs.

Nail,
and rail,
hoisting the sail,
to follow smoke-trail,
where two become one, frail.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: The Outcast

Do you know,
what it’s like,
to go against the grain?
For every breath,
that you take,
to fight a current?
Or how it feels,
to think your life,
might all be in vain?

I have wandered,
for many days,
trapped in hate.
As many more,
have been spent,
in total despair.
For each of them,
the only spin,
a wheel of fate.

But I don’t believe,
in those,
mysterious things.
Only that,
which feels,
real in my hands.
Because I know,
from my heart,
Reality’s what freedom brings.

I couldn’t say,
just how many,
times I’ve screamed.
About as many,
as I’ve cried,
or clenched a fist.
Abuse of the heart,
is all that I knew,
or even dreamed.

But those days,
have long since passed,
with seeds un-sown.
And though I’ve grown,
will be forever known,
as The Outcast.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Just Be It Soon

Smoke curls around me,
drifts toward the window.
I take hits as I see,
it swirling in limbo.

An ember glows through darkness.
Shadows flare like caricatures on my face.
I exhale as all this,
is forced on a current from this place.

Like smoke I whirl and weave.
Through space and time.
Born to deceive.
Fight and die for the dime.

Still I sit,
at odds with fate,
ever ready for another hit,
and dinner, with death, for a date.

There is no compulsion,
greater than man’s lust.
No matter his revulsion,
at betraying those whom have his trust.

So wax philosophical, folk.
Or wane like a falling moon.
Or carry on the wind like smoke.
Whatever you be,
just be it soon.