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poem1 Feathered dark eyes and a long slope to velvet lips and snout, grotesquelypoem
expressive, nosing pockets for food.
The face, if white or black, skeletal,
bears the Impostor; his high head, mouth
foaming with effort or evil
or effort against evil, not
to follow
the reins.
2 The hair and musk
rise in the sun;
the path stretches dust
between the ears, goes on.
Then a knee and a heel, a rumbling through the ground
the rocking forward-thudding back, the timeless cantering to the end, the horizon and over.
Then over is a st
by ~ruffienne
you must singYou must sing to be found; when found, you must sing. -Li-Young Leeyou must sing
Those weeks when you stand at the mirror, your face harrowed; those days and hours, your pulse clawing at a tight angry eel living below the heart, between the lungs. And how you try to throw him out, your dinghy solid enough but tipped by this storm-scaled weight. You try to drown him, to leave his knife-edge gills with nothing to sift air from. Convulse and heave over the sink, pail out the water by rivulet and stream. Your knuckles stiffen with splinters and your face swells in the mirror.
You curl on the deck, the fish circling. You stand a
by ~ruffienne
IrelandEire; the country, not the element (though the element, if any, might lend itself to the way the country isn’t) the country I can only see from the plane window, from the prospective, its green and undeniable life a far cry from anything it’s beenIreland
or anything I’ve seen so as I consider the quartered potatoes on my plate, I’m also considering the wet soil once around them, and the heavy way my ancestors labored out to the fields, thankful for whatever their earth could give.
by ~ruffienne
marathonI see you on the screen you see me we see each other you’re propped up on the tip of your elbow, andmarathon
I repeat “do you like my hair” twice “my connection is weird” you apologize
I nod and wave it away start to think about the billions of pixels
making up your face the hallway out your door
and the very white page I’m writing on running their weary track on the hyper-super-highway little Marathons running and running
bursting forth on a screen, rushing forth with the great importanc
by ~ruffienne
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"Talking to someone with a big ego is like walking through a field of cows, it's a long and pointless journey and there's bound to be a lot of shit along the way."
Charles Nathan Whitaker
~kyomichi5252 pointed you out to me.
I'll have to take some good time to really read your gallery - but I didn't have much time right now- I did get to read a few though and I think my brain is tired. Since this is so, it's not best time for me to be reading poetry- I'm slow
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Raisins used to be fat and juicy and now they're... shriveled. It's like they've got their lives stolen...They're really just humiliated grapes." -"Benny & Joon"
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Words, colors, light, sound, stone, wood, bronze belong to the living artist. They belong to anyone who can use them. Loot the Louvre!... Steal anything in sight.
--William Burroughs
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Founder of =Inked-Page | Staff for *100ThemesChallenge, *ProsePlease | Lit Critic at *devCRIT
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As I fall, and you turn away.
You walk down corridors miles away from heart.
As I breathe, as I surrender...
I hear the sound of whispering.
keep it up~
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Photo account~> [link]
Website~> [link]
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Words, colors, light, sound, stone, wood, bronze belong to the living artist. They belong to anyone who can use them. Loot the Louvre!... Steal anything in sight.
--William Burroughs
--
Words, colors, light, sound, stone, wood, bronze belong to the living artist. They belong to anyone who can use them. Loot the Louvre!... Steal anything in sight.
--William Burroughs
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