Dear reader
Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. He has written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past two and a half years. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 639 poems, 573 short stories and 115 pieces of art in over 204 periodicals, books, anthologies and 8 radio Broadcasts. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan and Thailand. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under will806095@bellsouth.net, you just click on profile and look under photo albums. He hopes you enjoy His work.
Website- Ronnie.Weebly.com (Swamplit)
Website- Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com
Website- WolfFray.blogspot.com
Website- RavensWont.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Fathermostdream.blogspot.com
Website- Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
Sincerely Yours
Ron Koppelberger
4192 Acorn Ave.
Bunnell, Fl. 32110
Ph: 386-4379118
About 600 Words
Wolves and the Brutal Chill
The failure of his agreement to cross the frozen foothills of the mountain pass, the damn Donner freeway, was a charge to the series of mishaps that had led him to this point. He controlled the urge to cough and failed as he sprayed a fine mist of crimson across the frozen snow.
He had exactly two swallows of Gatorade left in the green and orange labeled bottle. The twittery helplessness he was feeling enslaved him to the need for forward momentum, he had to move, to push on to the meeting point. His injury was severe and the stitch in his side ached like a demon, push, push, push, he thought. His feet were frostbitten and numb from the cold, push, push, push. The delicate trace of blood smeared across his check as he wiped his mouth. He had spotted a shadow in the pine groove that lay before him, a wolf, jet black and a flash of crimson pupils in the light.
The tree had been a challenge to climb. He was about twenty feet up the tree clinging in a bear hug when the world went ashen gray.
The wolf howled on the distant horizon and ran North toward the rise in the landscape. Pine sap soaked his leather gloves in spots smelling fresh and bitter. He had moved, faltering for just an instant. The open space beneath him yawned and his feet slid against the crumbling bark as he fell, pin wheeling to the frozen earth. His friends, Ruff Winston’s, words rang in his ears , “Man carry a Bowie brother, a Bowie is the perfect mate fer yer trip, a Bowie man!” The empty void where the knifes sheath should have been was a godless balance of stupidity and naiveté’; he carried Jim’s namesake in his right breast and as a result he had done two things to himself when he fell.
He had impaled himself on the edge of the blade and he had sliced off his right nipple. The tiny chunk of flesh lay loose in his shirt, a tiny reminder somewhere close to his belly button, maybe he had thought, they can sew it back on. The taunt sheen of blood had dried sticky and matted against his chest. He wasn’t bleeding, nevertheless he was coughing up blood, he knew the knife had pierced his right lung.
His breathing was labored and bubbly sounding. He lay a short distance away from the tree in an exhausted heap. The sky swam and the sun burned his eyes with a salty stinging insistence. In gentle sloping degrees he fell unconscious dreaming of jet black fur and warm coddling wolf mothers. He lay there for two days before they found him. He was near deaths door and the shelter the mysterious wolf had provided him with had gone unnoticed by his rescuers.
When he awoke the bandages on his hands prevented him from scratching his face , raw, red, sunburned and chapped from the cold. The attending doctor defined the single set of teeth marks on his wrist as a mauling, an attack by wild dogs.
He had a coppery taste in his mouth as he attempted to itch the place where his nipple had been. “Damn!” he whispered in a growling hoarse gasp. The television was on and a commercial for Petco Cat Food was playing; a gentle purring feline appeared for a moment and his eyes bulged as an uncontrollable howl erupted from his mouth.
Automatic Outlaw
The wreck resisted the urge to beg a pittance from the passion of black boots and tight leather audacity. She followed the lines on his face with a remembrance of declared bond. The wreck coughed and furrowed his forgiving brow. She had assumed the guise of a recollection, a homeward movement in sashay and tempest, he remembered the dither of do’s and don’ts , of want and aspiration; they had been one.
He fingered the tiny totem that the stranger had offered him so long ago, the automatic outlaw, the electric passport to better times and pregnant futures. He saw flames and passion, he smelled the roasted scent of crackling wheat and tender harvest. The totem glowed and became warm in his hand. She watched the wreck and puzzled the common anchor that had brought them to destinations in scarlet saddle. She surveyed the wreck and seized the moment.
He was destitute and yet he was real and here, in her trespass. The fire burned in her eyes and she adjusted her Stetson. Found by fate, the black Nova supreme belched exhaust as she gathered him in her arms. He smelled Jasmine and she smoke. They climbed into the waiting car and headed North, toward saffron fields and azure skies, toward destiny.
He smiled and massaged the totem; thank god he whispered.
Exhaling in Secret Prisons
The floor was dank, mossy and covered with the pitted scars of a thousand before. The walls were granite and rough hewn concrete on all four sides. The ceiling was smoked glass with recessed lighting deep within the heavy glass , just barely discernable and glowing in shaded spectrums of candent nuance.
He touched his raw stubble covered cheeks with the tips of his fingers. “Breath Star, Breath!” he whispered aloud. His heavy exhalations filled the room and he wondered how much air he had left in the claustrophobic confines of the prison; how many inhalations and gasping breaths. The red button on the wall in front of him was the tempter, the will to move ahead. What might happen if he pushed the scarlet button? Perhaps he would find freedom, perhaps a thousand hells, perhaps great grinning deaths in blackened ash and maybe the edge of heaven. Might the walls close in on him smashing him to a pulpy memory.
Wellsprings of water flooding his prison with thirsty swallows of death, what might, what will? Star touched his finger to his lips , “Shhhhhhhhhhh,” he hissed, “Tell me your secret, tell me your secret.” Star grinned “Yer my turn little red……..yer my turn.” he stepped closer to the red button. “Pease god……please!” he prayed.
Star touched the button, smooth and warm, “Push it Star, push it! He shouted at the wall. “PUSH IT!” Star pushed the button and a warm breeze wafted from behind the brick and stone as it slid sideways; there was a tunnel and light, the smell of wheat, saffron assurance near the light, near the light, near the………..
Star opened his eyes and the blurry image of his raven haired wife met him.
“Thank God!” she gasped, “He’s awake, Star’s awake!”
He remembered the car careening into the ditch then blackness. He starred into the fluorescent lights overhead and sighed in relief; the button, he was free, alive in love, in fields of wheat and saffron.
A Blessed Blossom
The naturalness of the gentle blossom was in fine-spun magic with the seasons of both ash and harvest. A bloom in blushing chagrin with the accounts of angels and saints, full in sleep and boundaries of frayed glory. There was a perplexing innocence in the beginnings of reflection and birth, bearth and gusty meandering sanctity.
It came in sad sorrow of shadow and shade, a departure from love and animate intimacy. It was a cold proposition in favor of demons and blackened berserkers, the season in rebuke, the time of parched acquiescence and discreet dark diversion. It was the bane of passerby, the wane desire of soliloquies in bone dust, rattle and gossiping devils.
The flower cringed and withered in lieu of passion and sated cycles and in the miracle that defines the amaranth it found purchase in a new day as the specter of loves lost and declared diabolic dissolved into the soils of perdition, passing without further fanfare. A bloom in crowns of possession, a soul in search of harvest hearth, the amaranth of dark confessions.
The Next Day
He was wide awake and beautifully ever again. He had delivered a fulfilling, rolled, milled, sated and assured glass of whiskey wild, wild in alliance to the dreams of slightly sober care, precious bond between yesterday’s twilight and dawn’s replete secret.
He had sat on the front porch rocker the previous evening, comfort and a frosted mug of whiskey in perfect taste with the shadows of the coming darkness. The world had rolled on and the fact called life had made itself known in reflection and muse. He was swaying, gentle savor and the sip of a new beginning. The orange twilight horizon and fresh appreciations of cool indigo evenings in awe filled his eyes with the expectation of a day to come.
The cars dusted the air as the rattled and bumped along the dusty dirt road in front of the house. He could taste the grit as he sipped the cool whiskey, he endured the will of what comes to pass with comfort, with ease, with complacent degrees of sameness.
The whiskey had made a hollow little tempest against the side of the glass as he turned it between his fingers. The frayed edge of evening-tide cloaks and gentle waves of starlight lit the skies in flittering butterfly momentum.
He had raged the afternoon and in raw boned delight, in wonders of toil; the seed in saffron and wheat, in gilded turns of earth and sweet buds of birth he had toiled and turned the soil with sweat and dreams of tomorrow, sunburned and sure, dirty flannel and gray stained blue jeans. In secret touch the half moons of fertile fresh earth between his fingernails felt good and real.
The whiskey had been good. Yesterday he had sewn and the birth of a new day, a fresh crop defined the currents of what would be a courtesy in dawn’s eternal bonnet, the advance of tomorrows morning sunshine spirit.
