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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.
stargazersShe lives in a river of stars, intricately weaved into the eyes of Eden
 it's just
the way his roses find beauty in her bramble-berry eyes
watching the sun sink into the ocean
together
waiting for the night sky
 
I will always remember him, eyes dancing, hiding her broken heart
 
Rainwater, hurricanes of lonely gray spilling onto the cloudy sidewalk. The stars are gone tonight.
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
in vitro meatsloth;
sill diffusing the bombs

the crime sorcier of hyper-
sexual plants

this air is so dirty  
the sophists are sweating

while eating their supper, while
scratching their slogans

'to the spine of our eyes
shorthand-surreptitious

and the future assured
on the whim of synthetics
confined to the marginsapproximate silence has killed
our mystique with dancing out of time
proto-
vertebrates conscribed

         to the physics of a ripple

living misslethis was once the center of things
a garrison of mustard seed and sedulous
one-armed scissors

but now summarily surrendered
to the direction of those bred to push buttons
like Theseus throwing

himself to the Aegean
half dissolved and resolved
to be a batter reagent
HumanI don't want to go outside.

It just don't

I hate explaining myself
I hate reality sometimes
I hate being alone
I hate having people around me

I'm sometimes a hypocrite
I'm sometimes a liar
I'm sometimes a procrastinator
I'm sometimes too bunt
I sometimes can't catch a clue
I sometimes don't understand
I sometimes get jealous
I sometimes get scared

I sometimes remember him
and want to slam my head on the counter
to erase what I thought was fatherly love

I'm scared of lots of things
I'm scared of bumps in the night
I'm scared of being touched
I'm scared of upsetting friends
I'm scared of being insensitive
I'm scared of people dying
I'm sca
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
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
currently disclosable informationthey're naked ships on the horizon
smuggling the tender metal-armed children
who will untie our knots and
tend to our fields
raised on impunative
alchemy and indignant occamy

there is quite a strange
thing doing quite strange things
somewhere entrained by the eyes paregoric
a spate of pro-
biotic indifference

and there are some beasts
you can't catch with tackle and bait
ones you must lure
with more orwellian versions of the truth
and those are the ones to keep
locked in small skeleton closets
to smother with pillows and bury

in the basement on christmas eve
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More from *thesquareroot

apogeeit was a weird night on the moon
auburn and crushing
the lungs of the few who still
stalk in her plush

who sustained by a hush
of unsolved umbral equations
have learned how to tread
in the bottomless deep

and were taught in its womb
of the sharp hesitation
it takes to move homegrown limbs
in this midnight of sleep
the sunspot apocryphathe bright lights mesmerized us
pale aleatory ethos
space junk in the vortex feeding
ineluctable

and the holy ones script questions
such as

  'what have you offered to us lately'

and our epistolary answers have
again failed to impress
disposable penone lung full of air
       ::i can feelwhat youthink i see::
that's when the manque sets in

and we're again caught chasing        
bright bolis in the macrocosm
adjunct
avatars of sleep

stationary targets hovering
amongst the elite
the worst kind of sponge

gods without men
to bow at their feet

and tell them that nothing went wrong
onychophagiain the magnet's coil
rusted mustard yellow
Lazaretto,
biting nails,

and spitting out the fingers
conduitssome battle fierce behemoths
scalene bombasts building polymers
from asymmetrical blocks
while others sip

the sweet syrup of cisterns
fey constructs of a feint battle cry drunk
on power outages and distilled expectations

and others still
hated yet undaunted
are ruling potemkin villages by trope
invulnerable

interspersed with battle scars
and all are eyeing
with trained intention

blueblack edges of the atmosphere
painting by imaginary numberthe dots always connect looking backwards
it's getting them to align in the forefront that's the trick
seeing past the supercells and motherships
past the things carved in caves and cages,
the faustian and fustian,
the exogenous and endogenous -

to the clarity of imperfectly
hand drawn lines
disenfranchised; pluripotent and aching
to feel the finality of every fold

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[x]

twilight gothic

:iconthesquareroot:

put the sun behind the sky
that pale poison heart that shines
like Antares; a boon

tucked tightly
in its carapace
until the moon completes her nightly feast

of swollen tides and
craven pride -
and our gentle lunacy
:iconheretowrite:
~heretowrite Jan 18, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Beautifully written
Reply
:iconthesquareroot:
*thesquareroot Jan 18, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
thank you. and thanks for the watch as well
Reply
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