99*

straynotions:

     *

the nightmares are a daft ruse
he will return to his berth, to the gremlins
wrestling his restless limbs
there is no silence, under the covers

ceaseless prickling, the mighty army
abrades the skin, digging fathomless burrows
scratching is no use if
the mines are buried too deeply

underneath, the deaf man follows
his own rhythms, feeling the throb
fumbling, soon the mattress will flip
and all hope will be smothered

the clock insists he is still alive
while the bottle pours a new floor
the coat is slipping to the floor
its sleeves straining to conduct a requiem

an absurd moonlight sweeps the walls
the shadows offering hope, from loneliness
come the echoes of clacking teeth
peeking through the slackened mouth

of old men, no longer real
the doors creaking shut, leave a message
everything is a hallucination, only
the furthest fires have learned to breathe

laid to rest in a clown suit, someone
dressed like Death, attending the funeral
one last prank, when the last light is snuffed
the laughter should still be heard

     *

One teardrop at a time

ink-slinger12:

I cried a bounty of tears
for the trenchant ills of the world
finding peace only as the last tear fell.

Hope washed anew
when in gentle reminder my heart whispered
the morrow sways gently on one song

If I can change willingly,
so can those around me
one teardrop at a time.

From The City On The Hill

the-ravens-song:

We’re part
of a pilgrimage,
a haj,
an apocalyptic Travel Lodge,
looking for the land between the rivers,
Tigris and Euphrates.
Crippled oil war draftees,
haunted by Paradise,
and dreams of ever more,
we’re slinking toward Babylon
past tanks
abandoned in desert wars,
past slot machines
and moneyed whores.
We’re the nerve gas warriors
guarding stainless steel kitchens,
ending gas price bitchin’,
sending the sand men twitchin’,
to keep Vegas twinklin’.
We’ll rout the rag,
protect our swag,
and that’s no brag.
See our flag.

© Jude Dippold, 2013

fredthejackal:

select 
the artifacts
reflecting personality

bizarre
intricate
delicate

relic

the message within
when looked at for the last time
discovered projection

banal
useless

value lost
when discovered
it is not what was
thought 
of value

cannot return
a part now
never apart
leave the old behind

the new are the burdon now

LK’s Notes: Passionately Sincere. Wow. 

consortingwiththemuse:

So how did I know, you ask?

When I thew your name
Out to the sea
The waves crashed it back
Right at me
Saying,
“If you love the ocean
As much as you claim
Come drown with me
The waves will be
Our life-boat”

for dan

LK’s Notes: Forlornly hopeful. I love the imagery used here. 

unconsciouscontradictions:

these weeks have given me a rain
that only a place like Seattle
could be proud of

it’s a manic depressive Philly girl’s dream,
to have finally regained the power
to drown

and i know i’m justified; sara tells me
that suicide is that last sanctuary of sanity

perhaps i shouldn’t think these things,
but in these past few weeks the rain has pressed into my skin
like his hands into my body

and i’ve found peace in the quiet contemplation
of bubbles
slipping from my lips
as these memories submerge me in the cesspools
of my undeserved shame

i realize i shouldn’t blame myself,
but i know he does
and for reasons i cannot fathom
that suppresses me

to the point where i’ve begun to believe
that Seattle
is the last sanctuary for a girl like me;

a place i can swallow the incessant downpour
of hopelessness

hold my breath

until sunlight

sunlight
finally comes up for air

“Dial 7 to save to the archive. Dial 9 to erase.”

LK’s Notes: This speaks to me. 

willowwords:

I just couldn’t bring myself to delete
the pocket-dialed voice mail you left me.

I had wondered why you called; why this day
was different from any other in the past nine years.

Five minutes of listening to footsteps and muffled
voices and the crackle of the phone as you walked

left me wishing I could have heard your voice
unfiltered. Five minutes of incomprehensible noise

left me with a case of nostalgia so potent it made
my stomach sick. Your lack of words is a ghost

I cannot outrun; it haunts me alongside the lives
I could have lived but reality got in their way.

Old friend it’s been so long. Do you ever think
of what we could be today? Do you ever wonder

what ever happened to that one Rose girl you knew,
whether she’s stayed the same since the sandbox days?

All your letters were stored in my bureau, but I replaced it
and now I don’t know where they are. I remember them though;

I can recall the slant of your handwriting and all the spelling
mistakes, how you started each letter “Dear Rosy, I miss you.”

Way back then I went by Rosy. Do you know I’m Rose now?

God I can’t believe what one phone call did to me
God I can’t believe I didn’t even hear your voice

God I can’t believe even if I stayed there
we could be completely different people

even if I stayed we could be just as far apart

(and that, quite frankly, scares me so much that
I’ll be quiet and keep my memories tucked away;

I’ll resist the urge to call you back; I’ll put down
the phone and dial 7, to save you for a nostalgic day)

Home

damnedtodeutschland:

Ben Harper throwbacks,
organized chaos on sketchbooks,
feet kicked up on the windowsill,
my dear trusted latte. Girls, 
I can hear you through my headphones, 
“What did he tell you?
I’ll never live through this,” 
Yes you will.
At that table over there with a notebook
five years ago I sat making plans, 
God laughs at me to this day,
Will he stop laughing, tomorrow?
I sure as hell hope he does.
This place hasn’t really changed,
the Devil added a couple highway lanes.
Other than that God won’t let it,
but I’m pretty sure I’m ready.

Tainted glass

Staff Note: This is quite a lovely piece.

deludedwanderlust:

Painted portraits and tainted windows—

dreams peer through vintage glass that is
lined with pictures of Mary and baby Jesus.

                                                                              But a story lies in
                                                                           the cracks and seams
                                                                         that once split and burst
                                                                   apart; a little girl’s hands mended 
                                                                      that very glass. It carries the
                                                                        imprint of her finger tips ;
                                                                         the subtle vapour of her
                                                                           foggy breath which is
                                                                             still crystallized on
                                                                              the same o’ glass

that was recently wiped spotless
of centuries of dust particles that
left after reluctant hours of relentless scrubbing. 

                                            But I can still see the girl’s hazel
                                              eyes wide and distorted, still
                                               caught in the shadows of
                                                past, still caught in that
                                                  rusty ol’ glass;a look
                                                  of resigned seclusion 
                                                and acceptance come to 
                                             pass behind the high planes of
                                         her cheeks and behind the downward 
                                      curve of her smile. She looks on, trying to 
                                  find out who she was, but if only were there any 
                               answers in glass painted windows, we’d all willingly go
 
                                                       to Sunday mass. 

Beneath

Staff Note: Love this! It is like an atom bomb compressed into syllables and four lines.

kholinar:

Lithe eyes twined the violets,
with violins and violence.
Lithe eyes laugh in silence,
delight like laceration strikes.