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picking flowersdrunk on dandelion milk:
this dragon-fly, cotton-cloud haze
dulls my ears to each petal's cry
as I seek a flower's counsel in love.
songs about slumber
I.

our city is a bed

.

a man tries to straighten the wrinkled
sheet of road – gives up, sits down,
pans the street for change

.

the apartment building thrusts, phallic,
making love to an empty sky.  a burst
of pigeons coo shut up shut up

.

a boy tries to fall asleep. his nightlight
is a myth that burns out once a day

.

the girl walks off her roof

.

.

our city is not a mattress

.
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,
available nowlove is like a bruise
lurking just beneath your skin
begging to be born
19 - YouI had 19 days to cry,
18 ways to cause myself pain,
Only had 17 seconds to heal my heart,
16 ways to escape this lie.
15 months till I met them,
14 wasted years of one life,
Spent 13 days waiting,
To clear out 12 questions,
And take away 11 doubts,
10 minutes to say goodbye,
9 memories to forget,
8 days since I last dreamed,
Only 7 sins I can do,
6 promises to be broken.
I'm in 5 different places,
4 feelings keeping me alive,
3 tears falling on my face,
2 people I need,
One of them is you ...
pathos as a punchlineand then, mid-rinse, it hit me.

there's something a touch more troubling
about quiet desperation
showing its face during the
familiar & commonplace.

weeping in the shower; fully lathered,
ears ringing.

red-eyed in the mirror;
shaving cream scattered,
small cut crowning
a procession of teeth.

crying at breakfast;
full stack of pancakes
cooling on the table.

miserable at brunch;
spinach quiche crumbles
collecting on the chin.

it's a fully realized sadness
fit to laugh at, on the screen.
it's a swallowing despair
to bear in skin.
Beneath the Begonias(I)

The detached heads of children are bobbing up,
their lips puckered, expecting kisses.

So slowly they come, bicycling from their alleys,
their pristine cul-de-sacs.

I sit on the window-sill, their makers,
cuckolds and whores running after them, comically --

the neighborhood gathers 'round their collective
bonfire -- they hold papers of their lost one.

(II)

It has been days. Whose white gown lies
on my lap, whose smile across my cheek?

They shuffle through their sterling definitions;
they turn up dirt looking for me, casting it aside

      Too deep, I am a clamshell buried
   
saint valentine and friendsit's not romantic;
it's an obligatory
valentine's day poem.
Quiet NeighboursCurtains pulled, lit up
some nights: but no one’s ever
sitting outside

an infant stroller
upright in the frost-thick grass,
growing mould next

to a wire clotheshorse;
both been there weeks, though someone’s
still mowing the lawn

around the concrete
slab, marking where the apple tree
fell with autumn’s storms

and gave rise
to an occasion to plant
commemorative rose bushes

all twisting branches,
wearing only leaves now
their season has passed,

but who wants to see roses
blooming alone in winter?
theoretical layersand the snowflakes that hide behind our eyes,
as we compress them to close, melting around our hearts,
dampening a too exciting feeling, falling on a cedar tree
from whence we fell, laughing, and I think perhaps
a one-sided heart cracks its own eggs open.

The stones themselves enunciate their praise,
and all, we, tremble to bear upon their steadfastness,
a chivalrous guard against a whiling wind, dead
in a despairing song, tumultuous and contrary
to our living claims, and it is as silent as its name.

I concern over the state of our campfire
as you feed it your life, as it hungers all the while,
as we thirst all the more for the ra
Miyamoto Musashi's Poetrywe reconstruct the man
from shards of paper and pottery
(a shrike in ink
a small wooden bodhisattva
a practical treatise on swordplay)

he said his only teacher was Nature
which is a fine thing to say
when you're good at everything

they say he slew Ganryū
with a length of oar
he'd whittled on impulse into a sword

so much for the soul of the samurai:
not metal, flashing and hard
priceless and irreplaceable

only a discarded wooden spar
emerging from refuse
to refuse returning

and perhaps his poems were the same
nourished by earth and water
whispering an answer to wind
burbling off towards the long sea

and this is how hi
dark spaces
Dark Spaces

                We quarreled it away all those
muggy summer nights when the reflections
of train lights blazed in the river.  Hours
after the fact we bit our lips until they were
white under our teeth –
                                 we tried too late to
catch those words up in between our sheets;
we were frantic with it but I think we knew
even then that they were tacked to the sky
with the stars.

