[x]

Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skies
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams

except this one.

This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
at nothing.

As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.

I'm going outside to make a grass angel.

AwakeCracked an eye;
still a smooth blanket of dark.
Pebbles rolled and fell behind.
Glue unstuck, the pebbles reached
the brain and sang, scooting
across a nicotine urge,
bathroom tiles,
groggy knowledge.

Urination, caffination, nicotine-ization.
Rockslide.
The inner chittering and chattering,
never still, loud and
ill-mannered.
Screeching sirens for the pebbles
to bound against.
Dead awake.

I Took the Blue BusYou didn't put the phone back, left your pills on the table
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You made cookies I didn't eat, watched movies I didn't see
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You talked, then you didn't, then you talked some more
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

You took the elevator, she took the stairway to the stars
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You swept out memories, wrote a manuscript of dreams
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
I had coffee and cigarettes alone at four AM
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

She took the stairway to the stars
I took

Lambchops and RazorbladesLamb-chops and razorblades, barbed wire dessert
Blackhand man resurges, gather 'round;
Shadows eat the light, he eats the shadows
Blackheart bound with rough twine, engorged;

with sweet dreams turned to sour mash
with fear of echoes on twilit playgrounds
with summer's sudden screendoor slam ending
with attic wigstands cooing sick-sweet things

Head-cheese and shrapnel, red lipstick dessert
Blackhand man resurges, gather 'round;
Moths eat his clothes, he eats the holes
Blackheart bound but bursting out, engorged;

with severed birdwings falling from the heights
with rotten fruit boiling in fly-filled bins
with spineless slithering

BitterBitter-sharp and angled
The stake through my heart
The brightest sun cannot penetrate
The cold seizures as I die
and die
and die, everyday;
but still somehow remain.

You only had to die once.
I've died a thousand times
since you left.

Dying is no way to live.

HollowdaysShortened dim days and long starless nights
The wellspring, the windchimes, the starlings
Are gone
Dreary tunes about razorblades, and ash, and bone
The lost man's song, the October sonata
The walkingman shoeheels clack empty sidewalks
Past blank storefronts and soapsmeared windows.
Summer is a distant fire, muted by mist, fog,
Coldbreath
Hollow days are here again.

A Drunken HymnFuzzy and smokey, creamed and strained
Clap on, clap off, cornered and drained;
Seeing is sawing, kneeing and gnawing
Hammerhead rhythm, red herring brain.

Do you want more sentimental sleaze?
More eyelinered fat kids, diseased?
Perhaps Superman will fly in and drink gin
With you and your uncle's mad niece.

(I like my flatliners flat, my beer strong
My ghosts to stay dead, my wood to last long
Forty acres and a mule is not enough
Give me your head, I won't be too rough.)

Slippery and slimy, or scaly and dry
Cankered and cancerous, bloody well wry;
Being's believing, but knowing is fleeting
Fifty steps down to the what and the w

Quick Fire SketchA man walking. A dog barking. The man's head is on fire. The world is on fire. The fire is on fire. The fire burns unevenly down one side of the man's lapel. The man is naked. The man glows from within, red razor slash smile, concrete eyes. The man is gone, and a moon appears. It rises quickly and disappears. A tree is barking. The woman's eyes are taped with black electrical tape Xs. She looks for the man, then leaves with the trees. The fire has missed her somehow. The dog is barking at god. God is on fire. These words are on fire. You are on fire.

Two CrowsIts dark again this morning; eight o'clock, and the sun refuses to shine
Night recedes, dawn stays, mimicking twilight
Windblown, grey, it can only be called "day" because of the hour.

I think about the fading murals of Jim Morrison at Venice Beach
I think about the friends I've never seen who live in my computer
I think about how harsh my cigarette is, how bitter the coffee

(I think that I spend too much time thinking and not enough living)

But the grey life isn't living, it's waiting for the sun, and who knows when
The sun will come?
I put on my coat and go outside for a smoke, hoping to touch something
Not bleeding grey

There ar

The Wind-DownI'm tired, a clock winding down in an abandoned sickroom
You're vibrant, a sunspot, a splash of color, a dream
That I dream when I'm fevered and sawboned

I'm a ghost already, a shadow that crossed your path
You sing your pain, and heal your space in the world
Bringing light, laughter, dizzying falls from great heights

We sing our pain together, sometimes, and I almost live
But the clock is ticking, the sirens call, and you
Cannot bring your brightness into the dark places

I'm tired, and the crows gather in anticipation
Perhaps they'll carry me to your beautiful world
And release me with the Christmas snow

SymphonyIt's the measured breathing of someone on oxygen, here in the small hours. I don't know where it's coming from. I hear it beneath the white noise of the air conditioner.
It's the faint jumpiness of a phone ringing, a monitor flatlining on a loop in my memory.
It's the droning in my own ears, the hum-buzz of the tinnitus, the electricity and insect sounds.
It's the whistle of a train, much louder than it should be. It soars over the top of it all. There are no trains nearby.
It's four AM again. The silence is not golden.