Ron Koppelberger
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Dear Editor
I am a short story writer, a poet and an artist. I have written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past two and a half years. I am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 630 poems, 528 short stories, and 110 pieces of art in over 191 periodicals, books and anthologies as well as in 7 radio broadcasts. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Writing Raw and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, Thailand and India. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. (My art is viewable at face book, will806095@bellsouth.net)
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
* Website- Ravenswont.blogspot.com
* E-Magazine/Website- FarthermostDream.Blogspot.Com
* Website- Marageinblame.blogspot.com
*E-Magazine/website-Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Sincerely
Ron Koppelberger
The Arrival of Man and Wolf
The secret messenger shrunk from the wildfire and the skies became a torrent, rain and warm heavenly flows of patient breadth. The resolute indulgence of wheat bloom and saffron passion distinguished the unconscious gift of vision and dreams as a thousand thousand ventured into the grain.
The outline in stone hid in shadow and temptation, a circle in granite and obsidian, a gathering of baron toil, it waited and the wager in torments of fire would yet evolve, nevertheless it raged and fought the tethers in dangerous rebellion. The wheat gathered its blossoms and in rooted diversities of method quelled the quandary with incense and the light of the divine, Eden in times of ascension and quest, the wont of what would be.
The angel, quiet and sure, went before inland seas and wild jungle brush to the man and the wolf, he satisfied a dream and the temper of reflection. The endless fields of wheat honored the gain of ceaseless passage to test and reason in the fondness of forever.
* In labors of omen the dawn sheltered the pair as tides in stone, also, amassed the run, the destiny of smoke and fire.
A Drama
Forevermore a change, a silhouette in summits of soul. He shaped in contours of garden labor, intricate fangs and forepaw change. He entreated the image of manifest passage unto the existence of détente’, a peace amongst wolves and the morning-tide glow of fresh skies and sparrows in anxious array.
He considered the flower blossom and the bumble-bee buzzing in fervent revolutions of flight. A pleasant riot of dandelion dander flittered against his paws as he played with the dandelion seed, a dream, a boundary between here and the there. He saw they baby girl, the angels sang and the soaring gossip relinquished the name of a curious dandelion, the discerning destiny of an awakened spirit. The wolf calmed the conference of seed and rushed toward the horizon in mysteries of bidden heaven and the secret of saffron shelter. The child would be the salvation of wolf and man and any other class of earth bound soul. He lay still for a moment and contemplated the arrival of the blessed child. He knew there were forces at work and some of them were fighting for the chance to rule in darkness and sorrow. The sun glimmered against his eyes and he looked west, to the distant clouds and his destiny. He would find the child and his path, for the sake of future dreams.
Netherworld Outcasts
The doorway was neglected and defiantly, day by day, in its affirmed rush of energy and mystery, mystery for the birth of rivers that define netherworld rebels and wolfs that grin in tender assay with the sunshine and the rain. They employed the doorman and the password was “DAISY DAYS”, a growling consent and entrance. He watched as the doorman grunted and a tiny panel in the scratched oaken door slid open, “Daisy Days!” he responded. The panel slid back and the sound of locks turning and tumbling echoed in the shadows.
A gaunt man with the features of a female hen greeted him, “Cluck, Cluck!” he chuckled as he shifted to pose in the form of a welcoming wolf. His lips curled and he snarled, “Welcome Firefly.” Firefly fell to his knees and bound the fabric of a dream as he padded into the secret enclave.
The door swung shut and the clan of the gray fray and southeastern wilds convened in gauze and smoke and misty lace. The rest of the world pushed on and secrets were shared in the meeting place, secrets that would shape the future of mankind and, indeed wolf kind. Suffice it to say the wolf found solace in the encroaching twilight that would find their final acceptance by man.
Certain Brand
The parched conclusion was adrift in seas of sand and sagebrush. He concurred with the likeness of balanced twilight and dawn mist. The tumble of destiny had placed him in the temper of distant horizons, refuge, a mix of native tightfisted cinder defined by the flame of embers and closed handed ash, straw and harvest energies of dreamy aspiration.
The sands flitered away from him in waves of cool dry air and the moths danced in sparks of burning passion. He growled and appraised the vast desert shadow, he claimed breaths of wolf like yield as the gray ends of braided fur secreted his flesh in wishes of canine wonder.
The hands of fate spoke in symbols of change and in change he indulged primal instinct, the way of man and beast. His eyes fluttered and amber suns filled them with luminescence and direction.
The slender neck of the brandy bottle sloshed in forward motion to the attention of rhythm and wolf grumbles. A droplet of delighted will and the drama of an ethereal teardrop, an extravagant prelude to haunt and hunts, to desert rays of scarlet struggle and hungry rare fulfillment dared to be his divine inspiration. It was a declaration of freedom, a guarantee of eternal saffron and garden blossom, he engaged the sunrise and found the frayed tether of the other, the wolf in angel attire, in uncommon fortune, “Moreover to the edge of evolution and cities that grace the wonder of heaven, a purpose in whispers of secret.” he intoned as he headed for the tender heart of Eden.
A shadow satisfied by the dark wolf and by the dream that would bring him closer, in endless accord with the bones and dust of a great granite circle, stones, the alter, scarlet unbidden stones. He would reveal the promise begat to him by the fates, his will, his destiny. To find the angel and the wont of his generation, by blood and wine and for the need of his kind.
Somewhere in the distant horizon the angel waited for the dark wolf in the passage of the storm and the desert blooms, a breath of patience and the prayers of one who has the seal.
Spit
The pace of the reverie was bridled by the why and wherefores of the cur. The moan was barely emphasized in winter worlds of presumption. He retreated from the wrapper of vigilant mystery to the quiet rampage of discovery. Tread in spoils of backwoods darkness, a shakedown in suspicions of existence. Guiltlessly he thrashed in silence. A script waged by static and white sound.
He meditated and searched for the inborn scruples of spit, a difficult bone. He wrest with the ancient drama in a curs destiny, the cycle of limitless bond between dog and wolf. He thought, shoved and pushed at the unlatched vault, the blessings of intrinsic dust and ensuing agents of change. The glass was a blank admission of unrevealed consciousness, a charm in assent, a reflection in tamed consent, imitated by a metamorphosis, the mirror assumed the cur and the cur, guileless with dreams and portent assumed the breed of amended companions.
He savored the respite as his mange disappeared and the wounds closed in favor of exclaimed fury passion and order. The cur bothered the bone and howled with resolute charm. The freedom of rare springs in seasons of sultry balance defined the substance of the curs poise and destiny ensued in arranged saffron bloom.
Ron Koppelberger
I am a short story writer, a poet and an artist. I have written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past two and a half years. I am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 630 poems, 528 short stories, and 110 pieces of art in over 191 periodicals, books and anthologies as well as in 7 radio broadcasts. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Writing Raw and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan, Thailand and India. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. (My art is viewable at face book, will806095@bellsouth.net)
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
* Website- Ravenswont.blogspot.com
* E-Magazine/Website- FarthermostDream.Blogspot.Com
* Website- Marageinblame.blogspot.com
*E-Magazine/website-Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Sincerely
Ron Koppelberger
The Arrival of Man and Wolf
The secret messenger shrunk from the wildfire and the skies became a torrent, rain and warm heavenly flows of patient breadth. The resolute indulgence of wheat bloom and saffron passion distinguished the unconscious gift of vision and dreams as a thousand thousand ventured into the grain.
The outline in stone hid in shadow and temptation, a circle in granite and obsidian, a gathering of baron toil, it waited and the wager in torments of fire would yet evolve, nevertheless it raged and fought the tethers in dangerous rebellion. The wheat gathered its blossoms and in rooted diversities of method quelled the quandary with incense and the light of the divine, Eden in times of ascension and quest, the wont of what would be.
The angel, quiet and sure, went before inland seas and wild jungle brush to the man and the wolf, he satisfied a dream and the temper of reflection. The endless fields of wheat honored the gain of ceaseless passage to test and reason in the fondness of forever.
* In labors of omen the dawn sheltered the pair as tides in stone, also, amassed the run, the destiny of smoke and fire.
A Drama
Forevermore a change, a silhouette in summits of soul. He shaped in contours of garden labor, intricate fangs and forepaw change. He entreated the image of manifest passage unto the existence of détente’, a peace amongst wolves and the morning-tide glow of fresh skies and sparrows in anxious array.
He considered the flower blossom and the bumble-bee buzzing in fervent revolutions of flight. A pleasant riot of dandelion dander flittered against his paws as he played with the dandelion seed, a dream, a boundary between here and the there. He saw they baby girl, the angels sang and the soaring gossip relinquished the name of a curious dandelion, the discerning destiny of an awakened spirit. The wolf calmed the conference of seed and rushed toward the horizon in mysteries of bidden heaven and the secret of saffron shelter. The child would be the salvation of wolf and man and any other class of earth bound soul. He lay still for a moment and contemplated the arrival of the blessed child. He knew there were forces at work and some of them were fighting for the chance to rule in darkness and sorrow. The sun glimmered against his eyes and he looked west, to the distant clouds and his destiny. He would find the child and his path, for the sake of future dreams.
