Galerius' lil boat of rainbows

retelling of my poem above - by Persephoneia

There is nakedness in death and dying.

This is what I told her the day I showed her to play. Shoulder to smolders, Ragnarok came and went today. "I teach well, I am very fast. You know - elephants shredded their faces for your touch; helot gray bodies rest at the sea's base as lifeless ivory stares up." They say that thumbs and indexes upon one another are burdened, a glossy print in mist mirrors glassed up like a dome against the tint of mulish dawn. With muslin wrapped around her arm, she'd fawn over the keys strewn anchors against deep wood, the giggling whistling of falling bombs and breath sucking gobbed ink against cardboard while waiting to dry.

"It's like... you hear children crying under the forge.
Naked forms stored in the patterns of iron and smelter sweating
against the sores in the meat of my palms. There's beauty in birth and crying
- the blood! The blood is our clothing and sewn to this flesh
against your forearm like roving rivers searching for the bosom, a milky way out; the piano is only a serpent biting its tail because it maybe looked like a fruit, and have I told you you're beautiful?"

Once heard that pressing hands together was blasphemy,
farther than the strained muscles on a Sistine
hegemony. We compared hues, seething dark on a paler
swoon - scars too, bite marks from
bullets and the rage of Adam against a
mortal Sodom that covered with not
blankets but amber feathers and ash,

lifting her fingers like eggs cracked
in horse breath, brackish and sliced
onions against a
pockmarked sash shielding the
embarrassment of a little sky, ripped with a
frantic flashlight as torn clothing
stripped down. Blizzards of dust -
that, I told her I can draw. All I need is
scissors and a shred of skin (crawl in the
dirt of Venus and bathroom stalls) and all else
falls within like a gaping hole - surprised -
within two starry eyes and the lips of the
despised; a magician's fingers
can too look like a trick, soothing and releasing and
all that smooth jazz as I will sprint
STAGGER!
through her hair,
plucking
dove feathers from a
sweaty fist in a grip
as tight as a tourniquet on a
desperately dancing wrist

and she will not see the haze

because I am very quick.

Matter Matters- Galerius



With the flick of a lazy wrist, we begin
in the midst of music and wind, howling chorus ripping into
existence like a clap of harmony bent across a note, and each sounds seems
to somehow find one another amidst a bursting storm pressing
tentative fingers to an insomniac god's temples,
dreams pouring from his apneaic mouth like a pulsing chant;
molten tongues and gold in the midst
of dark write a story of existence, of birthing
constellations and slow backsmithing
into atoms, into life, breathing shallow on
the doorstep, slipping modesty to the desperation of poverty:

there is nakedness in birth and crying
under the forge, sparks flying from dusty, rusty, blackened hands
into open eyes and long, slow first breaths-- anticipation burns in
the meteors and comets, and the constellations hush, naieve in
the workings of a god and they will spin to their feet, surprised when life will finally rise,

at the bidding of fortissimo, raising broken hands
to the --tempest-- swell-- crescendo--; the instrument almost
snaps under the enthusiasm of cosmos, but the sap of ash
and sulfur keeps the grain of wood under a broken
bow and life screeches this way and that with a jerking harmony, before falling
into a desperate uniformity, guilt spoke (let all else live too)

but the fires burn in oily microbial waters
and Ragnarok bursts forth from heavy leagues and
the mutterings of fallen star-rocks are finally
let to air, falling into a rejection of life like
newborn ancients and snakes biting their tails,
unravelling scales and churning venom--

but it heals with amber feathers and ash,
salves for old wounds and life burdens itself
with existence when you spread
your arms, readying for the dark and
the death and the three days
that the world lives without a light, keeping us
cold in anticipation, because there's a storm coming,
there are constellations to be drawn,
there is music on the wind.

Galerius: I rewrote it, but didn't do you much justice.

I had my third chat with death last night
and cigarette smoke curled against my skin -
and eyes.

Chicago is the best place to do this,
the sky always looks the same.
and he'd point out under which part of the sky
he'd pierced hearts and torn holes
and pried his fingers
to reveal the curves of Polaris

and for one moment
I could only see the bottom of my glass
and the way fumes lingered on my lips.
I forget what death looks like every time,
because when I inhale the stars
everything tastes like something
I lost in those Chicago bars,
smoking drinking messes
before I could even think about finding it.