DrownBlackness at three AM
Dead stars
Mason jars
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
And
Think
Of
As
I
Drown

Raindrizzle-dream drops plop against the pane
the sun's so much farther, far away today
whispered memories replace buoyant talk
of starfish and freedom and flying away
no, no dreams of flying today, just quiet
words of long ago and what might've been
promises made in the sun hold no weight
on a day when the grey's pouring in
you remember her, now, from so long ago; dancing on sand so white
(it was bright as a headache)
hand-in-hand laughter, a day without end;
but it did end, when you weren't looking, and suddenly
it was ten years after, and you were sitting alone
watching the rain
inside the drops you hear gulls crying, waves rushing; children calling out
to each other as they play
a radio plays your song, she squints into the sun
(the most beautiful creature you've ever known)
you hear her whispered "i love you" and then it's just
rain once again

OctoberOctober; the world is dying
Going out in a blaze of glory
Not the slow painful birth into Spring
But a quick descent into Winter
Wind howls through fiery leaves
Change. Death. Mourning.
A wreath made from twigs, dried leaves and orange berries
For my Autumn girl.
And the days rush headlong into night.

Falling AwayIt's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Unable to stay vertical, no horizontal to catch me
Blindly boring white days falling in and out of sleep
Waiting for something to end and something to begin

Talking about white things and birds and death stars
The location of heaven, the door that won't open
The hollow sounds of the memory gears turning
The falling, falling, endlessly through a sea of white

(Did I mention the white nothingness? Of course, yes,
It's all I have left to talk about, the falling through white)
It's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Catch me.

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Four AM Musings .

Four AM, something calls me from my bed
Coffee and cigarettes in the Quiet Time
Before the world awakes and begins its manic noise
Time to think, and feel, and dream
But you, you're always the first thing on my mind.

Scattered dreams still cling like cobwebs
Fading but not yet gone, mingling with the
Lights-on reality of the dark morning and its silence
While you were here I'd have simply thrown
An arm around you, and gone back to sleep.

The world changes, people leave
Never understanding what they

A Fine DayWhite sky white snow white buildings white light
in the kitchen
Jealous hands and molded mind peer through the blinds
at the whiteness
Clocks and plants and vases and books on shelves
dust themselves
Leaning towards grace but burning the last of the bridges

Blurred faces stare in pressed hands smeared again
against the window
Coffee stains old bloodstains last summer's grass
still cling
Entry level now streaming screaming through the
opened gates
A flash-flood of diseased memories shouting down sanity

I miss the sound of chirping birds.

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Submitted: August 9, 2011
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Recession

by =Bark, Aug 9, 2011, 7:03:01 AM
Literature / Poetry / Sociopolitical / Free Verse

A man on fire walked calmly out of the building, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the bricks, pound the pavement, skin a cat or two. I saw what he was thinking, it formed a black cloud above his head.

He thought of old photographs and wicker furniture, of how dark it was inside for all of those plants to thrive. He thought of chances taken and opportunities missed. The monologue in his burning head was a constant buzzing fly, a death rattle.

Old TV shows, bad poetry, seasons, songs and metalworks; nothing could shut out the memories or calm the storm inside. Treading water, he wished that he could fly again. Over the horizon he walked, never seeing the starving child scuffling along behind.

A man on fire disappeared from the picture plane today, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the road, Jack, make tracks, don't step on a crack. Leaving dust and ash, smoke-feathers and birthday candles, he receded.

Recessionby =Bark

Literature / Poetry / Sociopolitical / Free Verse

I carried the world in my head for a while. It burned.

~JenniferCrane Sep 10, 2011

Well, this is just brilliant. I had to restrain the others.

=Bark Sep 11, 2011 Writer

Well thank you very much!

~wh0rem0ans Sep 4, 2011

O. This is excellent. The starving child, the starving child.

=Bark Sep 5, 2011 Writer

Thank you!

~wh0rem0ans Sep 5, 2011

`FuzzyHoser Aug 24, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

It put lyrics in my head...

Walk fast out of burning buildings,
kill youth with easy listening.
You gotta keep to a healthy distance.
I'm fine....
...from time to time.
God speed....to sustain illusions.

Secrets and Lies, Institute. (:

=Bark Aug 25, 2011 Writer

I'll have to look them up, I'm not familiar with them. I was inspired by a Zachary Schomburg piece.

`FuzzyHoser Aug 25, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Ah...most people aren't. It was a side project band by Gavin Rossdale of Bush. I dig 'em... Anywho, a fantastic piece. I love it when words trigger lyrics. (:

*xlntwtch Aug 19, 2011 Writer

This is a piece I can relate to in many ways. I also feel much of the world burns. I'm not sure when you wrote this, but so much has changed in so many ways... yet so much stays the same, seemingly forever. If I can keep my mind expanding outward as much as possible, maybe I'll make it (I think so... I have many songs to sing that help me and more). Not to mention 'cosmic' realities I believe. Still, you wrote a wonderous piece I think we can all relate to at one time or another while we grow. Thank you.

=Bark Aug 19, 2011 Writer

Thank YOU!

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