sweet fleshy skin warm
kiss like nothing else
your orange creamy tart taste will into honey turn if we lay in the sun together
the smell of green emanates from you within calling me to pull the knife
i strip you down to your ripe round middle and gently nibble and suck you down
and when the time is right i stroke you down as i’m reminded of his long missed circumcision
and our tropical walks through Walmart aisles shopping for the Fourth of July
hey letter X
you’re my favorite
i relate with your
closed off heart center
but four very open ended arms
i too have closed in
and have for many years
but the more the heart shut
i kinda became vulnerable to
the dark underbelly of too much
awareness of things best left alone
some might say through this traveled winding tar soaked road that i’ve acquired more X’s than the Pussy Cat Theatre
i guess it’s the best to have open options not to get boxed in but at times in the midnight hourglass of time
the thought Xes my head that we both have four paths and our keys to the maps are rusted shut deep in our centers
no answer is also an answer
🦅 Hopi Proverb
to stare into the blank horizon
it lacks the pastel colors mother used to love
we the silent types proud and self assured cowards or lost fools
makes very little difference
to tighten my jaw as you purse your lips we know what we are thinking
we have no answer for what is happening to us
all we are not willing to admit that She is critical because of our silence
are we prepared for what comes this way as Her pulse tires and slows
the silence without bird songs is the vilest way to perish
my eyes deep into the looking glass they go
the crevice on my throat regulates my breath so slow
bones my genetic frame from the Danube it came
a girl with a mind of her own but her thoughts are filled with white carnations and light pink madness
stuffed into a blue and gold Chinese vase they go
ivory exquisite bones of beasts and mastodons fixed into the old red velvet settee
ivory silks drape my milky skin past my finger tips dipped in obsidian tears
the bench that holds my weight a fancy rosewood filigreed trophy
my deeply regretful eyes slide over to the compromised canopy bed made with hate and lies
there where on some deceitful night opened legged and mouth shut tight
i am supposed to worship you
more is endless breath is tight
nervous docile night
let’s walk into the light
we forever have been everything
we are daughters of the fight
*thank you Christine at braveandrecklessblog and HereticsLoversandMadmen for posting this piece first for the I Am More Than Breath and Bone prompt
An Crann
By Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill
| Do tháinig bean an leasa le Black & Decker do ghearr sí anuas mo chrann. D’fhanas im óinseach ag féachaint uirthi faid a bhearraigh sí na brainsí ceann ar cheann. |
Do tháinig bean an leasa
le Black & Decker
do ghearr sí anuas mo chrann.
D’fhanas im óinseach ag féachaint uirthi
faid a bhearraigh sí na brainsí
ceann ar cheann.
do that thing beans and greens
leave the vacuum at the door
do get me anise more crunch please
Delfina’s husband i’m not on it
Agnes’ feather chains contribute
to Fina’s husband’s bad urethra
Le’faida ate at Barragan’s while suffering
terrible waves within the brain
Celine’s dress can at times be archetypal
do that thing you do with swing
and kiss me hard dear Lisa
put black peeper on the floor
did Gary travel from Uranus
more charisma please Ms. Shirlee
du’waana go to Sunland
i’m searching for some air and group
the disco club where walls are surreal
ok no brainer i understand
no cocktails at Sharon’s barn
choice of youth
she tasted of memory
Selma ave where i fought a fight
bloody knuckles injured eye
it didn’t have to happen
but to drink my life away i made the choice in May
pain she’s tricky and eludes my reason at times
i’m left unto myself a sobbing child and so swinging back in madness
dignity falls down there is no count to tell
long gone are days of curbside medics looking for a score
safe behind a dignified door of comfort now with flagellating thoughts
if i could do it all again
it’s no good
i’m dubious should i or not
i took a walk around and around
inventoried the lost opportunities
of finding myself
Billie Holiday laments
and so do i
good morning heart ache she asks
i follow in a raspy girl whisper
what’s new
had i been a raconteur
would i had made a difference
in the mind that crazy hapless ass
i trudge a long time
exhausted
questioning
and as if by sheer exhaustion
the conclusion that i have no control
is reached
no longer needed my fearful doubts
looking at the potted cactus fortitude
firmly planted in a soil that
only hope has a cherished soul
words less spoken 