The Devil In Me

I linger in the archipelago

Of your half-eroded smile

Too close to coexist

Bits of me are confiscated

By the magnetic field within you

And I am not myself

Answering your impositions

As if they were

The pages of my very own diary

*

I took this bizarre image of myself and there is something spookily empty about the face and it gave me the idea for this poem. That weird mass on my head is hair. I have tinnitus, crazy alarm going off loud tinnitus so I really couldn’t write anything satisfactory I am lucky I managed anything given that I want to remove my own head at the moment.

 

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For the Moment

She waits in the vortex

Manatee or mermaid

I know not which

But a blast of expectant

Smiles and tears

Escapes the chromium skein

Of my vigilant sneer

Whenever she pirouettes

Into my karmic vicinity

 

The transmission of Vaseline

Between our illicit flesh

Is a welcome reception

An invasive hello

Culled from a plethora

Of star-crossed echoes

 

A pivotal excursion

A conveyor of bedlam

Locks of cinnamon hair

And eyes the color

Of bleeding aster

I could have loved her once

I might love her still

Her dichotomy divides me

As a wager and I might

Lose everything

For a moment spent 

*

I had fun with this one and I needed it because I got in my head yesterday and was feeling pretty uneasy and unconfident when I started. This is fictional and I wrote as a male. 

Cosmogonic Waltz

Diana El-Hadid

The trees are cavernous here

With veins as sparing as fortune

A dearth of affinity

Misconstrues potential

And I am not exactly holding out

For what might have been

Given that what is

Has perpetual motion

 

I drink wine from the chink

In your armor as the blood

Of an enemy I wish to translate

And we are enemies of a sort

The kind in whom tension

Forms adhesions of incomparable mirth

I think I’ll marry you

Living on the momentum

Of your antagonistic wiles

The same way stars ricochet

When cast into open water

 

I’ve discovered the source of your births

Which occur intermittently

Every few months with great fanfare

And little profit

Somewhere the universe smiles

Having recognized the tides

In some distant galaxy

As your laughter spilling over

Your contributions may not effect

This planet especially but the vibration

Of your heart is the only

Music I can sleep too

Delirium of Violets

My nerves will never subside

The thought of you scatters

The debris wild within me

We will never be domestic

Even when the day rests

My heart still partitions

A little more space

For the man who has

Answered everything

Even the existential why

 

These bonds are not tethers

But feathers filled with sky

Even if imperfect, the hunger

Within me feds the appetite

Within you and we are

A plague of butterflies

A delirium of violets

The necessity of dust

We fight for every breath

Knowing that forever

Is not a question of when

But a promise to reside

*

If I am not around today it’s because Sam is working on my laptop. For some reason I am having a hard time getting it to connect to the power source.

This is for Tale Weaver’s Prompt I am not good with the mushy stuff hides face

S Slashed

Richard Keeling

We of the swollen carapace

Shall know pain mightily

Shall learn when to hold

And when to surrender

But until then we carve

Our ruts especially deep.

 

The world is a petri dish

And my expectations

Are irrelevant to the duration

Of my species as a whole

I speak for no man who does not

Possess a heart and tongue

Equally capable of noise

Sometimes there is even

Music between us

A kind of invertebrate symphony

Our flesh more easily stitched

Than bone or is it?

 

No amount of persuasion

Could draw this veil aside

For there is always another

Willing to negate the privilege.

We are alive but only just

Who among us can face

The collective consciousness?

We’ve created a society

That is contradictory

To life and our sorrows

However, scarce their content

Cannot find amelioration

In any known conquest

 

We contend that as children

We lived but every whisper

Contains its dose of poison

To be is to be had, to become

For the sake of an approximation

That in conflict does not stand

 

There are no eyes only

Pits of contagion

No smiles only frowns

Of inebriation worn askance

No hands without blood

For mercy does not fill

Leather as hate does

The seismic universal

Of self-worth is S slashed

 

We never look into the fires

That we have lit unless

We’ve found in some

Fool a culprit or alibi

There is no accounting

For denial, we survive only

In this moment

No matter how precariously

The future rests

*

I got too excited about the prompt Jen suggested so I went ahead and wrote something. I might have to move that challenge up in my schedule lol This is just where my mind took me on reading it.

No

Leonora Carrington

Who could relieve my biology

These spiteful yearnings?

A victim of design

Rather than election

These imperfect suits

Of flesh do not

Accommodate the mind

And the heart

Has no where left

To go but through.

 

Could you spare me

The humiliation

Of reduction?

My eyes fumble

On the tides

Of incursion

Your staggered smile

Breaks wind

Could it be

That you speak

More than necessary?

