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A in the absence of casual divinity

saintedmad 17 Mar 2017 Tag: l'ecriture 2 comments, leave your own..


nothing is like me, but the sun
burning coldly; an afternoon spent
in despondent silence, a brilliant curse
muttered in the beginning of the bed.

of course, i remember everything with audacious colour
and i think i climbed over you to get to the place
where no one else ever was.

i think.

i feel the black green quiet.
the sky is sad and i wonder what i could do to you
if i fastened myself into the arms of a recluse
and never made another word?

ordinary sounds, so... ordinary
and again, ordinary heavens pressing on my temples.
there is more screamed out in the unutterable.
thoughts rising every night with curves and arrows.
such transgressions of being, and how do i know
that it isn't a paperdoll effect that cuts me;

i do love the moon in her rotting orb.
i find her shaved and bandaged and bound.

i know her womanly sickles 
and her cells and how i appear rough
                 [you said that already]
under the blanket, like a poor crow's carcass
stuffed back with cries of any thing unadorned.

but i dream urgent.
and i dream that i have smothered the living
with the dead, and buried the stars that spoke out
loudly; this glass looks back.

and if i hold my heart outright [out, right?]
the strange softness begins again.

so i do.

hold the cry 
the burning,

Words: 238 / Updated: 17 Mar 2017 / © Copyright

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1 Recent Comments

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After_hours 1 year, 3 months ago New Comment

Firstly, i'm not trying to be critically harsh. For me the last couple of yours have been lacking..something, comparatively speaking. Not sure what it is and by know means are these writes 'not good'.. they are good, but as I said in a prior comment, if you put up poems that literally effect the reader throughout the day/days ahead, & then post 'good/nice' i cant help but scale your submission to what i have come to expect. Thanks:)

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Asomatous 1 year, 4 months ago New Comment

I have thoughts like some of these often. How lacking, how ordinary the acts of words, once formed, and the dully melodramatic shapes they make, so meaningless beside the unutterable. Ordinary heavens. What we are that isn't this is an essence that rough physicality misses by miles. The ~*what*~ we are, not the mind, not the rotting orb but the light that plays on a crow's wing and the black that refuses to absorb it, adorned only in that barest remnant of evening. You ask, so softly, for that ~*something more*~ because you are the place no one ever was.

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