Established

Disguised

Useless.

Bark, century-thick

Leaning away from- Him.

And the ‘who’ is irrelevant

There is none.

There is just a wall

A guilt-laden wall

Unclimbable.

Greyed lavender

Giving its all

To one-sided intent

Slamming short,

The ruler here is untouchable

Victory-less

As there is nothing to win.

Nothing to fight

Established.

Owned. In this madness

Chosen, the abuse has merit

To preside over the stale accusations

Making them relevant. Course ground

To have caked on what was never

My belief to begin with.

“These rules…” Take them

Eat them…

Make them You.

And for what?

To cater to the diagnosis

Of a blurred victim, who

Lost sight of a world that was yanked

At birth? At birth? At birth…

Do you hear that? Who could

Call themselves ‘Mother’

While having a hand

In that?

Elephants

Afternoon, spliced light

Seeing through the nothing that sits there.

Obvious in its abatement of elephants

Floating through time

Rummaging for anything

But what is wanted- most.

No more questions.

Just a pilgrimage of sound

Entering into Ego, inflating who once stood tall

Among the orbit of my energies

Orchestrating the ooze of our chorus

And splatter-painting the dark pink interior.

It is all a history of sound

A painted memory hung in olfactory galleries

Leaning on cells not yet dissolved.

Perforated snapshots with buckling edges

Guilting the body into a more articulated gate

Into the hands of others.

Desperation leads the waning light

In through well-oiled doors, locked to nothing

Now that the influx of possibilities has generously widened.

The goal-setting  time has clung to my movements

A queue of patient procedures that nod their head in ‘now’

Ready the arm to ardently welcome the stronger lead.

I am backed now, by my own understanding.

Mindful more than ever of the ‘where-to-from-here’

Long-settled dust blows free, along with stubborn tendencies

Into the cavern of necessities’ dictates.

Stretching now for the longer run.

Into the upgrade I have earned.

Half-cooked Rice

Raw.

Migration to another

Higher on the food chain.

O Torturous soul

I hear you, “...this has got to die…”

“The pillow in your pillowcase, is easier to touch.”

Angular in the way he needs to be

According to all my feminine curve

How is it that these shapes without eyes,

See purely, the notch-fitting grooves?

The live-wires running to mate at the center of ‘that’ gravity.

This sense of sound far surpasses that of sight, scent, touch.

“This has got to lie down,

...with someone else on top…”

“You can’t make me happy quite as good as me…”

“This has got to die”

That shade of chin, that strumming perfected wrist

That channeling through of whatever the fuck has snipped his riggers…

I’m sucking in his exhale.

I am inhaling all the angst that he’s mustered and canned

Caring nothing for the origin of why

Collecting instead, the glistening chant of this crowd of one, swallowing whole

Each gust of his chorus.

Chord upon chord, the simplicity is carnivorous

Eating away at the rawness of my guarded sensitivity.

Playing with my innards,

“...lovin’ is good if your dick’s made of wood…”

“..and the dick left inside, only half understood.”

“What makes the animal run, run away…?”

I am built not to run, but to fuckin' recognize.

And Christ Almighty has that been the weakened bone.

Love found in limbs is knocking on roulette

With less of a victorious outcome than I am willing to admit.

Ah, but I have. This aged version of self

Steady at the iron arm’s length, and only then

Admittedly safe under the weight of earned skills

An authority now, on wtf to steer clear of.

“..to dream within the dream…”

“I’ve hung (no more) my happiness on what it all could be…”

“...with you…” -with who? “...with you.”

Ha, here I sit, playing like a schoolgirl with this single-sided banter

Will the soliloquy never end? At 43, (of this specific nature)

Let me hope so.

Lunge

Ripening.
As seasons transition
Cool evenings grant a calmness
Easing Fall into Winter, sublime
This Harvest has been fraught heavy
Gratitude is filling all the half-empty vessels
Corking nothing in the wake of stubborn tensions.

Cumbersome days ahead?
Nonsense to bear witness to such perception
A cumbersome life; preferred.
I will not be stilled by the attendance of what may come.
Lunging in as a silent, steady, ready and willing Main Character.

I am as I have  always been,
But more assertive in my acknowledgement.
Mature. Direct. Informed.

Aging...

"To write from the quiet..." he says
Lend the forum to silence.
In peace, attempt grace.
It is the unknowing
that yields the desired.

To open and empty
breeds effulgence.

There, the uncommon
designates tone.

It isn't secrecy.
It is fluidity.
The wisdom of experience
knows best.
That flow- untainted.
More and more alive
as I age.

descent

I am there
among the moss
both living and dead.
Ascending in my
descent
Alive in the purest way
Without the sound
of verbal impurity
Only the voice of my steps
on hallowed land
that scoffs at fear
and
builds wings upon
strength.

...cut yourself a key...

Space widening
in eloquence and grace.
I find myself questioning
Opening - excavating
Light is born
From a sacred place
...cut yourself a key...
"Let everything breathe"