DistemperOh, did you scream?Distemper by ~riparii
No, ninety ravens
released from the rack of my ribs
in a ravage of wings
have disquieted the cat.
Oh, an aspirin for my mind
(lay your head in my hand
drink me down, feather-drown)
thin its belly-close blood
uphold the constitution
of my hollow-cast heart.
[Fire the dragon
the fairy waters her way
across the winter]
So stout, so ale,
hold fast, touch bone
Oh, you would rather die
than bring home bad meat.
ventulus55 and a chance of rainventulus by ~riparii
your heavy head sways
chocolate and gray
love was never the word, never the way
till the ground lay deep before you
ever so strong and brown
We Were All Going to be WonderfulKathy's mom, shaped like a ripe pearWe Were All Going to be Wonderful by ~riparii
black-haired, she wore it long, tied back.
She looked foreign, she should have been a gypsy--
silver and red, smoky and asleep;
should have smelled like cardamom or cloves
but she smelled like onions and carrots, potatoes and oregano.
She leaned at the sink in the tiny kitchen
peeling potatoes, head bent, sallow-skinned, heavy-hipped
her dark hair traced with the first lazy spider webs of gray.
We slunk past the gray-mouthed man on the sofa
with his Reds game and his beer;
men weren't soft then, but the new kind was coming along.
The suburbs were a garden
through the hot summer days and the Catholic schools,
and it wasn't the dads who had the dirty fingernails.
But he worked every day, by god he did,
drove a truck fat with bakery goods
flaccid and without souls
(whole wheat was a color not a life.)
Robert kept the kids fed, didn't interfere
with their summer afternoons.
"Come in here, Josie, pull down my pants and make love to me."
She only grunted,
PixieI never had enough faith in you,Pixie by *archelyxs
my best postmodern pixie friend,
who presses herself against my shoulder
killing her fall with leaning.
You taught me something new
about anxiety today:
how to wake
up when it's morning, how to miss
dactylic illness with the parched
indelicacy of a crinkled sun.
In the eternal rendition you say
your name is always in the vocative
case, and only vocative:
says the girl
who taught a smaller girl to sing,
a girl of thirteen, with the same
nimble character we shared, the same
calderical eyes we shared.
The girl's voice
tumbles out of its weakness:
a chaotic calling out to the deltaic
rush of rain, a grimy smoker's
howl: monadic, suffering, fresh
GluttonThe lines of impunity have been crossedGlutton by ~pomohippie7
Without a careless misstep
And the responsibility is oppressive;
Force-swallowing a glut of melancholy
Makes the satiety all the more cloying.