[x]

silver-tinged twilight owls

nestle,

hooting

along

with the help of lofty, fresh leaves

so too, do the summer's evening

winds whistle around

the empty park bench passing

through the p

Owl and CrowYour fingertips stuck to my forehead, and popped off when you pulled them back. We were both wearing black that day, mourning our own deaths. (Those little deaths that happen again and again.) Kisses planted grow rainbow flowers at twilight. We were waiting for twilight, that day. I pushed your fingers back into place on your hands, kissing the tips of each one. You cat-purred, I bird-screamed. Twilight rolled in like a fog, smooth and beautiful, the way it does sometimes in autumn. We didn't need anything more.

I Modestly Trudge OnMuck plastered and carcass ridden:
the earth is a burial ground
where humanity went extinct long ago.

And we, the souless wanderers left,
we hope for a new meaning, a new life...
We hope, and we pretend desperately
that hope is enough

to keep us human.

ListeningListening

When the angel speaks, Mary dips a finger
into the wine, holds it out for the angel to taste.
This may be the last thing
of the world .... The angel's tongue
wraps around her finger, a string tied tight.
Mary wants to remember the cracked cup,
the wind fluttering like a trapped moth,
the taste sharp as a pinprick in her mouth.
"Chosen," the angel calls. But Mary is listening
to the scrape of an oxen's hooves
as he drags a cart, wheels crunching leaves,
the last thing .... She already knows.
She sniffs her hands: eucalyptus, pungent, crushed,
a bright thread tying her to this world.
"Innocent," the angel says. "No," Mary answers.

keepsakein old boxes we keep
next to spider web walls and heirloom
root cellars

small pieces of ourselves

watermarked
hoarded like weapons from the
enemies within

the shrapnel of unsettled palavers

waiting
for the right time on the wrong day
or
the right day but the wrong time

to echo sharp olloquies
thought erased with the analgesic
ebbing of time

salvaged from boxes
and back to the surface
displaced

like sickness in gingerale dreams

confined to the marginsapproximate silence has killed
our mystique with dancing out of time
proto-
vertebrates conscribed

to the physics of a ripple

See there's the girlSee there's the girl
The girl who's losing grip
Who is slowly losing everything
her screams of pain and sorrow
Fill her heart.

Do you hear her
Can you see her
Can you
Listen to her
Look at her scars that bleed

She means no harm
She's just dying inside
Help her before she's gone
Don't let her slip

Do you hear her
can you see her
can you listen to her
look at the scars that bleed

There she lays
The girl who cried out
the girl who everyone
Laughed at
The girl who did the permanent
Solution to a temporary problem.

DO you hear her
Can you see her
Can you listen to her screams
Look at her she's six feet under now

catch and releaseproselytizing disparate discoveries
opined by rusty keys
contraindication was a craze
that could rout us through these doldrum days
hegira fed and ostentatious
quicksilver in a haze

and drawn the perfect line, i've never
usurped the universe
inscrutable,
re-usable,

but i can't spit out the hook...

She stands tallShe stands tall and brave
no pain is clear,
but look in her eyes
and you see
the mask of fear and
sadness.
she has a secret
a small one
but it is big
she
fakes
her
smiles
her
laughs
anything
she
tries to
hide
her
pain
with laughter
and falseness

she is slowly slipping
losing her sanity
her grip on that fragile line
she calls her relief.

You see a girl
that smiles every day,
but maybe she has a
secret one like no other
a plain to escape
the hell
she calls earth.

ProphecyProphecy

Above the kneeling angel, a sun dangles,
a ball of yarn. I want to unravel
what they did to me. Mary crosses her arms,
an X of blue cotton. They hung her son
on an X, cedar planks haphazardly nailed together,
no pattern, only
what has already happened.
I want prophecies,
warnings, road signs, a hand that scrawls,
their hands deep inside me,
claw hammers. Under Mary's blue robes,
red cloth drips, the folds gathering
into a puzzle on the floor.
The painter knew the end,
so he shaped the beginning so
there could be no other end,
no, if only I ....could I?

