It's like Something you can't remember.

This will be mah NaPo thread. >.>

April 1:

You miss the kiss of lips against your palm;
the sigh of breath that knows you’re alive
and beating against the cage of your body.

You’re here again, where rain is just rain
but the sounds won’t match;
A thickening noise against your eyes,
Marching into your memories with
The heat and smoke of a well treated
Pipe between the lips of your
Boy.friend.person.thing.not
Who you thought or wanted but who
You remember in the dull scents of
Morning turning into day.

But there’s a silence now that deafens
Your breath into cluttered gasps of nothing
though your mouth is yawning against your palm.

Poetry quality is apparently taking a hit, I doubt it's going to improve.

The sheets are cooling against my spine
– even the cold pushes me to blot out your warmth
with mine – and you’re not here to fix the noise
that surrounds the silence while you’re
gone. It’s a catch that bounces the twenty two;
the silence is yours, but goes when you’re here;
the ugly noise with jagged edges that rip my sleep
into shreds, owns you. When you’re not here.
But I miss you like you are touching my cheek
with the swirl of your print and whispering coffee love
in my breath. Like you never left,
I wonder where you are when the bed is empty.
And where you’re not when it’s full.

*starts typing them up*

Grey God, fattening your purse,
Do you wink at me?
There’s a glitter in your eyes,
A lick of sin against the night.
Do you play with me?
I have brighter eyes than another’s.
Let me drink you under the table
Where your sandals lie.
Are you ready for me?
Here comes the day and your purse
Is empty. Let’s play again.


---

You have yellow vines clinging
to your toes. Sky's cold as ice,
her face could wither and die in your hands,
but your feet are shod with pebbles
to keep the earth warm.
Don't leave - whispers on the wind -
but your toes are lemongrass and dew.
Honey suckle leaves blot the freckles
from your face and you are an aphid
of fear.


---

I sigh defeated; a cloud's lullaby
in stale air above the crypt of -
cot, it stagnates, sighing -
coffins of time and mourning.
He is dead. The black robes of
Christian morning steal the light
and hold heated folds open,
casket testament to cruelty.
Not God, they think, but Yaweh.
Who ruled iron and strong.
Gentle God who takes age and illness.
Despise difference - themselves for making it .
Words are blankets over a bed
no one uses, useless warmth.

Jesus has come and we’re prepared;
Christmas trees come in green and greener,
Bought from stores that have no real name
But a collection of thoughts in neon stretch.
Daddy’s got one a metre tall, but the scent
Of pine from three years past pulls on the breeze
Until my thoughts are needles in haystacks
Of reality. No one buys a tree from a lot,
Time, who has the time? None of us
Are white rabbits for the catching, we’re barely
Human in the summer heat. Same this year
As the last, though the waves of earthy air are
Heavier now. The touch of leaves is in the paper
Around presents no one asked for, but we’re
Waiting again for Santa’s bells and the light
Of morning to tell us Jesus has come.

------

Heavy and pale veined, my eyes are closed.
You come to me, a spectre of light,
And I wonder, o spectre, if you are a black
God of death and suffering. I pray in corporeal
Form and whisper epithets to your name –
Though you have none, I named them all
As if they would bring me closer to you, to life,
Like hesitant steps on a pier in darkness.
I wonder if you hear me. Still this silence
where particle temptation trickles from your closed lips.
Silt and soil thick in my throat; I breathe worms.

------

Sarongs and belly snakes tangle
along the sand, svelte bodies moving
in tandem to the waves they meet.
The edges of your vision show the stars,
Polaris glittering a little too far away
for you to touch. You smile.
The moon lights her hair and freckles,
as she twirls the swing of her hips
speaks of fine wine and vodka.
Smitten, you watch, ready to catch her
when she falls.

------

Fuck me, baby, I ain’t got nothing
To lose here, or there,
Though we’re full to bursting with
Life and love and liberty – damn
The Lady I got everything - and
I’m not needing anything else
But you by my side, I still need.
Need like there’s more to give
Then just a look toward a closed door,
Got everything to give but nothing to lose
In a climate that’s ready for no change,
Ex-change, change like the five cents
In the dollar – getting useless now.
And ‘s okay now, baby, coz I got you
by my side.

------

All we’re doing is a dance for the camera,
A shuffle and kick in the general idea
Of a cabaret – no one wants to be the polka –
And missing the tempered beat of a double step.
We’re skipping every second note and leaping
When we ought to crouch. Song’s a song until it’s
No longer thought about, then it’s noise.
But we’ll careen around corners if it’ll get us to
Practice on time, never realising it’s the full act
Of the play we didn’t learn the lines to.

------

Grey Hoodie, No Sleeves, got a grudge baby.
Mate's gotta stick a friend - no knife, no trust -
with the flat of his hand against the back.
Pop-Girl, flicked fingers with slicked hair, waiting,
ignoring, pouting. Grey Hoodie, Grey Hoodie,
Where is your girl tonight?
No Sleeves pushing to the top, one Hat at a time.
Red, Blue, Black, gotta be top bitch.
Do you know what time it is?
And in the corner Grey Hoodie waits,
Hand on his girl, his friend, juggling.
That’s an itch you gotta scratch,
Grey Hoodie, Black Hat, only a matter of time.
No Sleeves, oh No Sleeves.
Do you know what time it is?

Penguin! I had no idea you were such an awesome poet :O These are lovely.

Thanks Dolores. ^^

There's a Click in the Chat,
and I know it will be all right.
A solid waking and sleeping
that culminates in her presence.
I am inbetween the leagues of hell,
waiting for her to appear.
She is my centre, my heart, my soul.
I am a traveller to her shelter,
and she guides me to safety,
even now. I wait.


-----

Roro is like a lollipop in winter,
stuck on the tip of your tongue,
waiting for enough heat to set
her free. She's got heat rising from
her toes, and a colour running through
her eyes. Oh sweet, oh delicacy,
Roro takes the world divine,
making whole the iced burroughs
of melting greenery. Until she
is spring.

I am dying with the provisio
that my body look in death
as in life; sullen and grotesque
in its humanity, without the seeds
of regret and revulsion that
tender the sides and souls
that slip into hell’s embrace,
I will be lost in the darkening
surge of desire against sin.
Pleasure pushed to limits
it cannot handle; heaven in the grasp
of a colloquial hell. Welcome endings
as tarnished beginnings and die,
marked until the slow decay of sight
and existence, for this is my end.

Roses are red, violets are blue,
cliche sinks into my skin like thorns on a vine,
Where once was beauty lies the sickly pallor
of dying scent, rich with the crushed petals
of flowers whose names are forgotten;
Latin and French delicacies that have no
common form. Thistles make way for
roses red, lending leaves to their scattered
forms. And I lie, defeated, by sweet flora
unforgiving.

My oh my, you've been busy little Penguin....

I'm glad to see you dutifully churning out poetry Despite being restricted with work and school, you're still trying to meet the challenge- more than many others are at this point!

I'm still amazed by your command of words, forming them into exactly the creatures they need to become to convey your feelings and your thoughts.

Someday, I'll walk in to a bookstore, and see your poetry staring back at me.

I can only hope we stay on speaking terms long enough that you wouldn't begrudge me your autograph.

A few more to go, right? Well, keep on keepin' on.

*hugs* and

There is some really great, yummy stuff in here, Pengu. Will return with more constructive comments.



Ta,
Cal.