Netherworld Outcasts
The doorway was neglected and defiantly, day by day, in its affirmed rush of energy and mystery, mystery for the birth of rivers that define netherworld rebels and wolfs that grin in tender assay with the sunshine and the rain. They employed the doorman and the password was “DAISY DAYS”, a growling consent and entrance. He watched as the doorman grunted and a tiny panel in the scratched oaken door slid open, “Daisy Days!” he responded. The panel slid back and the sound of locks turning and tumbling echoed in the shadows.
A gaunt man with the features of a female hen greeted him, “Cluck, Cluck!” he chuckled as he shifted to pose in the form of a welcoming wolf. His lips curled and he snarled, “Welcome Firefly.” Firefly fell to his knees and bound the fabric of a dream as he padded into the secret enclave.
The door swung shut and the clan of the gray fray and southeastern wilds convened in gauze and smoke and misty lace. The rest of the world pushed on and secrets were shared in the meeting place, secrets that would shape the future of mankind and, indeed wolf kind. Suffice it to say the wolf found solace in the encroaching twilight that would find their final acceptance by man.
Certain Brand
The parched conclusion was adrift in seas of sand and sagebrush. He concurred with the likeness of balanced twilight and dawn mist. The tumble of destiny had placed him in the temper of distant horizons, refuge, a mix of native tightfisted cinder defined by the flame of embers and closed handed ash, straw and harvest energies of dreamy aspiration.
The sands flitered away from him in waves of cool dry air and the moths danced in sparks of burning passion. He growled and appraised the vast desert shadow, he claimed breaths of wolf like yield as the gray ends of braided fur secreted his flesh in wishes of canine wonder.
The hands of fate spoke in symbols of change and in change he indulged primal instinct, the way of man and beast. His eyes fluttered and amber suns filled them with luminescence and direction.
The slender neck of the brandy bottle sloshed in forward motion to the attention of rhythm and wolf grumbles. A droplet of delighted will and the drama of an ethereal teardrop, an extravagant prelude to haunt and hunts, to desert rays of scarlet struggle and hungry rare fulfillment dared to be his divine inspiration. It was a declaration of freedom, a guarantee of eternal saffron and garden blossom, he engaged the sunrise and found the frayed tether of the other, the wolf in angel attire, in uncommon fortune, “Moreover to the edge of evolution and cities that grace the wonder of heaven, a purpose in whispers of secret.” he intoned as he headed for the tender heart of Eden.
A shadow satisfied by the dark wolf and by the dream that would bring him closer, in endless accord with the bones and dust of a great granite circle, stones, the alter, scarlet unbidden stones. He would reveal the promise begat to him by the fates, his will, his destiny. To find the angel and the wont of his generation, by blood and wine and for the need of his kind.
Somewhere in the distant horizon the angel waited for the dark wolf in the passage of the storm and the desert blooms, a breath of patience and the prayers of one who has the seal.
Spit
The pace of the reverie was bridled by the why and wherefores of the cur. The moan was barely emphasized in winter worlds of presumption. He retreated from the wrapper of vigilant mystery to the quiet rampage of discovery. Tread in spoils of backwoods darkness, a shakedown in suspicions of existence. Guiltlessly he thrashed in silence. A script waged by static and white sound.
He meditated and searched for the inborn scruples of spit, a difficult bone. He wrest with the ancient drama in a curs destiny, the cycle of limitless bond between dog and wolf. He thought, shoved and pushed at the unlatched vault, the blessings of intrinsic dust and ensuing agents of change. The glass was a blank admission of unrevealed consciousness, a charm in assent, a reflection in tamed consent, imitated by a metamorphosis, the mirror assumed the cur and the cur, guileless with dreams and portent assumed the breed of amended companions.
He savored the respite as his mange disappeared and the wounds closed in favor of exclaimed fury passion and order. The cur bothered the bone and howled with resolute charm. The freedom of rare springs in seasons of sultry balance defined the substance of the curs poise and destiny ensued in arranged saffron bloom.
Ron Koppelberger
Monday, November 7, 2011
Looking for GOD
It became noticeable a couple of Presidential elections ago,
Although perhaps it began with Reagan,
Amplified by the events of 9/11,
There was shame in being perceived as "pagan."
Suddenly our leaders needed to be Our Fathers,
Heaven sent to out-Fox "evil" wherever it occurs,
And if they weren't GODlike themselves,
They had to be praying (and preying) like they were.
Epitomized by the inauguration of Obama,
Err, deification - but "he's only a man,"
Now that Barack hasn't delivered, we're out Scouting again;
Even in a GODfather pizza pan.
Looking for GOD, what does that mean,
For the constitution, for separation of church and state?
And could the search for a shepherd be indicative that,
Even Republicans love the "nanny" they claim to hate?
Why not rely on ourselves, instead...
Of casting a Hail Mary vote quickly followed by knives,
Because none of these candidates can save US,
When their main priority is their political lives.
Karen Ann DeLuca
It became noticeable a couple of Presidential elections ago,
Although perhaps it began with Reagan,
Amplified by the events of 9/11,
There was shame in being perceived as "pagan."
Suddenly our leaders needed to be Our Fathers,
Heaven sent to out-Fox "evil" wherever it occurs,
And if they weren't GODlike themselves,
They had to be praying (and preying) like they were.
Epitomized by the inauguration of Obama,
Err, deification - but "he's only a man,"
Now that Barack hasn't delivered, we're out Scouting again;
Even in a GODfather pizza pan.
Looking for GOD, what does that mean,
For the constitution, for separation of church and state?
And could the search for a shepherd be indicative that,
Even Republicans love the "nanny" they claim to hate?
Why not rely on ourselves, instead...
Of casting a Hail Mary vote quickly followed by knives,
Because none of these candidates can save US,
When their main priority is their political lives.
Karen Ann DeLuca
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Dear Ed.
I have been submitting poetry short stories and artwork for the past several years. I began writing when I was ten years old, my grandparents gave me my first typewriter. I have written 102 books of poetry and 18 novels over the past Four or five years. I have published 604 poems, 498 short stories and 108 pieces of art in over 184 periodicals, anthologies and books as well as in six radio broadcasts. I love to write and nothing thrills me more than seeing my work in print.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
*Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website- WolfFray.blogspot.com
* Website-Ravenswont.blogspot.com,
*E-Magazine/Website- FarthermostDream.blogspot.com
*Website-Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
*E-Magazine/website-Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Sincerely
Ron Koppelberger
Ron Koppelberger
Brandy Wine
Cultivated by the birth of quiet reserve and parallels in
Desire, in wont. A find in essential parapets of stone
And entrance to decline, an unencumbered
Momentum defined by the eyes of maiden fray
And flaw, by signatures in dust and selfless
Oblivion, initiated in castles and chateaus’, in cool
Crystal goblets framed by flags and brandy wine.
Ron Koppelberger
Rebel Sash
Arrival and ambition’s daisy, dressed in saffron allure,
Speckled in ash and nascent survival,
The destiny of indulgent grace, retraced breaths of
Sweetened revolution and qualities of eternal bloom,
The facets of distinct character and
Invocation to romance, the better most temper,
Fleeting in shadowy umbrae’ of gray, a rebel sash
Justified by love and passionate earth.
Ron Koppelberger
A Wild Array of Thorns
The berth of innocent blessings in accepted
Experiences of conscious proclamation and profound
Sustaining being, as unfinished blooms of solace and scented
Desire, in rare spheres of revolution, by curves and tender lips aflame,
The uncommon touch of what’s bidden by roses and dusty dreams, a wild array of thorns nascent and silhouetted by the blood,
The fertile souls in salvation and
Enchanting loves in
Ivory frill, in
Secret availing
Bliss.
Ron Koppelberger
In Twilights Eyes
Ground by the moted dust of whirling delirium and gasping sighs
Of elation, a wild eyed assent exciting the vigor of
Wondrous glee and smudged panes of glass, leading the vision of ancient
Passions and freedoms in gloss, by the light of an accomplice sun torn unto bleeding skies and expectant in twilight fire, by creations in
Distant reverie’ and quietly acclaimed followings of sparrow will,
By the comfort of legends beloved, by taboo and real realms
Of earth, resolved by the passage of moments
Spent in serene repose and thrust forward
By the promises of wandering hearts.
Ron Koppelberger
The wont of survival
Blossoms in desiring talents of renewal and
More than a spirit of hasty heaven in glowing sobriety,
The profuse legend of hallowed grain and garner,
Of endless sunset crushes
In velvet adornment and eager art, the tireless existence
Of constant ritual and peppered looms
Of forgiveness and twill eternal, the cry abeyant
Unto the wont of
Survival.