Cruel in emphasis

A simple no would stand

*

I tried to write a poem but my nerves are absolutely shot I have an important test to take today yikes!

Stolen 7

Does time succumb to itself as all things must or is it merely a transparency? A recursive jest into which all men needlessly fall? I was 23 and still living at home. I had the means to acquire separate lodgings but my father’s health delayed their acquisition.

I bear such a strong resemblance to my father that I cannot offer a judgment as to his appearance that is not in some way biased by my own insecurities. I can only say that his illness had altered him unfavorably. His black eyes were all but ensconced behind his cheekbones. How the geography of his face could shift in such a traumatic fashion I cannot say but it was not for want of research. The webbing between his fingers had risen to the first knuckle and no matter how often we pruned his flesh it continued to grow back thicker. Though I knew not the etiology of his ailment I knew that eventually his hands would be swallowed by the metastasizing flesh. I knew that his eyes would soon disappear for each day his vision grew dimmer for impediments. A surgeon without eyes or hands was a detriment to his profession, he could not be reconciled. Had he been able he might have killed himself. He had started to use a wheelchair though I could detect no deformity that might account for the sudden loss of mobility. I only knew that when he stood his body gave way beneath him. He was only 55, his bones were still strong, his muscles still firm and pronounced I did not know if his weakness was of the mind or if gravity itself had betrayed him.

“Open the chest..” We stood in the basement, in my father’s room. I had been here many times now with consent though always in his presence. The chest he pointed too was the same one that I had refused to open as a child. My palms began to sweat, my heart took on notes of hysteria. I felt just as I had all those years ago and yet I offered no audible objections. I stood stupidly for a long while as if I could not comprehend my limbs well enough to articulate a purposeful activity. I moved but it was only to shift my weight.

“Come now Eli…I didn’t raise you to be a coward…” He motioned a stump in the direction of what I knew was a coffin. Inside there would be another meatless corpse, another body of meager and unfortunate proportions. I knew that those bones would resemble my father, what he was becoming and that I needed to see them in order to understand what was to come. Was this to be my future as well?

I opened the chest and inside were the bodies of two creatures, their bones were partially fused. I could not tell if they were human but I knew that they had never lived outside of the womb. The bodies were small, each one only slighter larger than my palm. Their bones were nearly translucent and I felt that if I touched them I might irreparably alter their shape. The skulls and hands of the fetuses were deformed just as Elizabeths’ were and more completely than my fathers.

The names inside the casket read “Elijah and Elizabeth…” Elizabeth was the name of the child in the adjacent box. My name was Elijah just like my father though no one referred to me such. “I don’t understand…who are these children?” My father wheeled his chair closer, so close that his knee brushed my elbow. “Those bones…” He kicked the chest with his foot causing the lid to fall and my heart to jump into my throat.

“They belong to you…and the sister you murdered…” My father’s breath smelled strongly of wine but he did not slur his words. “You’re drunk…” I said coldly though I could not verify one way or the other from his comportment. “I am not drunk…I only pretend to be an alcoholic around you and your mother…do you really think I’d sabotage my career over a petty vice…no son I was never a mean drunk…I am simply an asshole…” My father retorted.

“Then your mad the illness has gotten inside of you…eaten away that brain your so proud of…” I answered and though I tried to sound assertive my father’s words had shaken me. Was the reason I could see ghosts really that simple? Had I killed my sister for nutrients and then died in the refuse of her flesh?

“These are your children then? The babies she lost…the one’s that weren’t normal? My siblings? Why do they all have the same name?” I demanded. My father rarely employed humor but if ever he did I imagined it would be cruel.

“Would you rather that I called you Elijah Number 2?” My father snapped as if the entire topic was somehow beneath his consideration.

“You’re a heartless bastard….” The words came out underneath my breath and in a tone I did not recognize.

“If I were completely heartless I never would have married your mother…that woman was a pointless distraction but a distraction with which I could not part.” I didn’t want to talk anymore, my emotions had a reached an impasse. I was conflicted. My jaw gripped, my hands gripped. If I could have willed myself into stone I would have done so but I could not render myself into a compatible state of stoicism.

“To answer you previous question…they were our children…though they never amounted to much as you can see…your mother and I were not genetically compatible…that’s what makes you such an achievement Eli…” I felt sick to my stomach though I had nothing to exhale having eaten nothing recently. I felt my vision tear at the corners, the elongated images sliding apart reluctantly. I knew that I spoke but not what I said, only that it sounded to my ears as an incantation. I wanted nothing more than to erase my father from existence.

