[x]

So maybe there are too many flowers here
on the ground, and in the cotton;
weaving like lace through red dirt flesh.
Sun threatens necks and marinates eyes;
as balsa-spun bones tell laconic tales of age,
creaking and groaning like old southern mansions.
Mint juleps and almonds and peaches doze here,
and Eve has her fingers stuck down Eden's throat,
splashing sin and decadent fruits all over the city.
Our voices are slow and warping in the heat,
rising like egg steam off the sidewalks.
Honeysuckle flowers bloom with tarot cards
and suffocate the air with a drowsy nectar.
Stars are made to be read
nights are made to be wakened-
o

Farmers' MarketFarmers' Market

At daybreak, we make our aching bodies rise,
caffeinate, survey the still pink-patched sky,
pray for a dry day. Once loaded, we truck

bushels of produce, potted plants, sawhorse
and board tables, stabilize crates of pie
between bins and strawberry boxes, drive
down the mountain, into town and set up

the fruits of our labors, hoping neighbors
and weekenders alike will buy, eyeing
vendors wares, wishing there was cash to spare.
Down-street, a bow begins to sweep the strings

softly, bringing bed-headed children out
to watch the band set up. An old pup roves
over to the barbeque cart, gambols
off when the butcher

WintersWinters

A common scene, Canadian geese necking
south, arrowing against the wind.
Every winter it happens but this winter
I see one, the leader, produce a rolling fold
in his wings, and he’s slipped to the tail of the group.

Soon enough we took the sky, we built planes, and their shadows
swallowed birds, whose shadows crossed fences
and rested in the black, broken feathers
of trees, their wise eyes staring.

Umbrella Villanelle

I wish, somehow, you'd taken the umbrella
It's close again; the rain is warm and sweet
And if you had, the coffee would taste better

I know it wouldn't hold against the weather
in New Orleans - the hurricanes and heat
but I wish, somehow, you'd taken the umbrella

It couldn't shield you, like some space defender,
from attack ships, when the game decides to cheat
Still, if you had, the coffee would taste better

You're bound for more frontiers than Barbarella
And though you're cannier, more fun, more fleet
I really wish you'd taken the umbrella

Just taken it, with one swift, sanguine gesture
Like I take your legs sometimes, petite

RoommatesIt’s really not the poltergeist I mind-
it intriguing to see one’s energy
bouncing like ball lightning from wall to wall
in an encapsulate cubiculum of space.
Analytically, it’s entertaining,
after all the debunking, EEG,
and other skeptic quests are satisfied
and you master the not-looking-looking.

I see what I see; it’s easy for me-
it takes no more thought than it does to blink.
It’s never been another way, although
no two people ever see the same thing.
A faceted phenomenon, for sure.
The knocks and moving things amuses me
it’s never frightening as a general rule
but something’s not quit

and we found...we love like we sin, terrified and breathless.

we are tea-at-midnight girls, naming constellations
that don't exist after lost tourists we meet on the
street, reminding our freckle covered shoulders
that even beautiful things can be made ordinary.

we are broken fingers and half-closed eyelids and a
penchant for mischief. we are ribbon skin and frantic
desires and incandescent hope. we are a voice spilling
secrets to falling leaves diving after their arachnid brothers,

mimicking the millions before us who were
judged unfairly, unjustly but all too correctly.

we whisper promises to dandelions because they do not
know how to hold gru

a jaw of glassyou are made of glass, lit with fireflies and
firemen and fireflowers. i can see the heat
tremble like smoke to the black sky as you
tap on your jaw.

pearls slide to the cherry pits of your stomach,
tickled with daisies and ipecac syrup to
gut you like an oyster.
hollow boy, save the glow caught between
your transient, transparent bones- i can see
the snakes in your stomach writhing, pulled
taut and shelled like intestines, wrought like
a chain necklace about your throat.

you are gauze-between-
my-fingers-and-gauze-between-my-fingers,
and-gauze-between-my-fingers, and-gauze-
oh, like a butterfly locked inside its chrysalis,

leitmotif(I will never forgive Millais for painting Ophelia calm in the water. My cousin Noah died shoeless and struggling under a lonely man’s hands, his eyes full of rain runoff. Real people don’t sink as pretty as oil on canvas: Noah was four feet five on the autopsy slab, no flowers, no frames. I am ruled by the aesthetic, but I would embrace his every imperfection if it meant having him back. This clumsy dilettante still loves Noah with the scabs on his shins, sitting sloppy at Sam’s recitals in sneakers and shorts. Give me the asymmetry of his eyelashes. For the fir

the ocean is pollutedthe ocean is polluted
and our children will be throat down baptized
in its weightless mausoleum choke.

staring at the rising tide
swallowing the shore,
swallowing the rivers,
man sees himself reflected across the cerulean surface,
remembers the tyrants past,
given power so surging
(the helpless destroyers),
sees the giant lumbering to transplant him
in an ecosystem generated for the mermen,
the chemically inflated
above the land where
there is only hunger and cold,
the leftover lineage
of an animal that slit its own tongue
and drank its belly full,
desperate for the memory of blood.

The day the leopards diedAlarm clock - check!
The city humdrum - check!
The noisy guy upstairs - check!
The sound of running water - check!
The angry woman on the phone - check!
The furtive cat legions, stray, spoiled - check!
The wars on TV, clamorous, onerous, futile - check!
The shadowy stalkers returning to their hideouts - check!
The mother, worrying about offspring whereabouts - check!
The birds - a farrago of doves, gulls, sparrows, crows - check!
The dogs - spaniels, Great Danes, retrievers, pomeranians - check!
The plumber, wanting money for that job he never completed - check!