I have been submitting poetry short stories and artwork for the past several years. I began writing when I was ten years old, my grandparents gave me my first typewriter. I have written 102 books of poetry and 18 novels over the past Four or five years. I have published 604 poems, 498 short stories and 108 pieces of art in over 184 periodicals, anthologies and books as well as in six radio broadcasts. I love to write and nothing thrills me more than seeing my work in print.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
*Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website- WolfFray.blogspot.com
* Website-Ravenswont.blogspot.com,
*E-Magazine/Website- FarthermostDream.blogspot.com
*Website-Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
*E-Magazine/website-Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Sincerely
Ron Koppelberger
Ron Koppelberger
Brandy Wine
Cultivated by the birth of quiet reserve and parallels in
Desire, in wont. A find in essential parapets of stone
And entrance to decline, an unencumbered
Momentum defined by the eyes of maiden fray
And flaw, by signatures in dust and selfless
Oblivion, initiated in castles and chateaus’, in cool
Crystal goblets framed by flags and brandy wine.
Ron Koppelberger
Rebel Sash
Arrival and ambition’s daisy, dressed in saffron allure,
Speckled in ash and nascent survival,
The destiny of indulgent grace, retraced breaths of
Sweetened revolution and qualities of eternal bloom,
The facets of distinct character and
Invocation to romance, the better most temper,
Fleeting in shadowy umbrae’ of gray, a rebel sash
Justified by love and passionate earth.
Ron Koppelberger
A Wild Array of Thorns
The berth of innocent blessings in accepted
Experiences of conscious proclamation and profound
Sustaining being, as unfinished blooms of solace and scented
Desire, in rare spheres of revolution, by curves and tender lips aflame,
The uncommon touch of what’s bidden by roses and dusty dreams, a wild array of thorns nascent and silhouetted by the blood,
The fertile souls in salvation and
Enchanting loves in
Ivory frill, in
Secret availing
Bliss.
Ron Koppelberger
In Twilights Eyes
Ground by the moted dust of whirling delirium and gasping sighs
Of elation, a wild eyed assent exciting the vigor of
Wondrous glee and smudged panes of glass, leading the vision of ancient
Passions and freedoms in gloss, by the light of an accomplice sun torn unto bleeding skies and expectant in twilight fire, by creations in
Distant reverie’ and quietly acclaimed followings of sparrow will,
By the comfort of legends beloved, by taboo and real realms
Of earth, resolved by the passage of moments
Spent in serene repose and thrust forward
By the promises of wandering hearts.
Ron Koppelberger
The wont of survival
Blossoms in desiring talents of renewal and
More than a spirit of hasty heaven in glowing sobriety,
The profuse legend of hallowed grain and garner,
Of endless sunset crushes
In velvet adornment and eager art, the tireless existence
Of constant ritual and peppered looms
Of forgiveness and twill eternal, the cry abeyant
Unto the wont of
Survival.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Dominick Montalto is a freelance copy editor/proofreader pursuing full-time work in the editorial division of the publishing industry. His educational background is in Literature, Art History, Philosophy, and Religion. He is a poet and critical prose essayist, with several publishing credits in both genres in print and on the web. His literary field specialization is the long 19th century from the French Revolution through the early Modern novel, with particular focus on the evolutionary changes of the Gothic, Romanticism, Decadence and Aestheticism, and Orientalism. His religious and philosophical interests focus on the various sects of mysticism, as well as Christianity, Hinduism, and Buddhism. Overall, he continues to hold a strong interest in and love for the different aspects of the arts and humanities.
Glut Myself with Blood
Where do I have left to go?
Is there anything that remains to be known?
Have I seen all things,
tasted of all flesh?
Teeth sunk,
anchored deep into bone,
my lips adrift
in the sea-bliss of blood
that spastically rises
to the surface
of your milk-washed skin
as I inter myself
in the rapture of your sex.
Teeth entombed beneath
the river-blue veins
and smooth,
cream-colored valleys
that compose your naked,
winter-stained flesh,
restless and ravished,
and entwined in waves
of black satin
and my own pale skin.
Are there dreams that have yet
to be dreamt
and nightmares
in the classic gothic tradition
still to be struck by in terror?
Are there fears
still unconquered
or sins that I have forgotten
to commit
that I passed over
like the Angel of Death
over the houses
of the pardoned Hebrew exiles?
If I have lived through all of this,
then let me go.
I will carry off
the scars that I wear
that won’t heal
and some way, somehow,
I will sift through
the golden grains
of hourglass sand
that pour
from the displaced monument
of Ozymandias,
toppled and demolished
by the eroding swamps
of Nile silt
and the seizures of war,
to find where it is
that I belong,
where I am meant to go,
to live and make my home.
I AM the prophet
of the end
that has no new beginning.
I am an eternal body
with no soul.
I am vacant and alone
without your feverish fluid
foaming furiously
within me.
I AM nothing
without your blood
coursing
and channeling through me.
I must feast upon your sex;
I must glut the tremors
of my fetish
on your pearly neck.
A Nightmare in the Gothic Tradition
I woke up in the night
and heard the shaggy,
burnt-orange leaves swiping
at the rusty, iron bars
on the windows.
The cypresses howled
at the scything wind,
its wings clipping
their prostration
in a quiver of torrid ecstasy
reminiscent
of the little death of Zeus
pinning Leda down
on the stagnant and silent waves.
I perceived Darkness visible
before me
and from this impenetrable
blackness
two queues of pallid faces
appeared, marching
and chanting
in a monotonous voice
like the unbroken caw
of vultures
violently murdered
in the silver-blue scales of Death.
I started to hasten through
the subdued corridors
opening into vaulted courts
where glistening armor hung
against a host of backdrops;
medieval tapestries
depicting the seduction
of the decaying flesh
and withering spirits
of saints and martyrs
anesthetized
by the choking smoke
from the flames
burning them at the stake,
and these halls
echoed with the panting cries
of their unheeded mantra:
“I am nothing, only the messenger!”
Stunted by these terrified voices
ravishing my body
with their sirens’ song,
I ran to nowhere
for nowhere was to be found.
Haunted
by this strained symphony
from the lips
of these charred mystics
and prophetic choir-boys
flaming in the crumbling light
of these holocaust skies
I screamed
as if I was being torn to shreds
like the purple veil
of the Ark of the Covenant
in the hands of infidels.
In the midst of this hallucination
I was restrained
and raped
on my own martyr’s pyre
as the livid faces
of these nameless beings
leered at me
in this masque
of cloaked passion.
But by the miraculous turning
of the face of God
towards the tragedy
of this fragmented romance,
or by the acknowledged beads
of prayer
whispered by the Virgin
in intercession
before the golden throne
of the milk-fed Christ,
I was uprooted
from beneath the cold, red hands
and filthy, flirtatious breath
of these mundane masochists
and drawn to
the incandescent beauty
radiating from the unraveling
revelation
before my tearing eyes.
I was embraced by this vision
and given sanctuary
buried
in the arms of a man
with luminous youth,
but as I looked up
at his chiseled features
and glowing green eyes
he disappeared,
leaving me naked and alone,
freezing
in the arms of emptiness—
Darkness visible.
Tempestuous Gothic cum Romantic
You take winged flight
back into the severed echoes
of the silent past
to which you’d love to take a torch to
but don’t
for fear you’ll be a fire-starter
and the light that flares
and breathes
inside the decaying moisture
of this blood-saturated mausoleum
against the dust and soot
that coats your flesh
thicker each moment
masquerades the dizzying stir
of these engulfing halls
of reverberating reminiscence
with a hallowed nature
in the language of myth
for which I have resuscitated
your empty organ donor of a body.
I have given you new life
and simultaneously
stamped my own to dust.
Hush!
I am composed of no sound
but pierce
the stagnant air
of night
with a sharpness no voice
or vibration can dull.
I am made broken beneath
the footfalls
of the stranger
trammeling the dust.
I am the ding and the dong
of the antique clock
that chimes no more.
I am in the guilty,
haunted murderer’s mind—
the illusion
of the tell-tale, beating heart.
I am the mouthed scream
gone unheard,
stifled
by fear and terror.
I am fair Philomel.
I am the Rapist
that goes about
in the mask
of solitude and isolation.
I am the noise of Desolation.
I speak naught,
but presage ‘the end is nigh!’
I have no language,
no accent,
yet I am a foreigner
to the escape artist Man
suffering
from the poisonous pangs
of the human condition.
I never talk
but say more than
any word or speech can tell.
I am the mantle
of pale and sickly Death.
I am the coffin
in which you will be laid to rest.
I beckon
to all humanity
in breaking darkness,
to sinner
and saint alike.
