llbwwb:

Chameleon Posing By:HALEX

LOOK!  It’s ME!

New-ish work…

SOOOOO…. I fail at posting lately.
And thus, more than one poem today.  I apologize for the delay.  Please note that, as with the other recent-ish posts, these are all unedited one-offs.  Don’t judge too harshly, please.

Also… COMING SOON!  An actual blog post of my words and thoughts and general insanity.  Stay tuned…

____________

Day 10 - (30/30)

She said she never lied
I told told her omission was the long-eared
mule of lies;
more grey, uglier,
and while useful,
still nothing more
than a shorter type of horse.

___

Day 13
(of 30/30… warning: written for “Dirty Queer”, a monthly reading that is pretty self-explanatory…)

When we hung together, suspended,
our lips dripped with
sweat and saliva
and the whispered
heaviness of wandering spirits
stretched between sheets,
tumbling in the weightlessness of ecstasy.
We’d fallen together
from the height of everyday life,
from the perches on which
we were intended to clutch.

We reached to step
and fell away with the clothing we shed,
toppled on to the bed
landing with the creek of springs
and the tangle of each limb
and piece of skin,
weaving ourselves in to
a dizzy flurry
of wild abandon,
of pressing like flowers between
encyclopedia pages,
of winding ourselves tighter
to become one animal
tearing through each others’ forests
and diving below the surface of
what we thought possible.

Deeper.

The warmth of tongue against
my wilderness boundary
was sunlit pasture
and explosive starlight
pressing us through the night
as when any great weaving is made
or any blinding sun is born.

The reckless hours toppled
down beside us,
no longer holding meaning,
no longer dictating
our moments of drift,
unwinding the difference between
yesterday and today.

When the pinkness of dawn began to dance
along our skins, and our fingers were
wrinkled from the sea
of our endless ever-ing,
we rolled to press our breath together
in warm light.
As both of us ached below our
exhausted hips
we could have wandered
each other’s echoing ribcages
until the world shook apart
and the house burned around us.

But our dizziness forced our eyes closed
as blood returned to circulation in every spent muscle
and the rose shade faded from our flushed cheeks
now creased in joy like the blankets
we’d tossed away
infinite moments ago.
We belted waists with tired arms
and grinning fantasy
and slowing sigh until
the tapestry was completed
in the colored bliss
of morning.

________

Let’s run away,
you and I,
away from the obsessions,
with here and now and who and why and
whatever the fuck has caught our attention for tomorrow
or today’s subtraction, attraction,based
the distraction and banal interactions
of our day to day
while we waste away in to the
hermit crab shells
we were never meant to be with
our colors and outbursts and
brilliant eyes,
shining in the starlight of
post-dusk skies.

Let’s glue ourselves together,
sticky paste style,
like when we were young, less high-strung,
and full of the
lives we promised ourselves,
before the shelves we set each of us upon,
the weak,
the strong,
and those that just can’t seem to make it.

Let’s press our noses together,
and our lips apart,
breathing the same breath of
human nearness,
dearness,
the itch of maybe forever.

We’ll wrap ourselves into a knot
stolen from the Book of Kells,
uncertain where one stops and the other
begins again and again,
Our lips will tie
our bow,
a sacred kind of rope work
unforgotten by the drifting hopeless
anti-romantics
as we sail off in Queen Mab’s bosom,
rocking gently through the light
drawn by her chariot of
bright exuberant luminescence
the breaking of dawn
through cherry pit sky.

__
©dizzydarling 2012

More soon.

Day 9 (I’ll catch the rest up later)

Title:    B.S.

Simple sales,
as easy as dialing and
painting on my
honey-colored tone,
all pretty business and
come-hither smile to
sew myself in to eardrums,
settle behind that stirrup bone and
slither my product
between brain creases—

this is NECESSARY, you see,
to boost your business,
to help you brave the sea of an
ugly economy stealing the bucks
in a technologic age.

Set an appointment.
Peruse our baseline,
the bait will certainly show you that
we can’t be beat.

Hook, line, sinker.
Settled.
And bye is all you’ll have time to say.