The bugs, the critters, the noises behind the walls, the eyes in your

because rain is meant for...if living were a shirt,
you'd be size large

and i would be an
extra-small,
strangled by my own
attire,
because i spend my time
walking downtown
feeling smaller
and smaller
every
day.

if ever i had
the chance to hear
ten thousand abbey-monks
singing in perfect harmony,
i would still be stubborn enough
to say you
are more divine.

you are the start,
the in-between,
and the ever-after
of the most destructive
and beautiful storms
to grace the surface of my world;
every time you walk away
you leave behind

everything, everything,
all the evidence
that it will surely
rain again.

but i do not deserve
to dance in such

hunchback whales.mabe is nine, going on thirty-three.

she tells her mother i hate the way the sun and the moon don't share the sky equally, and i wish mister tompkin could still use his legs and if i could do anything it would be to read a hundred books at record speed and to stop fidgeting like you ask, and also, i'd pet a hunchback whale just once.

mabe's mother, who is busy cooking supper, asks mabe if she is keeping an eye on the twins. tells mabe to help them wash their little hands and to wash her own, too.

mabe's mother tells mabe to also set the table and to let the dog out and to stir the potatoes, please.

mabe stirs the potatoes then

for the drunksthere's a sense
of wealth
in me,

not one
that comes
from checking
bank statements,

or balancing
a check book,

but more
or less
a contrast
to the
spiritual
bankruptcy
of my
past,

I remember
sitting filthy
in self pity

on the stairs
of a church,

drinking beer

hotter
than
piss

from a
dirty
styrofoam
cup

                 fresh
                     from the

I noticed a ring on my finger

I

Swallow bird feathers raw
like empty caricatures
of unfilled bodies. Watch
the swallows streak across
blackwater puddles
and gulls dip white wings
in oily waves.

Swallow the sea-salt
and riptide currents and bones.

II

The distance between the beach
and city-linoleum kitchen: five feet.
Magazine on counter, cabinet
against the knee, neck and head
strung from shoulders.

Steps from the door; your lilac lips.

III

You are my cat, my Schrödinger experiment,
my nihilistic vice and wry intoxication.
You hear me - a patter of words and a look.

come

closer

cat.

if the woman    .

        If the woman is a stone
        bury her in blue water,
        If the woman is a knife
        rub her til she's sharp.

His voice is a rattle at the bottom of a tin cup.
His arms are spurs, and rusted
where metal pinches leather.

He shakes like a drum in firelight
with the last fist still fresh on his back:

        ama sa'ni, she grow curved low like a horseshoe,
      &

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What posses someone to get...What possesses someone to get Myra Hindley and Ian Brady portrait tattoos

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And how nice that Brady gets a look in!
So often Hindley's Helga 'do, bleached
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Let's not forget who made her
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to any carbonara; until
you pass out, it sits
gently on your stomach
like a bird.

Saving pepper, saving pepper,
lace your meals with something sharper

The tincture in the coffee-coloured bottle
smells of beer. You'll dream
of taverns like taverns should be,
as your nerves knot,
and what begins as a shiver
shatters you.

Saving pepper, saving pepper,
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These leaves sprung
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Mint's twin to look at, zesty
on the nose. They'll hit
your bloodstream like highwaymen,
ransack the oxygen
and be gone again
before you can draw more.

Saving pepper, sav

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In a bar downtown, the genie of the lamp, t

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Accepting a drink

by ~discocabrado, Apr 27, 2008, 4:47:25 AM
Literature / Poetry / Transgressive / Free Verse

Does this cloud-maned beauty see
how I ironed this shirt, pressing mercilessly
until the ionised water evaporated? Does he

understand how long it took to shape
my hair this way? To cover the gape
where my once-full coiff's now planning its escape?

Did he notice my choice of a twenty?
I had tens in my wallet. The drink cost two-fifty
but it looks like purples are all I carry

this way. Does this Pan, who probably fucks
his choice of uni intake bucks
see my killer-sweat? The flux

his lick of the lips casts? Of course
he does, but it works. No laws
against flirting, grandpa. Can't force

him to stop. He thanks me
for the double and coke, waits the customary
five minutes in my company,

then mumbles something about a song
he wants to dance to, and is gone,
having left me a number a digit too long.

Accepting a drinkby ~discocabrado

Literature / Poetry / Transgressive / Free Verse

Full title's 'Accepting a drink because you want a drink.' NaPoWriMo Day 5

Daily Deviation

Given 2009-09-15

While the suggester brought another piece by ~discocabrado to my attention, when I read Accepting a drink because you want a drink and saw how well the triplet form was used with the unusual choice of subject, I couldn't help but feature it. ( Suggested by $wreckling and Featured by `SparrowSong )

love 1 1

joy 3 3

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~discocabrado Oct 3, 2009

Thank you so much for the DD and for the wonderful feedback everybody!

~musicalglider Sep 21, 2009

Hey, easy there, but I'm Pan.

~someperson716 Sep 15, 2009

sweet! i like it!

*msklystron Sep 15, 2009 Professional Digital Artist

Fine piece of writing for a dozen or more reasons.

~tetemeko Sep 15, 2009

Terrific job, and very well deserved.

~GnappyAssassin Sep 15, 2009

Capturing a fleeting moment is hard enough for me to do, and I just draw. This would be ten times harder and you've made it look so wonderful. Thanks for the beautiful work.

~BlueFireTurtle Sep 15, 2009

Lovely work!! Congrats!

~cisco-dawg Sep 15, 2009

Nice. You definitely know what it is your doing. Damn Son. Nice work. Love your line brakes.

~cisco-dawg Sep 15, 2009

Nice. You definitely know what it is your doing. Damn Son. Nice work. Love your line brakes.

~bRoKeNgRiN Sep 15, 2009 Hobbyist Photographer

Absolutely wonderful.

So true and so sad. . .

Congrats on the daily deviation!

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