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The nature of inspirationWhen was the last time
You heard the word 'erection' in poetry?
I think it was a while back
Between the pages
Of reform
And Odyssey.

I mean "humans" don't even play
Bogies anymore,
Or just rise to the thirteen year old tree-house
Inside us all
Where politeness is a foul facade
And we aren't afraid of our fingers.

No...
Instead
We prioritise the silhouettes
And forget
The way pressing pen into paper
Made us so
Steamy
And out of
Breath.

Inspiration isn't a pretty, pristine river...
It's magma
Flowing
With taboo,
Glowing
Like irradiated
Lemonade
And it's about time we became
Mutants too.

It's about time
We l

Like petals and leavesWhen she thinks of him, she thinks of tree branches:
spindly fingers spread out, stretching
in angles wide for handfuls of sky.

And she thinks of him.

She thinks of him digging his toes
into soft, damp sand,
wading in shallow depths before
being carried by crescents of the sea.

She thinks of him in a blur of curls, in the
warmth on her waist and the coolness on her lips,

pressing the memories and the maybes
like petals and leaves
to paper.

And she thinks of him.

I Have No Names for all My Teacup BabesI feel always like I am starting over.

As a magpie I gather trinkets under my pillow,
bay leaves and bags of herbs to bring the next lover to me,
to call the next dream-face forward—a picture
painted in the tea leaves.

But truth be told the start-again
is never clean, is never gentle,
and the sweat of all that labour
is a fire on my skin, telling me
I will never resist its wind-cry.

The moon comes when I call, to help me;
midwife, she is, and she carries into being my new selves
like the babes they are, teaches them to
fill long footsteps like hers.

Truth be told, I tire of the destiny
I was given once—I am a teacup

SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.

It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic ki

earth circuitAnd when the sun sinks, the earth's skin crawls:

I.
I wonder if this awkward creature would notice me the way I notice him.
He's so tragic at his throne
I stare after him longingly.
And yet,
He never realizes that I'm the one
Who forever basks in his brilliant beams.
If only he knew how much brighter he could burn
[with me]
He'd light up the universe.

II.
I heard him speak of thirst, once.
The quenching lust of the stars had run dry.
So that night, I brought along a jar of acid.
(And how it gleamed in his glow).
I handed it to him, wrapped in taffeta ribbons,
screaming
I wish curdling joy
On my gurgling boy

Undressing PoetryShe clothes herself in poetry,
seals her skin within the verse.

Each line becomes another garment
that conceals her fixed form's curvature,
but peels away when read.

Last night I dissected a stanza,
clamped it tight between my teeth
and tugged it down her legs.

Her body breathes warm and sweet,
speckled red like a summer strawberry field.

I sucked the juice from her lines and
spit the punctuation like seeds.

My lips mouthed the shape of her words
as my skin grew more sticky with
every splash of imagery dripping down my chin.

I peeled apart her soft pages
with sticky, pink fingertips that left them
clinging to my skin.

A sing

epitaphin the end
when i'm almost gone
and all i've left
is a red lamp
and a ragged song
to pave my way
into the thunderstorm
let every raindrop murmur
i loved you and lost
nothing but emptiness
and the company
of ghosts

fumesthe talk
of my
heart
unfurls,
  wisps

of smoke

Va'eiraThis was a lesson in just how quiet it can be
when you don't make enough noise.

Me, holding a toy gun to a stranger's head
"Remember when things stopped being ridiculous?"

You, eating dandelions in a midnight field
"About the same time things stopped making sense."

A boy in church camp carved a small crucifix
for his arts and crafts project. He won the blue
ribbon and a brand new Bible. The next morning
I found it hanging over our cabin door.
A toad was nailed to the cross.
Still breathing.
Still breathing.

Sometimes we wake up early enough to hide the evil from our world.
Still breathing.

Fireating.Your showcase act,
she who
toes the line between
safety
and
stupidity

tightrope-catwalking,
straightline-kerbstalking
distance edges closer as her
heart rate stalls.