I look upon the living,
sight unseen.
I am your companion
through the portal
of the forgiven
and through the savage,
gruesome circles
of the forsaken and the damned.
I am Virgil in abstract
to your prophetic pilgrim Dante,
sentenced
to pass Eternity
here in hell
on Earth
and never cease to be—
I am the punishment of vain mortality.
I am silence: sshh!
Who is It?
At the door
there was a figure
arrayed
in a dark-gray cloak.
He was standing out
against the saturating
white light
of the morning sun
with his hood
draped over his head.
The hood
lay on his head
fitting cleanly
against the features
of his remarkable face.
His broad, softly chiseled
cheekbones
were blushed
from the mercilessly
whipping winds
beating
on the house.
Tired, pale blue eyes
stared at me
with a handsome,
vanishing smile
on his tightly-closed lips
as he lifted his thin,
sun-browned hands
out of the seamless pockets
of his shroud
and with them he reached for me,
but did not move.
The little he had to do
was done
and now it was up to me
to do the rest.
Glut Myself with Blood
Where do I have left to go?
Is there anything that remains to be known?
Have I seen all things,
tasted of all flesh?
Teeth sunk,
anchored deep into bone,
my lips adrift
in the sea-bliss of blood
that spastically rises
to the surface
of your milk-washed skin
as I inter myself
in the rapture of your sex.
Teeth entombed beneath
the river-blue veins
and smooth,
cream-colored valleys
that compose your naked,
winter-stained flesh,
restless and ravished,
and entwined in waves
of black satin
and my own pale skin.
Are there dreams that have yet
to be dreamt
and nightmares
in the classic gothic tradition
still to be struck by in terror?
Are there fears
still unconquered
or sins that I have forgotten
to commit
that I passed over
like the Angel of Death
over the houses
of the pardoned Hebrew exiles?
If I have lived through all of this,
then let me go.
I will carry off
the scars that I wear
that won’t heal
and some way, somehow,
I will sift through
the golden grains
of hourglass sand
that pour
from the displaced monument
of Ozymandias,
toppled and demolished
by the eroding swamps
of Nile silt
and the seizures of war,
to find where it is
that I belong,
where I am meant to go,
to live and make my home.
I AM the prophet
of the end
that has no new beginning.
I am an eternal body
with no soul.
I am vacant and alone
without your feverish fluid
foaming furiously
within me.
I AM nothing
without your blood
coursing
and channeling through me.
I must feast upon your sex;
I must glut the tremors
of my fetish
on your pearly neck.
A Nightmare in the Gothic Tradition
I woke up in the night
and heard the shaggy,
burnt-orange leaves swiping
at the rusty, iron bars
on the windows.
The cypresses howled
at the scything wind,
its wings clipping
their prostration
in a quiver of torrid ecstasy
reminiscent
of the little death of Zeus
pinning Leda down
on the stagnant and silent waves.
I perceived Darkness visible
before me
and from this impenetrable
blackness
two queues of pallid faces
appeared, marching
and chanting
in a monotonous voice
like the unbroken caw
of vultures
violently murdered
in the silver-blue scales of Death.
I started to hasten through
the subdued corridors
opening into vaulted courts
where glistening armor hung
against a host of backdrops;
medieval tapestries
depicting the seduction
of the decaying flesh
and withering spirits
of saints and martyrs
anesthetized
by the choking smoke
from the flames
burning them at the stake,
and these halls
echoed with the panting cries
of their unheeded mantra:
“I am nothing, only the messenger!”
Stunted by these terrified voices
ravishing my body
with their sirens’ song,
I ran to nowhere
for nowhere was to be found.
Haunted
by this strained symphony
from the lips
of these charred mystics
and prophetic choir-boys
flaming in the crumbling light
of these holocaust skies
I screamed
as if I was being torn to shreds
like the purple veil
of the Ark of the Covenant
in the hands of infidels.
In the midst of this hallucination
I was restrained
and raped
on my own martyr’s pyre
as the livid faces
of these nameless beings
leered at me
in this masque
of cloaked passion.
But by the miraculous turning
of the face of God
towards the tragedy
of this fragmented romance,
or by the acknowledged beads
of prayer
whispered by the Virgin
in intercession
before the golden throne
of the milk-fed Christ,
I was uprooted
from beneath the cold, red hands
and filthy, flirtatious breath
of these mundane masochists
and drawn to
the incandescent beauty
radiating from the unraveling
revelation
before my tearing eyes.
I was embraced by this vision
and given sanctuary
buried
in the arms of a man
with luminous youth,
but as I looked up
at his chiseled features
and glowing green eyes
he disappeared,
leaving me naked and alone,
freezing
in the arms of emptiness—
Darkness visible.
Tempestuous Gothic cum Romantic
You take winged flight
back into the severed echoes
of the silent past
to which you’d love to take a torch to
but don’t
for fear you’ll be a fire-starter
and the light that flares
and breathes
inside the decaying moisture
of this blood-saturated mausoleum
against the dust and soot
that coats your flesh
thicker each moment
masquerades the dizzying stir
of these engulfing halls
of reverberating reminiscence
with a hallowed nature
in the language of myth
for which I have resuscitated
your empty organ donor of a body.
I have given you new life
and simultaneously
stamped my own to dust.
Hush!
I am composed of no sound
but pierce
the stagnant air
of night
with a sharpness no voice
or vibration can dull.
I am made broken beneath
the footfalls
of the stranger
trammeling the dust.
I am the ding and the dong
of the antique clock
that chimes no more.
I am in the guilty,
haunted murderer’s mind—
the illusion
of the tell-tale, beating heart.
I am the mouthed scream
gone unheard,
stifled
by fear and terror.
I am fair Philomel.
I am the Rapist
that goes about
in the mask
of solitude and isolation.
I am the noise of Desolation.
I speak naught,
but presage ‘the end is nigh!’
I have no language,
no accent,
yet I am a foreigner
to the escape artist Man
suffering
from the poisonous pangs
of the human condition.
I never talk
but say more than
any word or speech can tell.
I am the mantle
of pale and sickly Death.
I am the coffin
in which you will be laid to rest.
I beckon
to all humanity
in breaking darkness,
to sinner
and saint alike.
I look upon the living,
sight unseen.
I am your companion
through the portal
of the forgiven
and through the savage,
gruesome circles
of the forsaken and the damned.
I am Virgil in abstract
to your prophetic pilgrim Dante,
sentenced
to pass Eternity
here in hell
on Earth
and never cease to be—
I am the punishment of vain mortality.
I am silence: sshh!
Who is It?
At the door
there was a figure
arrayed
in a dark-gray cloak.
He was standing out
against the saturating
white light
of the morning sun
with his hood
draped over his head.
The hood
lay on his head
fitting cleanly
against the features
of his remarkable face.
His broad, softly chiseled
cheekbones
were blushed
from the mercilessly
whipping winds
beating
on the house.
Tired, pale blue eyes
stared at me
with a handsome,
vanishing smile
on his tightly-closed lips
as he lifted his thin,
sun-browned hands
out of the seamless pockets
of his shroud
and with them he reached for me,
but did not move.
The little he had to do
was done
and now it was up to me
to do the rest.
Evading the Dark Pursuer
He suggested, hinted at the lifeblood and ancestry of rival factions and hunters in eventide sun. He rode the stallion through desert beds of ancient gully; the water was scarce in the midst of the chase, nevertheless he had his canteen. He took a sip and stitched the bottle back onto his hip.
They were closer than three miles of dust, sand and dry desert wind. He moved on patting the black skinned horse on the neck, his hand came away slick with the animals perspiration. The vampires never rested even in noon day sun, they were a certain brand, a breed made for daylight hunts. Although sensitive to the suns heat and glowing rays they wore heavy, dark robes and shadowy face masks. They were a persistent breed allowing only twilight avatars to press forward through their territory, all others were fair game.
He rode and the sky became red in great slashes of color, red like the essence of life, the blood they eagerly sought. He looked back and distant ripples of mist, dust and three pinpoints in black secured their place on the backward horizon. Rare stories said escape, farewells and long breaths of respite were in the reverie of a distant illusion. They’d persist, unless, he thought they found prayer, found the god of their source. Squat boulders and an oasis of tumbleweed lay ahead, he’d rest there; perhaps he’d make his stand in hopes the vampires would fall to worship.
They derived their power from an ethereal enchantment and were in constant debt to the source of their blood lust. They were prone to long breaths of unconscious worship when confronted with the source of their power, during worship they were vulnerable, even helpless in trances oblivious. It was a chance at salvation, he climbed off of the stallion and surveyed the large stones, the sand and sage brush in the tiny clearing.