“Eli….Eli wake up….you’re scaring me…” Thyme’s voice was frantic, her white hands gripped my shoulders. I faced the closet door, my posture wooden, at some point during the night I had sat up. The closet door was wide open and though it was pitch black in the room I could see the X clearly. Was it an impression or did the symbol emit radiance? I caught the very end of my demonic mutterings but I could not decipher the words. “Who are you talking too?” I laid my hand on top of Thyme’s to console her. It was not a hand at all but a shovel made of flesh and bone.

I sat up in bed covered in sweat, I patted the mattress beside me but it was empty. Where had she gone? Did I have the dates confused? Had we even met yet? The sheets still smelled of her but they were ice cold.

The door opened suddenly uprooting my heart. My father stepped inside switching on the light, it was not unusual for him to impose on my sleep but he’d never done so when in company. He wore a tailored suit as was his custom, his thick black hair was combed neatly, it was the middle of the night or so I surmised from the black windows. “I need your help to move a body…get dressed….” I grabbed my pants not worrying about exposure because I knew my father would not wait for a reply. Though I could not recall my dream the sight of him both angered and terrified me.

“Where is she?” I demanded. My father made a face which bellied his impatience. “Who do you speak of Eli?”

*

I honestly can’t believe I have written so much of this story. I had some heinous nightmares last night because of it though.

Stolen 6 (1000th Post!)

Black Absinth@Deviant Art

The party was in its final hour. I was 12 years old, the decorations reflected my maturity but the change seemed too abrupt, too inclusive. There were no games, no presents beyond those of practical necessity, even the guests had aged considerably. The children who had been coerced in previous years to attend were no longer made to do so. I had no friends and I found myself nostalgic, missing my cousins who had been the only genuine guests I’d ever known. I was miserable, a state I was all too happy to inflict. It was bad timing that my mother should cross my path in that very instant, when I was so very near an eruption. I did not think that I would cry as I was advised never to do so and I did not think I would scream because the character of my voice scarcely permitted it but my words were at times formidable.

“How did they die?” I took the stack of emptied dessert plates from my mother’s bony hands. She looked resentful for my consideration. Her smile was a glitch, a snarl that she could not in company fashion.

“Who do you speak of Eli?” She asked distractedly, her voice unusually sharp. With the party nearing conclusion her anxiety had risen and she was no longer able to effect an aura of complete civility, particularly among those for whom the facade was not quite so necessary.

“The twins…” She grabbed me by the elbow and guided me into the kitchen.

“We’ll discuss this later Eli…we have guests….how would Emilie feel if she overheard?” She looked genuinely concerned as she peered out into the sea of writhing voices hoping perhaps to extract that singular tone. Emilie was not in attendance but I did not dispute this point.  I sympathized with my mother I knew that she loved her sister and that her concern now went beyond diffusive posturing. I also knew that she would never speak of this in private and that if I upset her too much I would draw the wrath of my father. To attack her with an audience prevented her from causing a scene, it was a dirty trick but the only means by which I might derive an answer.

Though it was cruel, I held a single dish over the wastebasket , the color drained from my mother’s face. I have no idea what I intended in making the gesture, much less if I would carry the threat to completion but my mother knew. She closed the kitchen door and motioned for me to sit the dishes in the sink.

“You must understand those children were Emilie’s whole world…she would have gladly died a thousand deaths on their behalf….she was a good mother…as girls we made a promise that we would never repeat the mistakes of our parents…a promise she alone kept…” My mother’s wounded face made me angry. How could I subject her to what was so obviously a traumatic memory?

“Foster has something of a temper…don’t misunderstand me he would never raise his hand against a woman or a child but he has a temper which has not served him in matters of employment…his education is limited and his reputation has all but blacklisted him….he takes on menial jobs from which he is soon fired…Emilie took up teaching to help supplement their income…” Foster was my uncle. I was aware of his faults and of the great affection he had for my aunt.

“The children being so young….I sent her a nanny to help look after the boys…I-I thought I was doing the r-right thing…Lillian came so highly recommended…I was only trying to spare them…the thought of three young children running around the house…the mess….and her boys were so energetic…so happy I could not bare to look at them and then to see your sullen face in comparison…knowing that I had made you so….” My mother was doing her best not to cry but it was having a terrible effect on her appearance. Her lips had a queer bluish tint as if she could not reconcile her breathing. A deep breath would have turned into a sob, a sob into heaving, which would have slowed the momentum of her delivery. She wanted to be finished with the story that she might never again be forced to speak of it. I was moved by her honesty.

She put her hand over her face as if to effect a veil. “Lilian came highly recommended and her services were exemplary….the boys adored her….” My mother shrugged helplessly and let her hand fall.

