Skatepark
There's a fire settling on my shoulder blades, cracking under the weight of the white sky.
And there hasn't been a city yet where we haven't met.
We're on this bloodless highway sprawling like tentacles of thoughts forming out your mouth
every word is a delicacy,
even here in the desert…
Where an ocean labored to fashion life out of its sand
eaten up by the sun upon the take of a first breath.
And I'm left trying to turn this heat into a single sun ray, tuck it deep inside my eye for later…
Holding onto petals of flowers I've murdered to press inside a book…
So later we can know this again like we did today.
Dancing with Light
Today I clean the room where my soul resides.
I sweep the floor and draw the curtains,
Wash the windows and wipe the table.
There is, in the room of my soul
A shadow in the corner,
Where the light comes to hide.
In that little dark hole.
I bring it to the light.
It has tiny hooks under my skin
Small, strong, and tight.
I cannot break it with all my might.
The spot says “my-self” and
Each tentacled hook proclaims its name.
Self-pity says one,
then doubt, fear, and pain.
Others mourn sorrow, anger, and resentment;
They churn and feed one another in turn.
I squeeze and squash that dark corner
smaller and even smaller.
Until I see in my hand,
a tiny grain of black sand.
I inhale the sun,
the fragrant air.
One gentle puff is enough.
Gone is the speck in my hand.
Where once it was dark
a tiny bright spark
invites me to dance.
Hazy Shade of Winter, Less Than Zero, pills, sheet walls, redaction, and deciding to live.
From a hit by The Bangles, to the bloody and '80s adulating reach of American Psycho, episode number 38 starts and ends with more bangs than a West Texas brothel in the 1800s. Seven writers from the site complete the landscape here, with a lead by area_man, and wrapped nicely with thePearl and Mariah, so you know the new blood between them holds its mud.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cLsEjqj8g6s
And here are the pieces featured on Prose. Radio.
https://www.theprose.com/post/816235/when-the-zoloft-hits https://www.theprose.com/post/816024/searching https://www.theprose.com/post/816017/they-call-her-fickle
https://www.theprose.com/post/816230/the-day-i-decided-to-live https://www.theprose.com/post/816225/if https://www.theprose.com/post/816122/i-redact-my-forgiveness
https://www.theprose.com/post/816108/perceived
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
The Long and Winding Road
The long and winding road,
Leading me passed my yesterdays
And into my tomorrows.
The road pass my old tears,
My days full of abuse and feel.
I sit here,
Watching the sun going down…
And watching the shadows
Engulf my past.
I await the dawn,
Where promise and hope
Wait to be born.
The long and winding road,
Is full of moments caught
In the snare of time…
The births of my children,
Christmases long gone..,
The emptiness of life
Without you.
The long and winding road…
Has been leading me here…
To find myself in your arms,
To share our dreams on our own.
It has brought me to a new dawn…
Where your golden hair flows,
Dancing across my soul.
It has brought me here…
Where your touch
Stirs not only the man
But also the soul.
Where you not only inspire me…
But lead me to the moments….
That will remain ours alone.
The long and winding road…
Has taken me beyond the shadows
Of my yesterdays..,
And into the light that is tomorrow…
Where you await me
When comes the dawn.
The Day I Decided To Live
The day I decided to live,
Caught me in a steel boot panic,
The small of my back,
A wormy spasm
Of mortal Morse code
In hell’s exiled hospital bed.
I am going to live.
Apathy aches
Through crawl space bones,
Her humid bore
Fogging to a damp finish,
While once weathered sighs
Float through grey morgue skies,
Skirting deadweight tides
Of tedium’s laboured arrest,
Lapping and licking my bleached heel
So pathetically.
I am going to live.
The bald scream
Of atrophied helplessness
Staggers me on,
And catches the ears
And eyes of God,
And I refuse to drown
In this landfill avalanche,
Like a perfunctory punk.
I am going to live.
I jumpstart the last nucleus
Of infant flame
That had retired
To a soldered melt
Of sunny sizzle,
As black psalm laments
Crystallise into turncoat hallelujahs,
And mutiny’s inferno
Gives Bloody Mary
An everlasting
Atom bomb kiss.
I am going to live.
Junkyard demon dogs
Drip dross through fanged bluster,
And the devil’s tremulous waters
Are glaucoma eyed bonds
And last gasp glances,
Of stonewalled silence,
Scrambled mirages,
Distorted mirrors
And pilloried ego death.
I am going to live.
I devour the curse
And strike up the band,
As my stop watch pulse
Shivers through my powder keg hand,
And I will unearth the mile high soil
And limp bow legged
Through blood sun boil,
Because you cannot gaol
The uncaged heart
Of one who knows
That beyond death’s saltwater kiss
Waits the sacred miracle
Of reset revolution
And purpled salvation.
I am going to live.
Fresh ink and new blood, and more: Amount of strength, honeyed earth, a muted past, seasons, and screams of the dying.
Some new blood and fresh ink flavor Prose. Radio's number 37, with a handful plus two pieces from the inimitable talent of our writers. Good to see all the new writers bringing their style to pages of Prose. --And also good to see Last and area_man in the mix with them today, and AndyDrew closing it out with something beautiful and dark and light, in its own way.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E5iHmKR3IOg
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/816003/christ-like-without-the-benefits https://www.theprose.com/post/815932/lake https://www.theprose.com/post/815971/back-and-forth
https://www.theprose.com/post/815979/the-watch https://www.theprose.com/post/815993/space-age-bodhisattva https://www.theprose.com/post/815994/seasons
https://www.theprose.com/post/815920/wee-woo-bus
And.
As always...
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
They call her fickle
Listen,
the muse sings to the
pulling of weeds, to the
piling of bricks, to the
scrubbing of plates.
The muse sings to the
earthbound, to the occupied,
to souls in revolt against
menial days. Silent cries
beckon loudest, prayers and
invocations be damned:
the muse will not be summoned
and scorns intention. She
cares nothing for your plans,
laughs at your blank page,
pisses on your offerings.
She will not bless self-anointed
poets who ransack corpses
for metaphors.
So move forward. Live.
Be about your business, turn
the grindstone, then breathe.
Breathe. Listen.
The muse sings to those
hungriest for song.