DepressionI visited my psychiatrist today
and in an office with no evident emotion
no obvious soul beyond a Gettys image
in a painfully drab frame
screwed firmly into a pale green wall
that matched the colour
of his uninspired suit
he told me
that people like me
infuriate him,

he said that six months earlier
he had been told that he
only had mere months to live
and that he had been clutching, snatching,
grasping onto every second that he had left.
His light brown skin creased and
cracked as he told me this,
frail grey hair fell onto the lines of his forehead
and I said nothing
aware of my body swallowing itself in shame,

'So to see a person,' he sai

ThawAs you are loaded
into the back
of the ambulance,

you thank God
that something
is happening at last.

gumshoedear Detective:

Nixon had his enemies,
and I have mine,
and for reasons it seems
you count yourself among them
but i'm sure we can find some reasonable terms
in the body of these mandatory matriculations
somewhere in the median,
of this semblance of humanity,
can we not surely coalesce?
like a mortise and tenon and calmly recite
common sense compartmentalized

[the new permutations on the plateau]

so if you'd please reign in your dogs
with their electronic ears and
surveillance eyes
and now longer beware of the darkness;

i'll share with you when and just how
slowly you'll die

yours truly,

the Abyss

The Gorgon's lullaby:The Gorgon's lullaby:

The gorgon sits on the rock on the edge of the world
she see's nothing but the dark sky, nothing there
she was all alone in the world
not one soul to comfort her
not a set of eyes to turn her way
seeing hatred everywhere but she says to herself
its going to be okay because i'm here with my sister's
these heavy hands curl around rocks and tree's
never to see another living soul
for if she does
she'll turn them into stone
where she could only stare but never have any interactions
the Gorgon's lullaby is the only thing that keeps her calm
as her wings stretch out behind her
she lets out a soft hiss
nothing else is h

Ding dongDing dong

A burning we will see tonight.
Ding dong the witch is dead,
pussy in the deep dark well.
Harvest a green witch.
Weak is the knife held by the child.
But the Greenman will sew up the chasm
which you planted,
which I plaited
Into a belly of winter wheat.
Do you have to tear?
I have no liking for pain
despite the scars,
despite the seams.
There can be no knowledge without the knife
but did you have to tear?

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More from ~ExistenceWeSummonYou

TropicalNow the Noon: An ectypal eternity not
permeable to our processions of undulating numbers

but still

letting echo back
aspects of its necessity. So the future
is sown into the present, is sketched
as if ghosts have been sent
to fetch shadows from the sun's dreams. So
there comes an extension that, through space and time,
combs the surface of our flesh. And, by the tech that tumbles out,
pierces us shallow. But
bellow the poems

this heliotropic trudge -
the world is wider than its circumference. So

as I look across the tree, the archetypal eternity
edges into my organs
shaking its mane, moving its eyes
into my mind. So
that I m

poma and poiemaYou brush my body with the tip of your eyes. You
hold your own body before me like a pledge: Let me
recover the riddle, uncover the flesh. That it
might bear us back
to where the world began.

The warmth of it whispers unseen motions: The heart
beating, the blood
wrestling oxygen from the air. Let us

break breath together. Or burn lungs to be
the embers, the dancing dust. Fire to fire,
I bow to you. Tongue wrestling

words from the air: Love
for all our nakedness
still hidden between lungs. I try
to give it shape, paint it with a poem. Love like warmth
whispering out of that veiled history
where you and I began. Love like the

Made Up Word: YestleThe opposite of nestle, to yestle is to yearn outwardly. It fights for a future that subsumes the past. Tries to wire the air with a sound that explodes in the middle of faces. The sort of sound that popples through a too-content population, then pops to the moon. Yestling is saying yes to becoming.

The Heart-in-ItselfMy bodies - I have one
for each day I'm alive - keep
popping off into the past.

Today's is made black and blue
by language trying to break in, rummage
around, look for the heart, that the heart

might be pulled out, hung over me and prayed to:
"Here I am," I'd say. "May the marl of my mind
prove true fertilizer for the words that we need.

Love, for example. That love might live
like a tree, reach in every direction and like
your arteries arc its blood into every flesh

of the greater body that we become." And
the heart's beating, high there, would
summon the other believers back.

SongI am a thousand moments of forgetting from the first
mooring when I met you. Still I am held to the earth
by the impossible hope of having you. I walk out
into an air polluted with your absence. My way
of seeing the world is carved by your memory: I
only eye the autumn leaves because we once
shuffled through them together. I will find you
everywhere; I will touch the tree that bears your name
that you might flicker into me. I will tear open
my mind for a glimpse of your shadow.