He didn’t have any choice, he pulled out the sharp blade he had fastened to his side. With a quick slash his palm bleed bright red droplets of blood. Moving to the front of the largest rock he drew a semicircle in blood. The design was a vampire symbol and sacred to the worship of their breed. It was his only hope.
The sun approached the horizon and spears of pointed light illuminated the boulders face. The vampire riders paused and got down from their horses. Their eyes shifted between each other and in unison they knelt down to pray.
The vampires had become the prey. They were oblivious as he severed their heads one by one. It had been a close call, he’d have to be on his guard now. There would be others and when they discovered the trio they’d be relentless.
He mounted his horse and headed North West toward the mountains and a chance at freedom.
Ron Koppelberger
Twilight Prissy
The yearning decree of subconscious tangles filled by shadow and the advance of new beginnings tattooed the innocence of approaching twilight upon the bosom of her reflection. She squinted in asylums of wan sunshine and aloofness in the mystery of evergreen eyes and rare love. She loved the curative moment of passage, she pampered her sedate countenance in the stain of a dusty reflection. The mirror pleasured her, near crystal egress the window stole her from the mirrored glass and outlined her in sunlight silhouette.
She delicately named her homespun spirit an emotion of mercy arranged by her throbbing mood in vapory lady ghosts waiting for dark fall and the allure of anatomies in flux, the circle of evening ascension. She exhausted the day and justified the night with a prelude to symphonies, delirious by tempest repose.
A crisscross, an amber ageless sash in
Rose blush, in seasons of flittering bondage
Set free by spells and elusive magic charm.
A gilded overlay and an ancient owl
In obsessive caution and care, twofold psalm
And the flight of a lyric allusion to the chagrined
Gypsy moth and the clever mind of wolves, black cat
Whisker worlds that swathe the cradle of night
With small purpose and vast wild abandon.”
She sang and spoke in the reflective glass of her admiration and the coquette of her darkening heaven. The better curfew of creatures in likely shapes of voyage unto the night, she gathered her image and entered the shadows with a grin.
Ron Koppelberger
The Hymn of Wilford Larouse
Rugged and in sensual ramshackles, humble in nighttime betrothal, the western ray and the backwoods tumble of survival and fascinating revolt, gave Willford Larouse a moment, a thankful moment of reason and a suggestion of sanity.
He found the substance of soul and in naive command he sang his hymn in pain and blood, to his sweet Rio Madson Larouse. He uttered and sang in subtle prelude to the miracle of loves gained in losses of cold dire agony, in desert sands and cactus bloom the yielded life, bowing in barter for the ravages of a wild decree; he cradled his love alone in folded arms by the pallor of death, desolate and abandoned near the center of scorched earth and breaths of bedlam, he sang the hymn,
“Defy the silhouette of fury
And the shallows of life hurried,
Strange, rare and in difference,
In blessed sufferance of saints and the confessors
Of current hours and sun baked covenant,
Store the soul of care and
Embrace only if you dare
The charm of notions in forever and sweet revolt,
Return the bride in bloom
Return the mystery of this hold,
Return life to the cold flow of flesh and
In balance we shall rest, oh return my love
In the name of heaven above!”
Wilford advised the pallor of his sweet Rio with a kiss and the healing witness of a single tear as the spirits of evanescent delight drew close. The immigrant wanderings of chance celebrated his wife and gave her season the will to be. She inhaled and in delicate care touched the countenance of Wilford Larouse.
He found passion and a reason to be in the concern of angels and the miracle of life and boundless love.
“Thank god!” he sang to the angels above.
Ron Koppelberger
Dear reader
Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 101 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past two years. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 478 poems, 301 short stories and 86 pieces of art in over 144 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also He recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. His art is viewable on Facebook under will806095@bellsouth.net, you just click on profile and look under photo albums.
Website- Ronnie.Weebly.com (Swamplit)
Website- Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com
Website- WolfFray.blogspot.com
Website- RavensWont.blogspot.com
E-Magazine/Website FathermostDream.Blogspot.com
Website- Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
E-Magazine/Website- Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Sincerely Yours
He suggested, hinted at the lifeblood and ancestry of rival factions and hunters in eventide sun. He rode the stallion through desert beds of ancient gully; the water was scarce in the midst of the chase, nevertheless he had his canteen. He took a sip and stitched the bottle back onto his hip.
They were closer than three miles of dust, sand and dry desert wind. He moved on patting the black skinned horse on the neck, his hand came away slick with the animals perspiration. The vampires never rested even in noon day sun, they were a certain brand, a breed made for daylight hunts. Although sensitive to the suns heat and glowing rays they wore heavy, dark robes and shadowy face masks. They were a persistent breed allowing only twilight avatars to press forward through their territory, all others were fair game.
He rode and the sky became red in great slashes of color, red like the essence of life, the blood they eagerly sought. He looked back and distant ripples of mist, dust and three pinpoints in black secured their place on the backward horizon. Rare stories said escape, farewells and long breaths of respite were in the reverie of a distant illusion. They’d persist, unless, he thought they found prayer, found the god of their source. Squat boulders and an oasis of tumbleweed lay ahead, he’d rest there; perhaps he’d make his stand in hopes the vampires would fall to worship.
They derived their power from an ethereal enchantment and were in constant debt to the source of their blood lust. They were prone to long breaths of unconscious worship when confronted with the source of their power, during worship they were vulnerable, even helpless in trances oblivious. It was a chance at salvation, he climbed off of the stallion and surveyed the large stones, the sand and sage brush in the tiny clearing.
He didn’t have any choice, he pulled out the sharp blade he had fastened to his side. With a quick slash his palm bleed bright red droplets of blood. Moving to the front of the largest rock he drew a semicircle in blood. The design was a vampire symbol and sacred to the worship of their breed. It was his only hope.
The sun approached the horizon and spears of pointed light illuminated the boulders face. The vampire riders paused and got down from their horses. Their eyes shifted between each other and in unison they knelt down to pray.
The vampires had become the prey. They were oblivious as he severed their heads one by one. It had been a close call, he’d have to be on his guard now. There would be others and when they discovered the trio they’d be relentless.
He mounted his horse and headed North West toward the mountains and a chance at freedom.
Ron Koppelberger
Twilight Prissy
The yearning decree of subconscious tangles filled by shadow and the advance of new beginnings tattooed the innocence of approaching twilight upon the bosom of her reflection. She squinted in asylums of wan sunshine and aloofness in the mystery of evergreen eyes and rare love. She loved the curative moment of passage, she pampered her sedate countenance in the stain of a dusty reflection. The mirror pleasured her, near crystal egress the window stole her from the mirrored glass and outlined her in sunlight silhouette.
She delicately named her homespun spirit an emotion of mercy arranged by her throbbing mood in vapory lady ghosts waiting for dark fall and the allure of anatomies in flux, the circle of evening ascension. She exhausted the day and justified the night with a prelude to symphonies, delirious by tempest repose.
A crisscross, an amber ageless sash in
Rose blush, in seasons of flittering bondage
Set free by spells and elusive magic charm.
A gilded overlay and an ancient owl
In obsessive caution and care, twofold psalm
And the flight of a lyric allusion to the chagrined
Gypsy moth and the clever mind of wolves, black cat
Whisker worlds that swathe the cradle of night
With small purpose and vast wild abandon.”
She sang and spoke in the reflective glass of her admiration and the coquette of her darkening heaven. The better curfew of creatures in likely shapes of voyage unto the night, she gathered her image and entered the shadows with a grin.
Ron Koppelberger
The Hymn of Wilford Larouse
Rugged and in sensual ramshackles, humble in nighttime betrothal, the western ray and the backwoods tumble of survival and fascinating revolt, gave Willford Larouse a moment, a thankful moment of reason and a suggestion of sanity.
He found the substance of soul and in naive command he sang his hymn in pain and blood, to his sweet Rio Madson Larouse. He uttered and sang in subtle prelude to the miracle of loves gained in losses of cold dire agony, in desert sands and cactus bloom the yielded life, bowing in barter for the ravages of a wild decree; he cradled his love alone in folded arms by the pallor of death, desolate and abandoned near the center of scorched earth and breaths of bedlam, he sang the hymn,
“Defy the silhouette of fury
And the shallows of life hurried,
Strange, rare and in difference,
In blessed sufferance of saints and the confessors
Of current hours and sun baked covenant,
Store the soul of care and
Embrace only if you dare
The charm of notions in forever and sweet revolt,
Return the bride in bloom
Return the mystery of this hold,
Return life to the cold flow of flesh and
In balance we shall rest, oh return my love
In the name of heaven above!”
Wilford advised the pallor of his sweet Rio with a kiss and the healing witness of a single tear as the spirits of evanescent delight drew close. The immigrant wanderings of chance celebrated his wife and gave her season the will to be. She inhaled and in delicate care touched the countenance of Wilford Larouse.
