[x]

After the home invasionSearching the fridge for petit fors
she realized
she didn’t choose that
…that model
without a handle inside
...her winter box
its taciturn seal
a hag on her chest

untangling hangers in the closet
she recollected
she didn’t notice that
…that price tag
dangling below
...her twisted chapeau
above a wrap of hail
and sleet for slippers

crouching beneath the kitchen table
she remembered
she didn’t stand for this
…this furniture
un-warranteed against
...his macerating
frozen dinner talk
teak hiding the kick

depositing the trash in the shed
she recalled
she didn’t

a love poem: the louvre

a love poem=the louvre

in france, is pretty, i think,
though cluttered,
because all history is loud
in paintings.statuary.furniture;
listen sometimes to your pledge wipes,
they'll tell you
where your dust has been.
we throw too much away.

my rage and
katie's past and
viv's curves and
mabry's crazy(ness) and
cj's manic despair, they hooked up
in the dumpster we tried to leave them in,
they're coming back.
they're rainbowed and
covered in coffee grounds, they smell like
hobos, they're coming back.
i heard berkeley is lovely this time

of the druggie scene, i heard the world is getting
bigger, i heard
touch is the new smell,

pink carnations.

West Delmar Jimmy carries pink carnations
tied with pixie stick paper
home to a woman who dips string in wax
and braids the hair of half-black babies.

He stands behind the bus driver,
he walks uneven red brick
and stops to collect cigarette tails.

The church where he married her has a broken window-
and the aspersorium lies on its side,
and the pew where he cried for King is burned,
and ash whispers the secret language of cracks in wood.

He kisses her where the ear blossoms into floss hair
and her gate-mouth reveals a tongue like pink carnations.
He speaks of rains between cloud cheeks,
he speaks of honey and orange slices

The Double Helix   THE DOUBLE HELIX

        Love begins

    with eyes averted

  pretending not to stare

   at his muscled arms

   like the challah bread

   we’ll break together

   over homemade soup

     in a smashed pot

      Don’t leave me

          Leave me

           Because

         Love grows

&#

Ode To Freddie MercuryOde to Freddie Mercury

I want to ride my
No, no, no, no, no, no,
Don’t you cry
I want to ride my
Bicycle, bicycle
And live and let die
Like a Queen
Under pressure
Of sheer heart attack
And the down trodden
Rising above
The princes of the universe
And let Sparks fly
This town ain’t big enough
For both of us
I’m your backdoor man
Don’t leave me alone
With her-er
I want to break free
I am the champion
of the wor-erld
Made in heaven
I could have been a rhapsody
I could have been a rock
We will
We will rock you
Like a rainbow
Painted black
I just want somebody to love
You’re my best friend
M

Farmers' MarketFarmers' Market

At daybreak, we make our aching bodies rise,
caffeinate, survey the still pink-patched sky,
pray for a dry day. Once loaded, we truck

bushels of produce, potted plants, sawhorse
and board tables, stabilize crates of pie
between bins and strawberry boxes, drive
down the mountain, into town and set up

the fruits of our labors, hoping neighbors
and weekenders alike will buy, eyeing
vendors wares, wishing there was cash to spare.
Down-street, a bow begins to sweep the strings

softly, bringing bed-headed children out
to watch the band set up. An old pup roves
over to the barbeque cart, gambols
off when the butcher

WavesWAVES

Alone

I wake up

In daydreams

Dulce and saline

The surface oh, so

Smooth looms above

But I’ll stay below

'Cause I’m deep

In the ocean

Not in love

And tides and I

Particle and wave

Ripple on the beaches

And back to sea again

Not needing to linger

Anywhere, anywhen

Or care about you

Or roll and turn

Inside my shell

Without you

Yes, you and

Your submarine

Your heat-seeking

Missives and missiles

Crashing on the shore

Breaking sonic peace

Profane not profound

Inscribed in the sand

I’ll never pour over

In sobs and sighs

Swimming away

To the sunrise

As long as I

Through a Watery LensTHROUGH A WATERY LENS

From Eddy’s amnesiac point-of-view,
Each circuit of the fish bowl is one day.
As I watch the fantail swim round and round,
I experience countless sunrises,
Knowing in minutes how I ended up,
Sprawled on my desk with a knife in my back.
Mom told me not to sleep my life away,
But I’ve been somnolent and spineless,
Unprepared for natural selection,
While killers wake up early and sleep light.
Mom told me I should eat my vegetables,
But I have been a creature of comfort,
Yielding to Epicurean cravings.
While killers eat when hungry like the wolf.

From Eddy’s amnesiac point-of-view,

In case of emergencyI saw the roots of prairie grasses
Like carrion beetles in their yellowing shells
Nibbling angrily, at the concrete beneath my feet,
At wood sheared to fence posts near the road.
The very earth they rejected, drawing what peace they could.

When did stained glass become the standard?
I have forged narrow mountain paths and stumbled over
Bottle caps secreted between the mica flakes and quartz.

In this city, in the sectors most pregnant with age,
Trees testify shamelessly into the sky.
Clandestine, one coils his reach toward
A flimsy cable, twisted and strung precariously
From corpse to shabby corpse, on and on.
Graceful and altoge

Things to cry about...Wind in the big leaf maple
on Wednesday morning,
the dapple grey
of sidewalk heat,
the hiss of summer escaping
city grates
and leaning fence posts
around the grange.

