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Posts Tagged ‘Words’

The rose had beaten her
to catching up with the moment
equally as sleepless
and heavy hips drooping
with pre-dawn condensation
struggling against gravity.
Weight.
Atmospheric pressure.

A single pluck
and then silence.

Laying her head flat
against the z words
she would let the knight of Webster,
ever green his shimmering armor,
perform the blow.
Xertz. Quire. Jollox. Cumberground.
And last… agastopia.
A thud. The non-euclidean space
would briefly make things new.

She knew time well. It’s serpentine vice.
She ate dinner while she waited.

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Prosody

Weight
the enemy of flight –
but from her mouth
that dense milieu
is fog that light
cannot penetrate
but flesh can part.
Eyes are the slave to hands,
art the envy of might
and when she speaks
she calls your heart to
take up arms
against your sight;
A lie so beautiful
it flaws the truth,
and turns the day
to night.

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I am Bic

Carve.
The father and the bird.
The hand of Bernini
guiding each
subtraction.
The food we eat.

Words were frantic
on our first date –
nerves mortising
our stories.
The effect
was shortened distance.

Squeezing away the spaces.

The heroic couple.
Nobody rhymes alone.
Born of wood
and kerning,
nature, the hand of Bernini,
forged us
into symmetry
as he holds every
atom in check.

Squeezing away spaces.

Sometimes
when we hug
I imagine one
body subsuming
the other. Unity.
Prosperina’s meaty
thigh sinking into
a tight grasp. I have to remind
myself we are stone. Not blood

Squeezed from the spaces.

 

 

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In the Spring

The sun is a harsh
binary between the overhanging
shadows caused by
trees exalting.
She is the center of the day
and the language of night.
O, firmament!
O, leafy hands of Atlas!
Why do you crack under
the weight?

The wind is hubris
removing
spring from the air.
From where does it fly –
down Irish cliffs
and across the blue ocean.
O, breath of life!
O, wings of Icarus!
Why do you melt
against the skin of lovers?

The earth is fecund.
Apples left to rot are
feeding the children.
We have gained gravity
from sauces and pies
joviality from cider and
Jersey Lightning.
O, mountain of laws!
O, the perch of Zues!
Why can’t we understand
what is above us?

This is the heat
she said.
One must sweat.
We worked;
and worked
ourselves to the bone.
Over like the sky
Under like the dirt
we rolled.
O, sweet Penelope!
O, the towers we build to God!
Why are we here rather
than there?

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Dead Languages

When our voices stopped
we realized the silence
of the car. Even the usually
fickle transmission was
a silent assassin.
Her fingers moved like
conspiracy as she tapped
an uncomfortable beat
into her expensive purse.
I rolled the window down
to let breath into the void.
She cursed loudly
and hit me.
The car jerked temporarily
into the other lane
and then back into
the dead silence of a long
car ride.

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Briser Mon Existence En Deux

Put your fingers to your lips
and peddle to the gas
while our tiny car whips
air against your rebelling face,
my telling face, and your hair.
Such are our day trips
when days are so long
that speaking of satisfaction
is a betrayal. Such that each word
resembles the 2nd mouth,
the 9th circle,
the oceans of thirsty men.

Such was our lifeboat,
adrift if not drowning
and silent, always silent,
to save us from betrayal
and the danger of putting words
to the peddle
instead of feet.
Inside our heads we can only
hope that the other dies first
to prevent them from
the torture of
this lifeboat alone.

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Redacted – For WL

Feet tapping. Fingers failing
to shuffle tiles on a rack.
Eyes squinting, lips pressing
around glass, his next attack
a five letter word meaning
“a forceful verbal assault”
drops like a bomb on Bletchley town.
Another smooth drink goes down.

His mind, endlessly decoding
scrabbled simulacrums
on the old torn chair
he found forgotten.
It perpetually overlooked
a game board and a dictionary.
Summer and youth
mixing like mint and brandy
with a little ice.

He liked the chair
because it was textured
like music. It had a meaning.
It needed interpretation
and more
illumination
than the towering lamp could give.
Some veteran had sold it to him
because of memories
of World War II. It was a solid
lamp that towered toward a heaven
out of reach by the small
Scrabble board. Like Babel
for wooden tiles.

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