everything is dead she said why did the sun go where has it gone
heavy heads and swollen necks
carpals torn and ribs are wrecked
banged against the rocks and bones
found the place where sunshine goes
tell me a story i whispered and i was cold
i hid behind the dead trees with the beaten brambles
and broke them
wait you said dont you said and i asked why not
because i died you said i died and resurrected but not quite the right way
your eyes were sad as you took the broken bramble and i saw the salty seas and white waves crashing
i saw the skin still hanging baggy from your bones and eyes like burning coals
and i wept
Filed under: Poetry
Tie me down and burn down the room.
Because – as long as my spirit is released from the dark, my world will carry.
There is a center of terror and inspiration that now runs in my blood.
What does is matter how the seeker of souls captures mine?
After all, every living creature dies alone.
Out, out of my head and up to the planetary divide of tangible and universal.
Life still remains in the places my heart has touched -
The mountain.
There is a lot of darkness clouding the high altitude of my dwelling.
It is a constant fever that paralyzes the body and eludes the mind
Day after night.
And so the hazy life I fail to perceive knocks my heart into the mighty seas,
Down, dripping, broken.
I am forgotten at the bottom of the trenches,
Nothing to misconceive or dream about.
Because what’s the point of climbing back up?
Already burned and ashed, cut and raw,
Who wants to watch you crash and shatter?
But in the end, I have closed my eyes, and remember,
Every living creature dies alone.
I am released from this mad world.
Look, I know this was really only written as an emotional release, but I am absolutely in love with it. I find so much solace in it, funny as that may seem. (And on that note, you should read Steppenwolf. I think you will relate to it quite well.)
There are certain things about this that really draw me to it. Things like “my world will carry” and “how the seeker of souls captures mine”, things like “planetary divide” (beautiful wording, really) and “mighty seas”. You have touched me, Mary, in a very deep place. Honestly this is one of my favorites of your written works. I’m going to save it on my computer right now.
If you come up to Columbus, we should discuss your poetry over coffee or tea. Things like this deserve a face-to-face interpretation.
P.S. I posted this on my blog, but I credited you and linked to it. Just tell me if you’d rather I took it down.
“Thy bones doth lie beneath forsaken Earth”
Thy Bones doth lie beneath forsaken Earth
while cobwebs form upon thy sullen Tomb.
This beauty which the sun condemns perverse
is artistry conceived in darkened Womb.
Thy Bones drink from the shadows dark and dank,
and poison thou producest from this mead.
Its putrid odor reeks so foul and rank—
Thou hast a taste of Erebus received.
Thou li’st beholden to thy Blackened Grave,
thy Sepulcher immured by dolor here.
And to the ghouls thy Bones remain enslaved—
Perdition hath compelled thee to stay near.
Of Pulchritude Disturbed, tongues doth unfold:
this Death of which thy Bones hath doth foretold.
February19th, 2010
http://www.fictionpress.com/u/402647/bratja
© kokirinoko.wordpress.com, fictionpress.com/u/402647/bratja
6/26/10 – 6/27/10, 7/23/10
The stars were dripping slowly or something, and I wanted to taste them on my tongue, but the trees were greedy that night and stole them from me. And though the stars kept dripping the whole night through, the trees would have more than their fill or their fill was never full, so I stood with emptying eyes and only watched, still and silent.
That night the bones came out with baggy eyes, and I wanted to pour the dripping stars there, but the bones were too scared and the trees too thirsty, so the bones’ eyes remained empty.
And when he touched me with his long boney finger or his long finger bone, I listened.
You are me, he spoke, but I was not him.
I told him so.
He spoke, You wonder why I am lonely, child. I am you. But you do not realize that when we are separated, I am separated. The branch that cracked and fell to the ground withers because it is alone and lonely, not because it is detached.
“Oh,” I said, and I had no speak, only words.
He touched me again but I could not feel him because my eyes were too empty, and the stars were still dripping but I could not see them because the sky was too dark.
“Where are they?” I asked because the stars were hidden from me. “Why aren’t they here?” and my words were so loud that the world was indented.
I was cold in my belly. My eyes were emptying.
“I need warmth!” I cried.
Then you can have it, he spoke to me with his wordless speak, then you can have it.
But I could not find it and desperately I told him so.
He spoke, Look behind you to look forward. Look behind you but do not go behind you. Then you will find for what it is that you are looking.
My eyes searched behind me but they could not see, and then he was gone, and I was alone.
There would come a time when I would speak, creating feeling, carving the smoldering embers where my eyes once were, now deserted—
but now was not that time.
The land where we still laugh and wish
is filled with many balloons of all colors,
shapes, and sizes, and I make sure that my shoes
are tied tight so when I grab onto one
of these magnificent, inflated orbs
my shoes will not fall from my feet.
I tie a ribbon the foolish way, then glue it
to the balloon of my choice (a large,
bumbling thing with purple polka dots
and orange string) so that it can recognize me,
and I it, and then we sail away, laughing
over the forgotten skies as we fly,
soaring over children’s heads that
move like little ants on a summer sidewalk
as their greedy hands grab for
the ninety-nine cent tootsie pops
shamelessly on display in the store’s
display-case window. I hold on tighter
to my large-bumbling-purple-polka-dotted
balloon, (the one with the silly orange
string), and laugh at the delicious fragility
of this tragedy.
May 3rd, 2010
© kokirinoko.wordpress.com
Prompt from Creativewritingprompts.com, prompt number 151.