He found passion and a reason to be in the concern of angels and the miracle of life and boundless love.
“Thank god!” he sang to the angels above.
Ron Koppelberger
Dear reader
Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 101 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past two years. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 478 poems, 301 short stories and 86 pieces of art in over 144 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also He recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Thailand and India. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. His art is viewable on Facebook under will806095@bellsouth.net, you just click on profile and look under photo albums.
Website- Ronnie.Weebly.com (Swamplit)
Website- Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com
Website- WolfFray.blogspot.com
Website- RavensWont.blogspot.com
E-Magazine/Website FathermostDream.Blogspot.com
Website- Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
E-Magazine/Website- Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Sincerely Yours
When Morning Comes
As soon as you go inside of me
I’m unplugged from the rest of the world
Nothing even matters
But your breath on mine
I’m thrown into morning
As my body awakes from a dreamer’s death
Resurrected by the early dew
And the aroma of earth
My suspicions of being alive
Unveils itself at that moment
My disoriented mind is sober again
And I take in the day
Outside the window
There is life waiting for me
A force pulling at me to move
Onward from this dark lit room
Next to me he slumbers
Like the night still owned the sky
Sifting through his dreams’
Demands to be a character in its play
He looks peaceful but his body lays reckless
I look at him wondering
If he is as fond of me as he claims
Or am I just a body to sleep next to
A voice to talk to
I wish in his lifeless body
His lips would move me
With truth
With words of adoration
Or even spite
Anything to set my uncertain
Mind at ease
But he is only a man
I make a note to myself
As I look at him once more
I will not fall deeply for him
I fear one day he would
Betray my heart and leave it
For dead
I look through the window
And I’m reminded
That is where I ought to be
My shoes are beneath the bed
I hide them like a shameful parent
The soles have tired and
Their holes grow larger
The day I throw them away
Will be a sad day
But after awhile
You can’t avoid the inevitable
Sometimes you have to throw
Things away
But I slip them on happily
Knowing that day is not today
My leather jacket rests sloppily
On the floor
The only item
I’ve ever bought without regretting
I rush to walk on
To that big white front door
To start over again
Divinity
God is divine
The way he brought you to me
Without so much as a warning
As he placed you before me
Before me you sat unrecognizable
Unimaginable to my mind
You were just another man
Like the ones seated next to you
Suddenly God intervened
And made you so much more to me
At that moment
You were no longer camouflaged
With the many men surrounding you
You filled my eyes with your colors
The way a rainbow paints across
A dull gray sky
You became the only reason to see
No one else mattered
They were saturated with black and white
Never to stand out and illuminate my sight
But your reds and yellows were blinding
Could you be more beautiful
God is divine
How does he decide who will connect with who
And who will feel for who
Maybe it is not for and I to know
But it is amazing
To have no control
And watch god create magic
Between you and a complete stranger
The inspiration for this prose poem is the way that pop-culture portrays men as being sex machines, while women try to wheedle out sex in the concept that heterosexual sex is still being treated as an economic contract. Women are still being held to the same standards of Victorian sexual codes at the same time that casual sex is supposed to be the norm. The poem is about sex from a female point of view.
Thanks
Every Night
Get it on every night and your man might last one week, no matter how much he says he wants suck or bone. You ain't no nympho, no slut. Men just can't keep up. No bullshit of emotional neglect makes you need it. It's all chemical. It's all the oh. No need attention and feel valued through six minutes of oh baby you're so beautiful, and, yeah yeah you know what I like. If he knew what you liked it would be all night, all bone, all head. It would be chocolate afterward, and steak. It would be all of how eating steak is like eating pussy. He says you've got post-coital glow but what he means is he's glowing. When he thinks he satisfied you he means he satisfied himself, and he'd like to see you in facial porn. He means he's easy and you're hard and he can get it on with anyone, and you? You need it everyday. You need it from him.
Susan Swanton
As soon as you go inside of me
I’m unplugged from the rest of the world
Nothing even matters
But your breath on mine
I’m thrown into morning
As my body awakes from a dreamer’s death
Resurrected by the early dew
And the aroma of earth
My suspicions of being alive
Unveils itself at that moment
My disoriented mind is sober again
And I take in the day
Outside the window
There is life waiting for me
A force pulling at me to move
Onward from this dark lit room
Next to me he slumbers
Like the night still owned the sky
Sifting through his dreams’
Demands to be a character in its play
He looks peaceful but his body lays reckless
I look at him wondering
If he is as fond of me as he claims
Or am I just a body to sleep next to
A voice to talk to
I wish in his lifeless body
His lips would move me
With truth
With words of adoration
Or even spite
Anything to set my uncertain
Mind at ease
But he is only a man
I make a note to myself
As I look at him once more
I will not fall deeply for him
I fear one day he would
Betray my heart and leave it
For dead
I look through the window
And I’m reminded
That is where I ought to be
My shoes are beneath the bed
I hide them like a shameful parent
The soles have tired and
Their holes grow larger
The day I throw them away
Will be a sad day
But after awhile
You can’t avoid the inevitable
Sometimes you have to throw
Things away
But I slip them on happily
Knowing that day is not today
My leather jacket rests sloppily
On the floor
The only item
I’ve ever bought without regretting
I rush to walk on
To that big white front door
To start over again
Divinity
God is divine
The way he brought you to me
Without so much as a warning
As he placed you before me
Before me you sat unrecognizable
Unimaginable to my mind
You were just another man
Like the ones seated next to you
Suddenly God intervened
And made you so much more to me
At that moment
You were no longer camouflaged
With the many men surrounding you
You filled my eyes with your colors
The way a rainbow paints across
A dull gray sky
You became the only reason to see
No one else mattered
They were saturated with black and white
Never to stand out and illuminate my sight
But your reds and yellows were blinding
Could you be more beautiful
God is divine
How does he decide who will connect with who
And who will feel for who
Maybe it is not for and I to know
But it is amazing
To have no control
And watch god create magic
Between you and a complete stranger
The inspiration for this prose poem is the way that pop-culture portrays men as being sex machines, while women try to wheedle out sex in the concept that heterosexual sex is still being treated as an economic contract. Women are still being held to the same standards of Victorian sexual codes at the same time that casual sex is supposed to be the norm. The poem is about sex from a female point of view.
Thanks
Every Night
Get it on every night and your man might last one week, no matter how much he says he wants suck or bone. You ain't no nympho, no slut. Men just can't keep up. No bullshit of emotional neglect makes you need it. It's all chemical. It's all the oh. No need attention and feel valued through six minutes of oh baby you're so beautiful, and, yeah yeah you know what I like. If he knew what you liked it would be all night, all bone, all head. It would be chocolate afterward, and steak. It would be all of how eating steak is like eating pussy. He says you've got post-coital glow but what he means is he's glowing. When he thinks he satisfied you he means he satisfied himself, and he'd like to see you in facial porn. He means he's easy and you're hard and he can get it on with anyone, and you? You need it everyday. You need it from him.
Susan Swanton
Her
My fascination obsession
with motifs
of the woman I want
to paint
create figures
of her
multiple poses
as in Ingres’ Turkish Bath
her repeated body
playing
a canvas
in the lens of my eye
I see her
even when not present
a hallucination gift
trouble in paradise
Break
when words start to break
when “well-hello”
becomes “he-y”
when stanzas become lines
when lines become words
a letter
A
Adieu
Alicia Ristau
for adam
of the things I wish I’d said,
next to thank you, I’m sorry, and—why
one sentence sits apart
at a lonely table,
its face obscured.
it is not “I love you,”
though who can say if I did
it is not “keep faith,”
though I wish you had—
in something, anything
but what destroyed what
you loved best—
only yourself, your better dreams. but
I would not say “let me help”
those words must not be said between us.
I would not challenge again
your skill in verbal cuts;
the play has died within you, leaving
nothing
and I would not remind you.
my regrets are bittersweet and fan out like flames
but with you, I regret one thing only:
I did not tell you what treasure you held
and let you burn it all away, unsaid
if you wonder, know:
you held your dreams and
a fragment of my heart;
they are both blackened—
my heart will heal.
Alexandra Hughes
Bet on you
If I could travel time
Transcend reality today
I would return to the moment
I made my fatal mistake
If I could rewrite one song
To make the words more real
I would write dramatic melodies
To show you how I feel
If I could rewind this movie
Now a horror film
I’d erase the tapes that play
And take out all the thrills
If I could take back all my chips
And keep my poker face
Then I’d recant my bet on you
And avert this great mistake.
Forgiveness is Bliss
Everyone knows I’m stuck
On what you did to me
Old wounds have yet to heal
I still see you in my dreams.
But I want to forgive you
For all that you did
I’ve tried so many times
But I grow bitter instead.