Battlesphere - by Lil_Pau

It is said "When Sol awakens and
gets out of bed, he'll torch his
head and hair in a tangled mess of flame
and scars, he will share illness with the lair
of peace, murmuring health". Smiles are now
faces making faces in the spaces inside the scars;
coronas dilating like a pupil blowing away the dust
of the forbidden books and forming the Earth -
that I may turn in one hundred and

eighty degrees and be the same
hundred and eighty degrees

that I may burn with 100
grimaces, one for each day; one to flay Gaia
her her pathetic scars off the plains and one to
close christened eyes, Socrates blowing wind blind.
Sunspots erupt in smiles, not snarls,
bedding with sickness and good grace and false charm.
And when trumpets sound, neck Sol's head around
the awful judgement of a supernova ground into the ground
he will douse with oceans from my palm this fire atop the storm
atop his head -
wretching forever and ever and ever in bed.

Chamoile - Persephoneia

Too much honey again -
the golden liquid swirls in clumps, and
a little drips down the edge. I sigh
and take a sip, too hot and overly sweet -
the chamoile which should have calmed me
burns my tongue and lips
and makes me less at ease.
Still I do not waste, and I finish it obediently.

I see where you used to sit -
the rocking chair, wood chocolate-colored
with the teal pillow I made crocheted for you
for Christmas last year.
It illuminates the room devoid of light
Somehow I sense that it needs you, wants you,
does not understand that you will ever sit there again.
Sunlight sheds into the room
I feel the tinge of warmth that only lasts a minute
before it recedes back -
I muster strength to get up and close the curtains
for I'd like to be alone.

And when I finish my tea,
the honey-stained taste cracked to my lips,
and my tongue calls for water to sooth the burns
I can not help but think that you had the sense
not to do what I did.
I must be lonely,
because it seems hard to comprehend
that you will never be beside me again.

Shedding a tear in the darkness
I get up to serve myself another cup.
Hoping it will have the reverse effect,
I only pour a droplet of honey.

Let There Be Blight - Galerius (deleted, so no link, but in spoiler)

In Tribute to Harry Crosby: The Mad Queen's Forever Fever - Hypocrit


.

Your writing is so radiant,it touches every facade of a reader's emotions,the wordplay paints a portrait of open mindedness.GREAT WRITING B!

At Last - by errtu2

"The French team gave the Olympic salute, the thousands of Germans mistook it for the Nazi salute and they roared their approval..."
Fall back son. Lost son. An F son. Good Game. The Fatherland sent you to the front-lines, you tried.
the day is over, the game is over, go to bed. Don't pass go. Do not collect insurance. You won't need it.
dog-bombs paint a pretty picture of the bench, watch people toss them like apples, keep you away for days.
to the victor belongs the spoils, tastes like arsenic. Murder would be justice. War is peace though.
a letter. letters. names. back of uniforms. a field of names on uniforms. graves for miles eyes can't reach.
crowd cheering the graves, watch them rush the field. "rush the field!" "crush his skull!" "fetal position!"
cheering boom goes the dynamite, the projects finally fall; social experiment 55 A sub-sect Xi: failure
and how many families are cold tonight while the winning team captain fucks his girlfriend's ass?
god-fearing, amen, ave maria, amen, ave maria...Ad infinitum, Thomas, Ad infinitum!
conjoined the losers are to the winners, slayed in each resurrection, a foil of a life.
to again, tastes like arsenic, "fuck Hitler slipped some cyanide, we'll never beat him in the 100k!"
blood on dog bombs falling. kissing dog-tags across fields over unending Europe, euro style basketball courts.
and the final quarter is at hand, the 6th and 13th man are some funky shit superstition, but they're dead.
tears, are dry on your face son. No tears. You're a man. Cyanide. Taste it like a man. No girlfriend for you.
children are products fighting fantasies of our fairy tales. Bless them, Bless victory, Chuckie Cheese now!
buried your own son, buried him with your daughter after the miscarriage. But the victory was good.
under the snow, tears linger, bones still crack. a city of men yearning for home, buried in a field.
dust
"all quiet on the western front...now back to you Walter with the channel 4 weather report"