Your hands in the
huckleberry pancake batter,
wristwatch turned beige
and fifteen year olds
etching their name
into the dogwood
that leans over the road.

A heron, in the low
tideflats, skimming
the blue,
and crow chicklets
diving toward the earth.

The loneliness of a set
of sheets,
pale green
in the morning sun
and the sound
of every midnight
passed.

Up Every NightUp every night should your body dream I;
wonderfully what your hands do - mine
barely keep you up with.
The unfold of your wings, I feel,
is this better than so many burnt offerings.
Spiced, salted, oiled air with a
grease pen tracing this and that of untidy air -
"unto thee i" obviously
tulips and chimneys dreamings within
heady sleepy-sunrises dreamings,
all back coming to your hip bones.
Sweetly so, your preference
logonomia, a touch of brio with,
mine: bleary skin shut behind eyes.

15 de Julio de 2010The chicken buses here are an adventure -

giving change
with signs
a deaf midget
hits on me

Keeping my eyes wide open -

Mercado La Democracia -
a young boy plays with
a mannequin´s
nipples

Before I knew that this place existed -

Quetzaltenango -
they dated a sidewalk
when I was a sophmore

Attic AngelMy uncle James is prone
to drinking many scotches:
his nose and cheeks are flushed,
his breath is sharp and eyes glassy.
I ask him what it is he keeps
stowed away up in his attic.

He says he has got nothing
stowed up in his attic,
but I know no man
who keeps nothing hidden
away in a padlocked attic.

My uncle James is prone
lying bellydown across the sofa,
his keys are by the ashtray
atop the coffee table.

Padlock removed, ladder climbing
hands begin to tremble now
at this intrusion, this invading
someone else’s private affairs.

The gloomy attic light reveals
a lifesized porcelain figure:
some type of angel
w

Pallid Little ToesI want to massage your feet
with soothing oils and heated water
all mixed up in that red tub
—I promise not to tease
your pallid little toes,
or cease pretending
massaging your feet
is all I’m interested in.

YOU KNOW WHO YOU AREIt is ridiculous
how lazy I am getting
about your letter. Imagine
if my mail box were Alaska
and I were a governor there,
quitting to mount a campaign
to ruin everyone’s lives.
Imagine if I were making bizarre
political metaphors, despite
strict instructions to stop.
Imagine that lately my hair is messy
and my family vacation is in a week
and everything seems stupid
and worthless. Though
I would quite like to send you
a letter, because I
like hearing from you,
and I like thinking
you like hearing from me,
imagine
that my head is in the clouds
and my feet are in the ocean
and my hands are walking away
(I’m hard

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A true romantic, you got down on one knee.
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To Lady Godiva's Horse

by *msklystron, Sep 26, 2008, 9:14:36 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

To Lady Godiva's Horse

I don’t mean to be rude,
But I have to...
Go somewhere over the rainbow
Happy little bluebirds fly, so why?
God, in heaven above!
She’s naked from the waist down, oh stop!

I don’t mean to be nude
But I have to...
Go now, go now, oh how, oh how
Before you see me cry, see me die
Jesus, Mary, Joseph!
She hit that man with her riding crop!

I don’t mean to be lewd,
But I have to...
Be alone again, naturally,
Cut me into little pieces...sigh
Holy mother of God!
She's taking off her baby doll top!

I don’t want to be sued
But I have to...
Just because it hides a nasty stain
I’m not in love, no, it’s just because I...
For the love of God, oh Lord!
Somebody, somebody call the cops!

I don’t mean to be crude
But I have to...
Because love was meant for beauty queens
At seventeen to live I lied, I lie
Father, son, holy ghost!
So unreal, see the make-up, wires and props!

A policeman wrapped her in trench coat
He put her on a Macy's float
She sat upon her horse high
And munchkins on librium
Sang a requiem
In a little rowboat
Clap clap,clap, clap

-- by M. Alice Chown

To Lady Godiva's Horseby *msklystron

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2008-2013 *msklystron

La di da la di da

Insanity by tunes. Credit for borrowed inspriation and lyrics to the creators of The Wizard of Oz, 10cc, the beatles, the Moody Blues and that lonely guy... gah... G-gilbert O'sullivan and that so lovely lonely girl, janis ian... and whoever wrote the 'clap, clap' song.

Based on seeing a woman having a manic attack in the food court of a mall.

~calicokatt Nov 11, 2008

Once again, your writing is just great! I love this, its definately great

Reply

*msklystron Nov 12, 2008 Professional Digital Artist

Thanks for reading!

Reply

*faeriecrone Sep 30, 2008

bye bye Miss Canadian Pie ... well done. Maggs.

Reply

*msklystron Sep 30, 2008 Professional Digital Artist

Another fine old tune. Thanks!

Reply

~Furrylittleproblem12 Sep 27, 2008

Sorry I can't give a good, long comment. I can only say I loved it

Reply

*msklystron Sep 27, 2008 Professional Digital Artist

Thanks!!! I know how busy you are!

Reply

~Furrylittleproblem12 Sep 28, 2008

You're very welcome

Reply

~Ikio Sep 27, 2008

*snaps*
Good stuff.

Reply

*msklystron Sep 27, 2008 Professional Digital Artist

Thanks for reading!

It has a good beat?

Reply

~Ikio Sep 27, 2008

Yes it has some good lines too.

Reply

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