Death to death. In an elaborate blooming. But death too
is a dunce. Doesn't know the world. Where it's going.

I walk out with the heart of not-having. A hu

UglyI found my body out back in a dumpster,
strange scrunch of screaming tissues.

I tried to feel it. Frustrations flaked off,
fled into a wisdom of shut eyes.

I tried to whisper reason at it;
it lunged with mirthless laughter.

I groaned as it lashed me with its string
of grotesque demands. I managed

to drown it in dreams, and ate
the bloated remains, let my bodi-
less mind, free of gravity, make
its way to the stars. But the stars

were fat with smirking and I
was plunging into a dumpster as I
grope toward knowing these stars are my body.

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Entity and/or Entity

by ~ExistenceWeSummonYou, Jan 1, 2013, 6:03:01 AM
Literature / Poetry / Transgressive / Free Verse

'We' means yes in french, but it's
more complicated than that. If only physics
were so generous as to be true, but a thing
can enter a thing and the thing
will still be empty: Clop-clop through the tall
grass and the threatening wind, the I
outwits a maze of foreign memories
and then becomes the I-as-you,
the pronoun at the end of the mine.

Entity and/or Entityby ~ExistenceWeSummonYou

Literature / Poetry / Transgressive / Free Verse

Empathy! Iris Murdoch: "Love is knowledge of the individual." So it's language that blurs the body.

`FuzzyHoser Jan 3, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Ohmywhoa. This is the most interesting thing I've read in a bit. I amb loving this!

~ExistenceWeSummonYou Jan 6, 2013

Hey! I amb loving that pun.. And thank you.

`FuzzyHoser Jan 6, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Haha...good deal. (:
My pleasure, Justin!

`FuzzyHoser Jan 6, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Haha...good deal. (:
My pleasure, Justin!

*Rainyhawaii Jan 1, 2013

"He had a word, too. Love, he called it. But I had been used to words for a long time. I knew that that word was like others: just a shape to fill a lack; that when the right time came, you wouldn't need a word for that anymore than for pride or fear." ~ William Faulkner, in As I Lay Dying

This is a wonderful poem by which words are just symbols to represent the object and not the object themselves and other things that follow that concept. (Or, that's what I get from it.) And with this poem, if it verily be your belief, do you believe we should be able to summon such things as 'love' or the like, with mere words; symbols, and not what they are themselves?
Another quote you may be interested in: [link] a little existentialist though.

Oh, and I think 'yes' in French is spelt as 'oui' not 'we'.

~ExistenceWeSummonYou Jan 2, 2013

Thank you very much.

William Faulkner! I love that quote, and 'As I Lay Dying' has to be one of my favorite novels ever.

No, I don't think you can summon an emotional state with merely the word that symbolizes it. I think words are built up by the experiences they symbolize, and then depleted when they're used outside that context. Like, if you say 'love' when you actually feel love, it makes that word more meaningful and powerful to you... but if you say it later to describe love, when you're not actually feeling love, then that makes the word weaker and less meaningful.

That being said, I think a poem or a novel can be an experience in itself - I think if you counter-balance words in the right way, if create the right tension between them, and exploit the natural music of language, you CAN evoke a real emotional state (like love) in a poem... but you have to be really, really good.

Wow! What a thought provoking question, and what a great comment. Thank you so much.

(Ay, 'oui' is misspelled, but I wanted to highlight the inter-lingual pun.)

*Rainyhawaii Jan 2, 2013

You're very welcome.

I'm in the middle of the book right now. xD

I didn't think you would. And that's an interesting stand point. So if you use it a lot only when you feel it could it end up evoking that emotional response, when you use it to try to describe it, in an intensity that would be equivalent to any of the other times used? (Bad phrasing)

This seems to be the exception to your earlier statement: literature. If done in the right way it makes sense that it would be a little more than possible. (as opposed to plausible)

(Aye, that does work to the effect of the poem. And is a great set-up for the end of it. Well done.

)

*lombregrise Jan 1, 2013 Professional Writer

~ExistenceWeSummonYou Jan 2, 2013

Thank you!

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