Baby, give me gasping galaxies of infernal heat to warm the vacuum where once I lay. Cut dusted fragments of the stars from my body and my mind–it think find its soul which till remembers the last whisper and caress out there where we made our nests in nebulae, powdered our faces in fractal fission and wept at the insane beauty that stretched to the unknowable ends. Give me whetstone tones of tenderness to grind on down these rough edges, I know you will. Fine tune my harmony to match the orchestra, I know you will. Love me gentle and love me brutal, I’ll do same. But, on the nights I go to bathe in the shimmer and glimmer of dead Giants birthing monstrous infinities while listening to shadows hum their lonesome shaded songs….on those nights, I am forever free.
Give me back the good ole’ days,
when I didn’t know I had been a dick,
before my eyes got opened wide
when I didn’t know I was supposed to think that I was slick.
’cause now there’s nowhere left to run,
the drugs aren’t making new connections,
copper wire all stripped bare and caked in black,
who knew that feeling guilty wouldn’t be so fun.
When disassociation was best friend,
wide-eyed ignorance was true enough
shame comes boiling on
like napalm from
the surface of a once forgiving sun.
So self-important in critique
that I’m burying the good parts inside the shit
convinced that its still black and white
and regardless of the truth,
I deserve to be punished.
for the right, the wrong, the sick,
that stupid mindless babble
even my well-intentioned songs.
Keep it all so serious now,
that panic seems always at the door,
instead of basking in the freedom from
that monster inside that damaged so much the world.
Enjoy the chance to roll again,
spin through ridiculously insane normalcy,
let feet hit a brand new road and leave behind insecurities, all fallacies–
—start the insurrection.
Simulacrum bonsai spirit shining bright,
tendril bushings famously tiny
sit so perfectly tight.
Clipped to stand proudly small,
deficiency rests on laurels deep inside
where no one fears the height
but is aware of the fall.
Watered down trivia the company kept,
guessing games fuel creativity
while vices rumble and trouble
until tranquility arrives, envelops and sets.
Your ghost is born on silent words,
freedom found out where they fly
unbound from earth by roots,
out in the open air
where birds sing and lost men die.
The tails on most all the letters go wavy, curl left
to a place they’re drawn to instead of from.
Many, however, jut down aggressively as though engraved,
digging trenches in the flesh of pulped tree skin.
Some lay delicate and feminine in their perfect order
others are hewn out with unkempt urgency and demand.
Each flourish, keystone whimsy given form
holding tight the lines, the words, the sentences.
Reviewing the ink gives eyes a chance to wander
pages strewn with discordant emotional ink stains.
The beauty in being fractured as a human being
is that you speak in many voices while seeking to find you own.
Older man now still chasing the speed of youth,
that magic release it felt like when finally
words would reel off the end of mental tongue
hang lovingly over the thought of pausing
crash headily into a flock of fuck-its
on a once clean and crisp page.
Chase that dragon and his friend,
slavishly bursting with a desire to create
fabricate, detail out something grand.
Have people questioning their perceptions
wondering where time has slid off too
drop by drop, carpe diem, another glass fragment
shifted out the bottom of the hourglass.
There are no epiphanies though,
no monumental Staffordshire bulldogs of arousal
that fucking bark and yap to be released in a crescendo of brilliance.
Just a desire for words it seems.
Something to quell the silence, push it away
give the erratic husks some movement back inside
where all those fiend spun neurons lie gasping.
Deeply depleted, running on random jolts
and chemical cocktails of enthusiasm,
diving for the closest rush of emotional splendor
so that I can etch away its finery
longing and pisspants whining for the chance at joy
but always refusing to bask in happiness.
Because all the words at my beck and call,
And it turns out….
….no, no, no, NO, not another one of these baleful fucking tunes.
Let them slip slumberous and scantily clad,
banshees at a jazz show on Bourbon St.
wailing in satisfaction that they are free and alive
settle down to some post-mortem beignets
a fresh cup of chicory blasted caffeine sludge
one last “hand grenade” to balance the boat
skin those yapping pups into submission
waiting for the dark to creep back in.
Blessings past death and the holocaustic ruin
peppered across an ignoble pursuit of the end of everything
weak-kneed, monochromatic, repetitious cycle rinsed and repeated,
a prayer to consistency and predictability
stability held dear during the wildest storms
even if just to dig one more shovelful.
You carousing, pithy skin sacks of arrogance and shame,
I see you there, you aren’t forgotten.
Clockwork paved roads that seem to spill wheels and gears,
springs and mechanisms all across my feet as I unwind another,
stumbling, less regularly, less urgent the staggering,
less is there that violet hue of madness thickening the air
glossing out the glow that once we all embraced in ourselves,
saw in everyone, sought to share with each stranger.
words and a face shattering grin,
perfect tone, chuckle, and off-kilter phrase
each syllable an expression of fireworks
ruptured too early and spraying fearfully shiny things
spontaneous wonderment at existence.
The belief that if I just keep writing,
The words will lead me inward and home—
—and I’ll finally have something special to share again.
Twirling cosmos viewed through a kaleidoscopic lens,
existence looks fantastical, realities coallesce and transcend.
Vibrant love of colorful patterns shines out bright,
as the dimensions merge, bleed over, and carry us into every glittered night.
God-like moons enchant with prism captured beams,
crossing quantum divides that mark us closer than it seems.
Entangled in your ethereal netting of a soul,
I enjoy my time admiring it dance and float while casting a nebulous and beautiful chaotic swirl.
Alight with energy beyond my own so powerful and stacked,
a halo, surrounds you and smears out all that once was black.
I’ll gladly sit and sip with you the dust of our galactic fathers and their mothers,
drink deep the peace you brought with you from nowhere,
someplace beyond the stars.
plastered with fucks,
gives rise to the new age
raised to bow low
keep your head down,
duck, tuck and roll.
Whispered in stories,
like the day it last rained,
awash is the removal
of freedom from failure,
honesty and blame.
Turncoats and bastards
(that’s what they cry)
mirrors twisted and cracking
as futility sighs.
At long last there is sense,
(though it echoes too loud)
in the canyons of absence
where each of the dead
is everlastingly proud.
Fickle sentiments with rusted diamond edges,
he said she said metronome bullshit breaking waves,
dividing in measured wedges.
Diatribes and verbal lacerations,
hurt soaked souls harmonizing in
beatdown rhythms instead of conversations.
You don’t know the depths to which I’ve gone,
the lengths of patience for love
you feel mislead like this was a siren song.
The end is racing towards us brutal fast
the thought that hateful statements
might be the last interaction is the worst
a feeling like nails in spine
an unending panic attack.
Powerful, beautiful, moving and thought provoking even to a full mind like mine which usually misses the nuances of sexism in our daily cultural interplay. Great piece from a talented writer. #whisperandtheroar #kellyglover
Women are silent flowers
Prettiest when quiet
We do not wilt
When they crush our petals
Strip our leaves
Our divine feminine roots
Remain and regenerate
Exquisite thorns sharpen
We are walking targets
With bullseye breasts
Shot with shame
From the moment of fertility
The blood of life
Natural as breath
Yet taboo table talk
Be a beauty, wear lipstick
Just not that particular shade
Of sunburnt whore
Look nice, paint your nails
But not the same dark red
That will stain his sheets
When he’s had his way with you
Why don’t we report our rapes
Flowers don’t speak
When bees steal their pollen
As the last blooms are spent
A new season buds
We are flooded
Drowning in courage and confidence
Flowers look best in a bouquet
The more we gather
The more beautiful we become
Holding up each other
By our weakest branches
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