Foggy Headlights (and Chromosomes)I don't remember if it was a wedding or a funeral, only the flowers...Foggy Headlights (and Chromosomes) by Bark
seemed like millions of them
Soft, sorrowful, white flowers... roses or orchids?
I don't remember now, maybe magnolias...
You smiled a thin smile, your face pale, washed out.
If it was a wedding, I wasn't the groom.
A funeral, I wasn't the guest of honor.
I never could get things straight, somehow.
Morphine DaysSepia world, barnstorming, brainstorming, building up, looking outMorphine Days by Bark
Of dusty cracked windows to see it all happen, now, again, bold
Into the empty yellowed skulls piled up around the old church
Only on morphine days, though, when we fall out of grace
God, look at the crows, how many pilot their way across the sky
Obscene noises through the dust, shitting on old rusted machinery
Abandoned throughout dried-up, smashed-down stalks of corn
Here, to the left, the foundation of a house that no longer exists
There were good days here, once, weren’t there? Maybe not…
99 DrumsThere were ninety-nine drums in the line, speaking loudly99 Drums by Bark
about thin white blankets, bedsores, red Jell-O, disease
About the sky cracking and falling to earth in sharp pieces
About the old nodding out more frequently now, their
bodies shutting down for the last time, faint groans and sighs
The buttons have been pushed in sequence, no return now
Crossword puzzle books and Uno cards abandoned, TV
unwatched, drums drop out one by one until at last only
Not even shouting down the halls, but whispers
I remember the trees were just beginning to turn when you left
And how a hard driving rain swept across the grounds
The sky cried all night; I took your dreamcatcher home
in the morning; there were no dreams left
Installation PieceIron thorns push through skin, I’m part of an installation pieceInstallation Piece by Bark
Flesh and bone, metal and stone, electronics
Wheeled in on a cot, phones for eyes
That never ring
But I see how they look at me; (they’re thinking)
How lonely it must be to slowly die alone
They smile anyway, good at faking it
After all, it’s their job
One day the artist will be able to push a button, and I’ll spin
My speaker-mouth will sing about snow
Only one more push allowed
And I’ll spin into space
My last human thought will not be of you, but of us, together
Sitting in the cold morning, coffee and cigarettes
Back before they began assembling us
One at a time
Dancing in the StreetsMy brain needs food, maybe peanut butter flavoredDancing in the Streets by Bark
Something to jolt it into gear, into inspiration
An old 45 on the Invictus label, or lemonade stand sun
Maybe the Necronomicon, maybe crow-dancing
Something to awaken me and start a fire downtown
Could be you, your hand grazing my cheek gently
But more likely something old and iron found in dreams
Something besides the wavering headlights in the fog
(Where the fourth line of this stanza just disappeared)
Maybe a ghost owl and a near-dead crow in a duet?
Places I've Been You Wouldn't Want to GoAn oil-painted robust cowboy riding beneath epic Western skiesPlaces I've Been You Wouldn't Want to Go by Bark
But a dark cloud passed, a tumor grew, dreams rotted and festered; yippi-ki-yi-yay,
A dark court of one-story apartment buildings, hazardous, broken
Decorated by a rusty tricycle, mops on back porches, dead dolls
Fear of the one-armed man;
An old man with the smell of disease about him lies in thin blankets
A faucet is dripping, a clock ticking, a dog howls mournfully outside
Empty bottle of pills;
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
escapeescapeescape by LancelotPrice
I shall leave the windows dirty
and the doors unopened
and when I awake from sleep
where I make a world of my own
I shall read
the worlds created
by those who've already flown
to a place where there exists
only one of each thing made
Lancelot Price 2012 December 31
poseri want to fly,poser by Hfeather53
i keep telling myself -
my head plays these words on repeat.
but my feet have retained
of all my old habits.
they scrape along the concrete
and i watch,
with head hanging low,
at the dust storms i'm creating.
as i breathe deep,
there are feathers caught in my throat
causing me to cough.
i chase birds
and tear open
adorning my skin with their quills.
and with a flailing of my arms
i leap -
asphalt always tastes
Love LetterBeloved,Love Letter by Scarlettletters
Is it possible to feel too much at times? Can the heart become a weapon, carrying the weight of unspent dreams?
There are rare nights when I seem to ghost dance with the world. I move through it, aware of the physical existence of people, places, things - their connections - and nothing more.They leave no indelible mark; they are a mere whisper on my landscape that echoes vaguely in my conscious mind, a glancing blow that barely registers. Mouths move...words are said, and I comprehend the physical act, the meaning and reality - but it only ripples the surface.
And then there are nights that are quiet electricity and life blooms out of control around me in vibrant and livid color. Every word has a music to it and every nuance of movement shoots through me and pins me to the wall of desire. I am held prisoner by the soft beauty of words not said. I feel the pain of lost tears and memories mumbled in a gentle catechism of failure..
And it is on those nights that I think of you.