(Source: typewrittenword, via someone--actually)

30/30 Day 3

Prompt: Burning house
(written while quite inebriated…)

The house could have been burning
and I never would have known
as I was drenched in the sunlight strokes
of your cataclysmic waterfall.
You sent me drifting on a distant sea
with seafoam, wicked green,
ready to tangle around my ankles,
and salt to prune my ever heavy limbs.

You stretched inside of me
as though it were daily practice to
spread yourself wide open as the tide,
to rest your weight on top
of my thighs
scratching trails where my skin once had been
where my nerves touched the air and
where the smoke never reached my nostrils

where the rancid smell of burning rope
never sent a seep of smoke
to your tower of mercy and learning.

©dizzydarling  2012

Intro & Poem 1

So, it’s April, which means it’s also National Poetry Month.  Many poets, therefore, are taking part in 30/30… thirty poems in thirty days.  Each day, you produce a poem.  You don’t need to go through and edit… just write SOMETHING.  Revision can come later.

The official website for prompts and such is HERE.

I didn’t use the prompt for day one, but here it is. Oh, and day two is rather personal, so I don’t think I’ll post it here.
___________________________

Bedtime Story

Come curl beside me.
The bed is small but so are
my bones
and I can fit yours in to the
creases of my sheets

we will fall asleep
listening
to the breath
whistling in our ribs
and the birds singing of the
new day
with it’s new blossoms and
new joys

and the whole long night
will have been our storybook,
laid out page by delicate page,
patchwork of finding
pieces of ourselves and
sewing them in to the bigger tale…
 it will have been our
bedtime story
to be continued
when next we have
time to weave.

©dizzydarling 2012

Seesaw (Christmastime) - New Edit

The front door squeals a warning,
an alarm
heralding my return from where I sat,
my mind a Thanksgiving turkey stuffed
full of other people’s penmarks
and ink splotches,
patterned  stream of consciousness that
could only be called poetry,

And, as readers and poets tend to do,
I reek of the golden stains on the
fragile insides of my middle and forefingers,
tragic tattoos showing how hard I’ve tried
to smoke you out of my mind
or at least combat the buzz of you between my ears.

Another door scream, rattling through the solitude as
you are passenger to a fast track racecar crash
of freezeframes from last Christmas,
tucking ourselves in a cocoon to
metamorphose toward who we might become together,
counting the glowing embers on a hearth we stoked ourselves,
our eyes reaching to capture every firefly dancing on the
boughs of evergreen and electricity.

Loneliness is amplified in the roar of your ability to
fill my cup to overflowing with
anxiety breathing down my neck
until every hair stands at attention and
I can’t focus on anything but the swirling smoke of
your possibility,

your decision making disability,

your inability to recognize that the silver moon-drips that have
dazzled our tongues and nestled in our hair
are company for the fallen stars that we collected,
placing them in our chests to burn anxiously for each other.

So I turn myself Eastward to salute the
glowing orb that has long since set on another
horizon of what tomorrow might have been,
but even as I bend at the waist
I spot bruises from hours of kicking myself for
tripping over the loose stones that
you never showed me with your frantic lantern swinging,
to and fro, a windsock search party for
solutions to problems I never dreamed existed.

Downward dog only trembles with anxiety and
fails to rescue me from the bottom of the well,
lapping at my face instead with the chain I repaired with a
heart-shaped clasp, holding you back together.

We can hold us together.
We can break apart
each tender lie,
burn down divisions 
holding us captive in our melded loneliness.

How I wish someone would explain to me
what faith this mustardseed might expect from me,
after watching painted puzzle pieces
crash into steadfast fallacies,
seeing bits of hope,
the ones scattered to grow in to futures worth
wishing for with the bright, wide eyes of a child
uprooted by the galeforce
and glowing embers of happily ever afters
doused with unpredicted tsunami force.

Here I shudder on this seesaw,
placed here by your strong hands,
tenderly grasping my sides before they chilled again,
my child-wide eyes of terror, of knowing,
of predicting that at any moment
I could be bucked off, mid tilt and
find myself on my ass in the dirt, all over again,
plucking rocks out of my
raw and grated heart-place.