The Stranger is Watching - by PadrePio

The guide to following yourself!
A shadow entrenched is just the dark
and learns to fly and play his part;
gone one moment, there the next.
Lest she be roughshod with torment,
the fury of swollen index to hammer
(inanimate, curved frown fascimile of
the shy smiles), touch her shoulder. Grab
the corners of the room, twisted like a tapestry
of memories and heat it till it melts on
her back, wax. It will surely stick. If a knife
is just an object and you are just the dark,
it follows that I can start what blood had
dried to under the yawning
glare
of stars, among the crowds watching. Wrap
her embrace around your naked
bone, rub the scalp where eyes
should have been, hone the blade as a
surgical stone - "Ma'am I have no face so
the next best thing is to cut me a nose".

(If only you were) Mine - by popatemyheart1994

A hermit lives on the bottom of the cliff.

Sometimes he sends me gifts of regolith
and quartz, finished with polish and sifted from
within.

But other times,
he will send me letters instead, shaking
hands making sweet sweat with the pen
as he scribbles mad stories of ashes and men;
the pouches still run red with lung
muscle that wraps around
his dreams in bed, whispering stories
of lovers holding hands like twisting
trees dead from exhaustion against a
northerly wind, but shewn oak cracked
like glass within. Molten. It spins in
the river that runs through the course,
streaks glowing mercury that makes
horses bow, knees buckling as
they hear-

"She set me free, she set me free,
these teeth remain, but eyes
blinded by wonderful lies -
'live, for I will die' - shiver
and fry against the backdrop
of a sun split like an egg down
the middle.

And I thought to myself,
who the hell will guide her
clay to the highlands of the moon?
Spread like granite poplar
pockmarks on the wearied head
of the Collector, it is a very
long ways away.

I cut out my
throat on canyon's edge
and kidneys and thighs and ears
from the ledge till only heart
remained, fully fleshed, lump
of coal heated by midmorning
breath from the east. We feast
on air tonight and you will
remember our deeds by the specks
of lips within the chalk and drift,
the crumbled quartz and regolith - "

Hush - by Jennafina

Saturday and the night before
we predict our death, store tablets for aches
safely in bathroom walls where no
one will erase them, stench of breaths
on the sink windows spelling words backwards.
We toke on the alley floors, dumpsters
guarding us with tin shoulders and heads
bent in guilt and the bashing of a brick
on the skull of a west side crip. We're propped up
against the doors of Chicago bars as I
try to find the sky punctured by planes, fingers
running through the fog overhead as they dye
the sky gray. Alpha Centauri blows the wind back
- he's playing a game, scoring every
time the fume waters my eyes and makes me
blind for a second, crawl a little
nearer to Polaris. I am the vision, I am the seer
and I prophecize we will all be here in a year;
Vision obscured but
for the brights burned
like brands behind sleepy eyelids.

I think the stars inhale too, and smoke
something fierce.

that soft classic music - by Yuriiko and MilknCookies

A drop clutches onto the windshield, drained,
skinny blotch on the pane like a bug's memory
fading fast. Handel's on 94.4, like Mama used
to say - the songs that you sing when you're running away.
"Don't worry."
Pained, the look on her face the same as
when I was late to stage and burned in the altar
for an hour, flames clutching onto the skin -
tongue ripped and asked to spit lines like a poet to
a crowd that screamed for peace. "We'll take the road
higher and higher, as we soar like torches", and my
neck wrings like an asphalt cracked veins arched, broken
back, wedding rings and promises whispered from
one ear to nowhere. I watch the patter like dampen cheeks
on pavement, locks of hair and necklaces spiking the road like alchohol
murming to a trucker on memory lane-

Gabriel is made
of rain I am a funny thing sprawled
an animal
to the roast I am the
curtain closing the tamed
mare on the water's
brink parched
but drowning slow to sink
moths of light covering me with kisses to the swell of the edges
and if mama used to call every note on the piano an angel then
why do I hear the music of blood, the sound of heartbeat(en up)
to the snort of the drums

94.4 churning like milk
beyond my ears, piano keys so
slick with buttered tears