Your glitz girl,
she who
knows the time it takes to
trust
and
practise

horsetrot-swordthrowing
actgets-crowdgoing
her balance was performance but she
fell for you.

Harvest MoonThree a.m. moonlight
across lazy dust motes; a
tree scrapes the window.
Your arm weighs on my hip like
whispered promises of love.

in the seams(a) when I was young I was a robin that stole the eggs from another's nest.
fitted upon my stare there was a warning –
personal's too personal for me, well i
would not use wings if i had 'em.

a child of rye with a silhouette spoiled by the sun, I was, I am.

and sometimes I see some vengeful sparrows still under my fingernails;
their glistening beaks snap melodies that rib a hundred bird-bone cages,
so light you could blow 'em away with a twist of your lungs.

and there are still words jailed between my teeth and my tongue and I do not speak of,
do not think of
them,
but they rattle between bone and flesh and I
drown them s

Let Me Down GentlyI never said I was an angel,
rather,
I'm a feather on its wing,
so when you let me drift
on the next western current,
let me fall slowly down,
d
   r
     i
      f
        t
          i
            n
                g.
I promise I'll land softly,
though you will not find me
where you left me.

beta physicsi.
the rain wrapped impatience around your roof,
bored through the wood like a thousand million termites
(or one you-sized termite, blind, breathless)
and seeped from the cold clockwork like battery acid.

ii.
you lived in a widow's closet -

a house swarmed with antiques
that collapsed in their own gravity
and combusted -

and then you lived in widow's charcoal.

iii.
"galaxies are either lovers or termites," she mused.

(earlier, her fingernails bored into my back
Hubble's thousand million stars, all drops of acid
branding my spine.)

"they are drawn to each other for years
and in an instant, once together,
eat themselves alive.

To Us- Synesthesiai.

every sound
excites a burst
of color; an
exploding
firework,
dancing and
twirling.

ii.

your voice
tastes of mangoes;
sticky
and sweet,
caressing my senses.
your flavor is
personal.

iii.

the letters
all become a
different personality.
"T" is crabby
and "I" worries.
"J" is strong
and mighty.

iv.

closer and
farther away;
each number becomes
its own plane
and point
in space;
perfect details.

v.

all the numbers
form lines
becoming an army
of curvy rows,
swirling round
and round.
a perfect pattern.

vi.

letters take
on colors,
each and every one
a different hue,
a different shade,
forming rainbo

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by *L0NE-W0lf, Jul 15, 2012, 11:13:55 AM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

I unbutton you, kiss by kiss.
I untie you, touch by touch.
I unzip you, rib by rib.

I unfasten you, moment by moment.

by L0NE-W0lf

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

©2012-2013 *L0NE-W0lf

*

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-07-24

* by *L0NE-W0lf ( Suggested by *Mrs-Freestar-Bul and Featured by `thorns )

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*skyeyedangel Feb 17, 2013

Your poems are very nice i posted this one on my face book.

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*L0NE-W0lf Feb 17, 2013

Am I credited there?

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*skyeyedangel Feb 17, 2013

im sorry if i cannot place the poem there i will take it off i can credit you there i think you are

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*L0NE-W0lf Feb 17, 2013

I'd prefer if you could take it off.

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*skyeyedangel Feb 18, 2013

ok i will sorry if i have bothered you do great things with your writings im being honest with what i have done ill take it off have a great day

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*L0NE-W0lf Feb 18, 2013

I do appreciate the honesty.

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*skyeyedangel Feb 18, 2013

yep i took it off when i saw you wanted me too i love your writings keep it up. I respect you and appreciate your hard work have a nice day

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*L0NE-W0lf Feb 18, 2013

Thank you so much. I hope you have a great week!

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*sara-satellite Dec 30, 2012 Hobbyist Photographer

I like the formatting you did. It really emphasizes the poem. For example, the bolded "moment by moment" or the italicized. I don't read a lot of literature on dA, but this has a lot of power behind it.

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*L0NE-W0lf Dec 31, 2012

Thank you so much.

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