©dizzydarling 2012

Web

(A very different sort of poem for me.  Not my best, but fun.  A bit silly, a bit obvious, and absolutely born out of a drunken conversation outside of the bar, in the rain, during which I was begged to find somewhere to hang upside down from and told… “I will be your Mary Jane if you will be my Spiderman,”…)

I will be your Mary Jane if you will be my Spiderman,
webbed love stretching between your fingers,
spinning around me each day
and clambering across the city skyline
as you’re saving the world for both of us
with every fiber of your being.
And you might have the mainstage spotlight,
but I make a great heroine,
tumbling through the night sky after another
cataclysmic crash, or explosion or escape,

And I won’t even have to scream for you
your Spidey sense will guide you and
your body heat will guard me from the rush of the wind
and the roar of the rapidly approaching earth,
placing me neatly in your net,
resting almost like prey… if I weren’t so willing.

I’ll wait and wonder,
taking my time to make sure that the window is open
for you to crawl or fall in to after I’m certain that the distant
sirens and rampant rages of another nemesis
have pulled your mask away and stolen you for another
miserable day of inability to tend your bumps and bruises.

Though you heal fast, I’ll be the last one to kiss each bang
and bandage each break so that you can meet me in the rain
a wild downpour some night when you’re just hanging around.

I’ll stand on my tiptoes to reach your lips,
so long as you promise not to fall.

©dizzydarling 2012

Speed

To hit a speedbump with the rubber rolling a bit too fast beneath you
is such a sudden exhilaration.
Your expectation that the world is flat, or semi-predictable, shattered in an instant
catapulted to this strange territory of spontaneous flight.
It’s Gasp-able. Graspable only if one can tangle their cupped hands in low-hanging clouds, can weave their fingers through the strings of azure skyline and pull at the threads of the sun.

Tires striking street humps send the car bouncing
up up up with giddy schoolgirl energy, skip-hop playground bop,
up to hang for the smallest pulse of a pocketwatch,
suspended there as you once dreamed spacemen might be,
touring the starlight,
top-heavy as an ice cream cone on a flashbulb June afternoon.

Mid-dream jolting, a classroom bully, gravity takes hold,
pulling the clouds from your grasp as your tangled fingers burn,
and you land hard.
HARD.
Like the initial hit that sank an oceanliner,
like the ice-encrusted snowbank you slammed with your sled,
like the leaden sound of a wayward ball awkwardly thudding the breath from your lungs
as you struggle to dodge.

No matter how many times I hang, breath held precious treasure tight,
uncertain of the speed of travel correlating to the force of impact in 3…2…

I don’t want to brake.
Though the shocks may be a bit worn and weathered from years of speeding up when I really should have slowed on the bumpiest backstreets,
I don’t want to lose the thrill of sun strings and handfuls of clouds,
of falling and the momentary whisper of atmosphere while I’m free from the ground.
I will risk collision each day, chance the broken glass and fender bending
just to taste the sharp, candied inhale on the landing
when gravity seems like a chore.

©dizzydarling 2012

Delicate

(Wrote this a while ago.  Still in progress.)

I want to paint the
fragility of your skin
as the wind traipses through the small hairs
on the back of your neck,
and the slightness of your bones beneath my own,
the framework for some sort of warrior,
some sort of builder of cities,
or gardens, or mountains,
and your heart, precariously balanced in my hand,
in the form of a key, a piece of art,
put to good use in unlocking each of our secrets,
words,
tacitly handed to me with a delicate
brush of your fingertips against my own.

You’d hate to be described as delicate,
when you’ve flexed your muscles with innate intensity,
grasping at bravery as you would a runaway kite string-
catching it now and again and holding tightly,
as a shield from the west wind,
fiercely, forging your way past all of the fears that
rough hands and restricted growth
have sown in you.

But still,
although you tend to mistake it for
fragility,
insinuating that you are breakable,
a glass springing to shatter if
knocked from a high shelf,
instead, you’d find only
a slight chip or scuff to your
color-casting, entrancing incandescence,

you have a gentle delicacy
in your eyes and skin and motion,

and you are adept at
forgetting that sometimes the greatest bravery
rests in the

letting go.

©dizzydarling 2012