“Lilian fell pregnant…she was married so it was not so strange but she had had many miscarriages before and was afraid to announce her pregnancy too early….a superstition but one that is very difficult for any woman to dispute….time passed and her condition became such that she could not conceal it…Emilie threw her a baby shower….we attended….” I could only dimly remember the event in question, but I could not recall the guest of honor. I found it strange that the nanny had my mother’s name.

“She continued to work for Emilie into her 2^nd trimester even though her obstetrician advised against it. Emilie kept her chores minimal as a precaution but she could deny the need for assistance.

Lilian was careful and for a time it seemed that she really would become a mother.” My heart sank watching my mother dismantle the roses in the vase before her. The demolition was a way of distracting herself from the words she did not wish to speak out loud. The pain of the thorns tearing at her flesh lulled into her into something like a hypnagogic state.

“Lilian was with the boys when it happened…the contractions began…she was six months so it was still too early…she was small to be so far along…the fetus she carried was small….she prepared a bag…but the situation must have taken a turn for the worst because she never left the house…” I did not look at my mother as she spoke but at the petals coagulating underneath her distressed fingers.

“I do not know exactly what happened…but she began to bleed profusely….she locked herself in the bathroom so the boys wouldn’t see but they’d witnessed enough to be scared….she lost her child…that far along it is quite a horrible thing to see…her previous miscarriages had all taken place in the first few weeks…this was more than her psyche could withstand…something within her broke Eli…she went mad….she was not herself not the woman I-I hired to watch my n-nephews….she was so weak from blood loss I have no idea where she found the strength….” My mother’s eyes were dead, her voice fissured, she did not look at me.

“She filled the bathtub with water…she got in….I think she meant to die herself but the boys were likely pounding and shrieking at the door….she drowned them Eli and then died herself…for a time at least but she alone was revived…perhaps she was dead when she committed the murders…she loved those boys Eli…you must believe me…I feel myself more a murderess than she…” She looked at me now her eyes were dry and panicked. She seemed on the verge of screaming, she grabbed my hand before I could move. Her blood should have been warm but it was ice cold.

“Do you believe me Eli? You must believe…I loved those boys…she loved those boys…the baby wasn’t right…Lilian’s baby…it wasn’t going to be a normal baby…she can’t have normal babies…you were so perfect Eli so beautiful on the outside…” My mom was scaring me now, I broke her grip and fled upstairs in a panic. That’s when the screaming started, the bone tunneling howl, that went on for days. I had heard that scream before but I could not place it chronologically.

The Terminal (Wordle #27)

I watch a spider amble across the platform; the emblem on his abdomen, savage as a gangster’s tattoo. He means no harm in passing and yet the enormity of his imposition fractures my nerves. If I held him he would fill my palm, his colors are extraordinary, his genus unknown. There’s a certain freedom in instinct, a freedom that civilization does not permit. I envy his resolve, his nonchalance, the fashionable top hat, which suggests his phantasmagorical nature. From birth my instincts have been a point of contention and if a glass I would have sweated every moment. The condensation of two irreconcilable extremes, that is who I am in summary.

I turn my attention to a retinue of argyle-socked swindlers idling inside a coffee shop. Manners over morals, the world’s manifesto. They speak furtively behind white mugs, their huburistic tongues molting like limestone. Their lockers no doubt have identical bags and jackets, mine has a box of old journals crippled with years of heavily upholstered monologues. My secrets are like bronze statues, shiftless, insurmountable.

I glance at my watch, the numbers confirm my impatience. I take several pointless trips around the terminal just to stretch my legs. I purchase a book on the return journey but someone has taken my seat. I take the seat beside her and peel back the cover slowly as if a pair of silk stockings. The first line reads “I died as I lived, alone.” I close the book there isn’t much more to be said I suppose. I glance at my watch again, the skin of my wrist is raw and sticky. The contents of my veins have soaked the sleeve, the vertical line is proof of conviction. The woman beside me is blue and dripping wet. She is negligibly dressed, a predicament of which she is self-consciously aware. She covers her pert nipples with folded arms and scowls in my direction.

*

I combined the two prompts, the sentences in bold are my 6 word sentences. My wordle words are: spider, platform, savage, condensation, argyle, hubris, locker, cripple, upholstery, bronze

The Chase

October Moon Stepping Stones

 

I chase your lupine eyes into the moon,

Into the witch’s revolving hands

Which darken at times

As a water-lily in expiration.

Between motes of regolith

Your ether feigns hunger

I’ll die first or trying.

 

My fingers ghost your enigma

Plucking the seams of your seamless smile

I want to straddle your bones

In the light of a thousand fornicating fireflies

To be the man who doesn’t depart in dawning

*

I checked out a book on surreal poetry today and I just had to try writing something of my own =)