the water

/ mbrazfieldm / 8 Comments

i cannot bend the water she has a linear will

looks inside my burning soul and snuffs the air from me the water will not bend as black clouds drenched in loss soak up the golden lights

the acids in the wicked hearts will never bend as well they only carve out empty space for bloody floods to fill

i cannot bend the tiny drops forming round my eyes while walking on a ground that screams for me to grind it down

industry analysts of war cell phone master fighters possessive of the scores

i won’t ever be able to bend the water the lusciously maddened by her waves we hunger for some more it’s best to surrender to her cleansing bosom and evaporate into the sandy dunes

between grain

/ mbrazfieldm / 6 Comments

there where its black where the seed of my humanness lies where the perpetuation of original sin will continue through my blood line is a photograph

the lens there in is primordial foggy unclear muddied we pick up debris while traveling through the cosmos

in between grains of ink and exposure the sum of me looks for what we all don’t know what to look with

the photo is of a bright yellow God holding me in God hand such as a molecule of mercury can not be contained

and God laughs and rejoices beyond the pale of mere creature understanding the drive when my flash goes boom

how

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

the things that are not going anywhere in the tunnels of this life

hands tired how to explain the whys of it all

roads paved with loss hey not everything is a party take time feel her out look in eyes that have never cried for herself

what about the cramp in the gut are we starved disgusted crazy or lost

how did we get here were we tricked how in the name of freedom and doing good did i give up the bond to my soul in a most obscene way

how can i teach my brother to fish how can my brother relish what’s his if he is severely sick how can i teach my sister to fight and feel out her heart if we both have to be vetted and protected from each other

R Brazfield (c) 2019 mixed media

traces

/ mbrazfieldm / 9 Comments

the sun she’s sinking down to party in the valley rolling hills full of tumbleweeds thoughts broken desperate for context if only if only if only then there is Sardinia and a dipped toe by a drunken uncle long ago here on the city of angels there city of giants i dig like a gopher i bleed like an ulcer who am i really its no fun to lose your Rhesus at the moment of the light but it has nothing to do with monkey politics i dare say i have no more lice to give

cylinders

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments
pic mbrazfield (c) 2020

i

am a

spec inside

fallopian

tubes tied in silence

wandering in sepsis

with no nebula to birth

me in and mold me to be free

wicked cold frozen fire line my

eyes to shut down at dawn’s reverse rising

you my twin enigma engine super

star in brilliant tigress opus

the moon intends to strike upon

weak hands that try to hide her

floating spec dance away

into dead eyed shore

narrow pathway

stray comet

bone star

still

pic mbrazfield (c) 2020

not mainstream

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

the sun is shy dark weepy sad the red stars on the hipsters Mao bags are dull it is a bazaar of thought living on the tops of the foam of your demon seas rebel rider non Jane Fondaer grown girl he dirty boy military card heir LA west of Hollywood Battleship Potemkin plays let’s go drop bomb on my tongue baby Jimmy Hendrix’s way irony one hundred ways to think that we can go to Sizzler after this and dude your mom has a new car but if i were on that ship ida’ve done the same damn thing he sings to me God Save the Queen and we go fuck behind the dumpster but we can’t seem to fit it in and we go back to talking about politics

stone

/ mbrazfieldm / 22 Comments

a line followed not straight feet hollowed out by the bumps of life

a beat heard faintly like a radio sign from outer space on a kids ham radio

intuition dimmed heavy without direction like broken jade frowning atop the china cabinet

a kiss blown by aging beauty queens to the princess up and coming

young girl twirling on a pole old man staring at her bones she thinks of tea sets and raggedy Ann doll he thinks of the life he once so loved who is buried six feet under

the flowers radiant pinks and red stems green and full of life across a dirty street i sooth dry skin and raise my glass to Martha

who’d a thought

/ mbrazfieldm / 6 Comments

is there such a thing as joy i don’t know what does the experience feel like is it velvety like your graying pubic hairs tickling my back does it taste like your Jack Daniel’s tongue with a Winston smokey chaser down my throat i want to say it looks like your strong rough hands with tiny scars on the tops and intricate lines on the palms of your warrior hands does joy smell like your sweat fossil grease gun powder breeze and the wind of America in your hair i bet joy sounds deep and blue like when you recite beautiful lies in my ears