Dark Poetry Prose Poetry September 30, 2005 Dark Poetic Prose

09-30-05 10:34pm friday

feel the face. warm and ripe with anticipation. the skin dimpled. pulling up from its bone shackles to touch what is too far from it.

see the grey the smoke turns the darkness. thoughts like cancer hover about your head. summoning the silence as you do, so that it might listen. to the pallid rhythm of your heart as it marches on against your wishes.

resist the urge to say anything at all. for words spoken are weaknesses revealed. the meat they dine on. the moments of yourself they take away with them when they're gone.

9-30-05 friday 11pm

asking without requests. we don't change. not always. sometimes the turmoil adapts to us. look upon the treasure in an open chest. the jewels. the gold. the riches of letting them in. make you wealthy in that starving sense.

neither idle. waiting for. nor animated. alive to know what to feel next.

the eye of the storm suits me well. utter calm while calamity surrounds. that's where i belong.

inpenetrable silence at the center of all that noise. the paradox of the poet. the giver who cannot receive.

no waiting in line to return those wishes ungranted. nor bending over penny fountains. just the change in my pocket that chatters as i walk. and the expired receipt for the pain i've bought.

9-30-05 11:53pm friday

who am i? what you see and what you can't.

words distorted.

what you think you've touched with quivering hands.

what are we. intersections that steadily pass. stop. go. crash.

who am i? no one you would know. not lips you would taste. not flesh you would grab. pieces of an image pixelated.

words. without a sound.

too long now. so long. nothing speaks. nothing whispers. nothing shouts.

who am i? just this. petals on the bloom unfolding. as they are released. lost to the wind.

as humble as they are arrogant. when that moment chooses. what is meaningful.

it's not quite enough. but all the time. every day we live without.

today is no different. even if, all our lives we've hoped it might be. it's no different than all those others that have disappointed.

we stay the same, but it always changes on us. we don't move, but we're shuffled around. from one heartache to the next until those limbs sever themselves.

and what is gone, you don't feel it, but you still wait for its return.

what's over you don't ask it to begin again, but you still wait for it to listen.