Laxity Unmasked
wrap me up in hazel bliss
tried and true in the smell of memories
tearing at my skin
bleeding focus through time
the taste of you lingers
in ravenous lascivity
stealing a mind in selfish ways
mercurial by nature in retrograde
I have stared in pools of gray mist
leaking love in Styx
where the air smells of passion-flower spice
where nice is naughty and naughty is always nice
dance in the moonlight of my mind
as warm hands build a sauna
that flavors the air by units Kelvin
wrestling time to stay glued to the surface
fractured concentration
overrun by libido where the Id reigns supreme
in extreme measures
voracity, cupidity, lechery, and lust
paint a framework of passion building on trust
licentiousness temps to thwart composure
in wild overtures that claw a heart through bone
just to feel your pulse against my tongue
wrapped in hazel bliss
riding waterfalls on the River Styx
where cupidity eats purpose
in fractured concentration
102420
162w
Dragons to Doughnuts
The dragons stopped flying
the day I first spoke to a doughnut
Not the sprinkle kind,
they are a little too fancy to take seriously
After the bitterness drowns insanity
the world settles into normal
or rather some semblance of normalcy
No one seems to notice the dragons
I watch the sky for a sign
a balmy breeze in winter perhaps
All I see is silence
Transient art brought smiles
but there's too much interference
between my vibe and theirs
They were my friends
I see them still
Though now I talk to doughnuts
until the bitterness kicks in
102316
In Lieu of Xanax
4X6 inches
of perfection on a screen
a hint of tortured possibilities
carried in the pocket
of a life built
through blinders and
the most beautiful denial
4X6 inches
of hope undeniable
the foundation of dreams
dragging rough
through cascading walls
of a substandard fairytale
that twisted joy unhappy
4X6 inches
of a smile through a hurricane
bleeding pain through evaporating tears
a reality forged through time uncountable
landing in the rays truth created
when love proved
the existence of fate
4X6 inches
of peace over pain
a wand in magical medicinals
crashing through solitary anguish
with eyes piercing armor
weaved in passive aggression
leading the lost home
52317
2 min 33 sec
I can see the clock on the wall; its black face and bold red digitized numbers seem obscene on the stark white surface. I hate white walls. They are unimaginative, boring, empty. They look so barren at this moment, as I lay here focusing on those blood red numbers on the black face on the white wall.
POP, seems so far away for a sound so close. It’s familiar, yet foreign somehow. Perhaps the familiarity is fake and the sound itself all too real. The warmth that slowly surrounds me turns sticky and cold; as I watch the seconds turn in slow motion in red on black on the empty white wall.
I struggle to move my gaze downward, afraid if I stop watching the numbers they will stop ticking away. Breathe in…breathe out. I hear noises, voices perhaps, whispering across the room. I know they are important, can’t really remember why.
My foggy head is heavy. My eyes struggle to focus on anything other than those numbers ticking in slow motion. Each second a seeming eternity, each movement like dragging a body, my body, through mud. The sun catches movement. Flowing like hot tar, edging closer. It smells like metal, or tastes metallic, or both somehow.
A stirring on my chest startles me. I almost forgot. How could I forget? My arms are too weak to move. My eyes turn slowly. I can’t see, but I know they’re there, if I could just hold on a little longer. I gaze at the clock. Watching those red numbers change on the black face against the naked white wall.
The pool of red tar moving toward me reaches my own. It’s odd that they’re the same, yet so very different; mine being dark and sluggish, his more fluid, bright and still warm. I can see where he lays across the room, with the phone on the floor. Ah, yes, the voices were still speaking. Can’t make them out, but they are there.
Another stir on my chest pulls my attention as I wonder if the pain dissipates in conjunction with the amount of blood that surrounds me. Cold and shaking, I try my best not to shiver, but I do. They stir and I wish more than anything that I could lift my arms to hold them.
“Twins”, he said in drunken disgust as he cut through me to pull out the child he believed wasn’t his. There were two. I still smile at the notion. Praying that the voice on the phone means help is on the way. 31 weeks is viable, but the babies aren’t breathing. I don’t even know if they’re boys or girls.
When he saw his own birthmark, he knew that they were his. Now he bleeds with me in silence and I can hear the sirens. If I can just breathe until they get here… as I watch the seconds pass in stillness, in red numbers on the black face on the stark white wall.