It is gone.
                Now I will hold the sheets to your
lips when you try to speak.  I will shut my eyes
to the dark spaces between the stars.  Safely
encased in our closed drapes and covers, I will
lie awake at
Dear Allegra,Maybe you are the sun kissing gradients
of their lonely features, a white raven tracing
suns in sand. If capacity of hearts was measured
in carats, yours would burst into the biggest and
most beautiful diamond.

---

Maybe you are a mannequin angel caged in walls
that you have put up yourself. If you'd lend me
the key to your heart, I'd crash them down, a
thousand times over for you.

---

Maybe you are a long lost secret star tracing
down his cheeks creating silhouettes of rain,
you shine so much brighter than the rest. If you
ever fall down and you can't get up, I'll
always be there to catch you.

---

Maybe they have m
En dur ing
               an·te·ced·ent

     And I spoke to my walls, discovering that the only difference
          between them and her was
               a coat of paint and a pulse,
                    and often-- just the pulse.

             
mentirosa.x.

her favourite letter reminded her of magic,
of stars granting wishes, of the mysterious
realm of thaumaturgy revealed in prayers and
between the cracked covers of novels.

purple.

we are undone, like shoelaces and the inner
workings of my mind. we are less than one,
something spoken fast and low in dark alleys
and distant tongues. we are between the lines.

comatose.

she had curly hair or brown hair or a halo that shone
in the sun around a tiny freckled face, and notes
written to an imaginary abattoir that she would have
liked to disown. she fell asleep with dictionaries in her lap.

three.

we could have suffocated under her i
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December 8, 2008
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This emotion is repetitive. Someone make it stop.
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Daily Deviation

Given 2009-02-19
This talented deviant has a gallery packed full of poetic treats, along with this one. December by =Drunken-Splice, despite its highly personal nature, the very emotion that this poem offers on several readings really are what make it quite a haunting piece. ( Featured by `LadyLincoln )
love 2 2 joy 2 2 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconomni-flow:
~Omni-Flow Sep 3, 2010
you have visuals in this poem that would make an angel weep, really are you some type of alien? Because people knowadays have no idea what to write.

Beautiful job...please publish your work.
Reply
:icondrunken-splice:
`Drunken-Splice Sep 8, 2010  Professional Writer
Thanks. I've considering it, potentially making a little self-published chapbook of some of my favorites, sending it out to people.
Reply
:iconomni-flow:
~Omni-Flow Sep 10, 2010
that's an awesome idea!
Going to print is always
good in my opinion.
Reply
:iconthetaoofchaos:
`thetaoofchaos Feb 20, 2010  Hobbyist Writer
Love that last line - it realy crystalizes the piece.
Reply
:icondrunken-splice:
`Drunken-Splice Feb 20, 2010  Professional Writer
See, and that's the one that was very tough for me, cause sometimes it feels to abstract and not really grounded as well as the rest. I'm ambivalent--some times it works sometimes it doesn't. Thanks for your opinion though, it's nice to know some people like it :)
Reply
:iconathenea8788:
~athenea8788 Apr 27, 2009
Is palm-muting used anywhere on a Coltrane album?--I thought it was typically used in...heavier stuff. Which album inspired this? Also...slide... Where you just going for musical terminology? I think it might be stronger if you kept within the bounds of the record. But hey, still great (and probably something you don't feel like revising.)
Reply
:icondrunken-splice:
`Drunken-Splice Apr 27, 2009  Professional Writer
The music references are not necessarily tied in with the Coltrane record. It was just the one I was listening to during that time, and it carried the general feel of that month for me. I tried to set up a musical theme that leads to the Coltrane reference, but it is the feeling of the month as a whole that I wanted to be the focus--"A Love Supreme" (the record) is just a part of the whole.
Reply
:iconathenea8788:
~athenea8788 Apr 27, 2009
gotcha. ba da bada. ba da bada. etc.
Reply
:iconicarious:
~Icarious Mar 10, 2009
This is an interesting poem, it has a hazy feeling to it for lack of a better word. A lot of transparent imagery and soft tones. I usually don't like these kinds of poems but this one has a kind of mystique feel to it I don't really see too much. Like I said, interesting poem.
Reply
:icondrunken-splice:
`Drunken-Splice Mar 10, 2009  Professional Writer
Thanks for your comment. :)
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