If I could let go of this
Of all the dark shadows in my life
I would feel such bliss
In knowing I’ll be alright.
But I have to forgive you
For myself alone
Because any other reason
Would just leave a hole.
I need peace of mind
In knowing I did this
Just for myself this time
I crave that bliss.
Hate
I hate the way you ramble
But I hate than in me too
I hate the way you lie
But falsehoods tend to fly
I hate that you never call
But I haven’t at all
I hate the games you play
But that is just the way
I hate your stupid stories
But mine are also boring
I hate not knowing stuff
But I don’t say enough
I hate your parents already
And we’re not even going steady
I hate when you’re not here
But we were never really near
I hate not being the one
But I should know we’re done
And most of all I hate
Rejection to my face.
Let go
It’s been a month
It’s been a year
I’ve had my time
To shed these tears
I must let go
I must move on
I’ll make my way
In not too long
I don’t miss you
I just miss “us”
But now I’m free
Is that a plus?
I’m going now
To not look back
I need to get
My life on track
I’ll let you go
Let go of “us”
Live only for me
Feel the rush.
Testing the Water
I am a child
Running up to the water’s edge
But no farther
For I fear the ocean’s depths
As it stretches to the horizon
I panic.
What if I swim out too far?
Who will save me?
I inch my feet forward in the sand
Just enough to dampen my feet
As the next wave rolls in.
Yes, no, yes, no
Maybe a little,
For the water is cold,
And even on a hot summer’s day
It chills you to the core
I take three forced steps
Right, Left, Right…
I scamper sideways
As I feel the intruding object
Brush against my ankles
I see the seaweed and remember to breathe
I continue.
Up to my knees now,
The water is cloudy
I can no longer see my legs.
Should I continue, or dash towards shore
Towards safety
I press on,
Because Life is full of seaweed and sharks and
So many dangers,
Often inevitable.
So now, as an adult,
I take the plunge
Into life
And Love
And Loss
Knowing all the while
That potential heartache lay ahead
But knowing as well
That it is better to have tried and failed
Than to never have tried at all.
It’s time to wade into life.
Three strikes
I warned you not to break her
But you still made her cry
And even after all you’ve done
She still won’t say goodbye
I told you not to lie
But that was your first strike
I told you not to yell
But drugs became your life
I said to watch yourself
But you made careless mistakes
Your second strike was
Making her heart break
I warned you not to argue
But you control her every move
So there’s your third strike
And who became the fool?
Ready, Set, Scream
I can see it in your eyes
You can see it on my face
We can hardly even breathe
So Ready, Set, Scream
I know you want to
I can see your fists curl
I can see the tensing of your skin
So Ready, Set, Give In
I hate seeing you hurt
And I know you’re about to break
So take my hand and hold on tight
Ready, Set, Fight
I hate this room
You hate the noise
So let’s just get out of here
Ready, Set, Disappear
Leave everyone, leave everything
But first we’ll have our final words
Or maybe trust what the sun shall bring
Ready, Set, Scream
Amber Roberson
The Hydra of Female Desire within the Literary Tradition
by
Tanya Andrious
Throughout history women have been confined to the male perspective, not only with how men look at women but how women look at themselves. Women writers, especially in the early budding of the female literary tradition, barely touched the taboo topic of female desire and sexuality. The exploration of female sexual desire by women writers has evolved throughout the centuries, beginning first with Aphra Behn in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; Christina Rossetti in the nineteenth century, and ending with Andrienne Rich in the late twentieth century. All three authors, in their respective century, explore a female’s desire through different perspectives, revealing the different perceptions about women’s sexuality in the literary form.
The seventeenth and eighteenth century was not an easy time for women writers. They could easily be dismissed and ostracized by their peers if a literary topic was disliked. Women writers were thus indirectly controlled by men. However, as Susan Gubar and Sandra Gilbert mention, “Aphra Behn was England’s first professional woman writer” (The Norton Anthology 109) that took chances with her writing and began to put a dent into what was considered acceptable. She broke the first boundaries where some of her verses were “marked by an erotic honesty that scandalized many of her readers” (Norton 109). Unfortunately, consequences resulted from Behn’s bold foray into the exploration of female desire: The same literary circles that Behn frequented “…expected women to remain decently silent about their own desires” (110). Behn, however, saw nothing wrong with celebrating women enjoying their sexuality and her poem “The Willing Mistress” is a testament to her treatment of the topic.
Behn’s perception of female sexuality was not confined to the male perspective; her character neither suffers consequence or regret for enjoying her sexual exploitations. In fact, the Mistress describes her enjoyable, impending foray with a man by stating:
Amyntas led me to a grove,
Where All the trees did shade us;
The sun itself, though it had strove,
It could not have betrayed us
The place secured from human eyes (1-5).
There is anticipation in the Mistress’ voice as she describes the need for secrecy without regret. In fact, Behn writes each subsequent line by describing the Mistress’ increased gratification:
Down there we sat upon the moss,
And did begin to play
A thousand amorous tricks, to pass
The heat of all the day (9-12).
There is a sense of fun to be read in the lines, where the reader grasps the Mistress’ amplified arousal. A woman has needs, and as much as men in Behn’s century wanted to deny such truths, Behn tastefully expresses the needs of her female character:
A many kisses did he give
And I returned the same,
Which made me willing to receive
That which I dare not name (13-16).
Behn was unleashing Pandora’s Box by outwardly proclaiming a woman’s sexual experience and revealing that women’s desire is nothing to be ashamed of. The third stanza deals with give and take, where the Mistress is in control as much as the man:
On her that was already fired,
‘Twas easy to prevail.
He did but kiss and clasp me round,
Whilst those this thoughts expressed:
And laid me gently on the ground;
Ah who can guess the rest? (19-24).
A woman can be a sexual being, willing and wanting as lines 19 and 20 indicate. Women’s sexual desire should not be held as a disparagement but rather a positive aspect on the female experience. Although the Mistress’ explorations went without consequence, Behn however, did not. By bringing the topic of female desire out into the open Behn’s “reputation was to be obscured or defaced for centuries after her death” (110). Behn saw female desire through her own eyes, yet Christina Rossetti, in her poem “Goblin Market”, ends up viewing desire through the male lens.
Christina Rossetti brings us into the nineteenth century with her poem “Goblin Market,” where she offers readers a different slant on the perception of female desire. “Goblin Market” expresses a deeper journey of the female experience, where Rossetti “meditate[s] on the dangers of desire, especially the dangers of female desire” (Gubar 894). In contrast to Behn, Rossetti’s thoughts on female desire were influenced by the ideologies of the male literary tradition as well as male definitions of women. “Goblin Market” offers an enticing taste of a female’s attraction to her own desires and the consequences that come from following that desire.
“Goblin Market” begins simply enough: two innocent sisters overhearing the alluring call of Goblin men. The contrast and dilemma of the drama becomes apparent: “Laura bowed her head to hear, / Lizzie veiled her blushes” (34-5). Laura is at once attracted to the call, her desire evident. Yet her sister Lizzie is intent on preventing Laura from following through, stating: “We must not look at Goblin men” (42). Lizzie stresses the danger that Laura is toying with when it comes to the idea of not only contemplating but submitting to her female desire.
The form of the poem portrays Lizzie as the “conscience” and Laura the “desire,” waging battle between restraint and enjoyment of desire:
“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura.
You should not peep at Goblin men,”
Lizzie covered up her eyes,
Covered close lest they should look:
Laura reared her glossy head (48-52).
The dilemma is nicely portrayed between Laura wanting to let go and Lizzie’s hard restraint. Rossetti’s indecisiveness and confusion shines through, unsure of which female image is the “right” one.
Rossetti continues to imply that female desire is wrong:
“No,” said Lizzie: “No, no, no:
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us” (64-66).
Rossetti chooses an interesting phrase in line 65 in regards to charm: it “should not” have an influence on them, meaning that there is something wrong about feeling attraction. However, Laura continues to become more ensnared in the game of desire: “Curious Laura chose to linger / Wondering at each merchant man” (69-70). Laura’s well of desire has sprung up inside her and she is without self-discipline. This side of the poem connects with Behn’s “The Willing Mistress,” where both Laura and the Mistress want only to succumb to the joy that awaits them. Yet, the entryway into the exploration of female desire depicts a difference between the two centuries, where Laura’s actions result in a penalty.
To be aware of consequence one must be warned, and Lizzie continues to educate Laura on the etiquette of behaving:
“Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men (145-8).
Rossetti gives the impression that Laura is in need of being saved from making a big mistake. To further enhance the loving reproach, Lizzie offers Laura an indirect experience to learn from: “Do you not remember Jeanie, / How she met them in the moonlight” (147-8). A brief reference is established before Lizzie fully embarks on the ramifications of Jeanie’s explorations and dives into the story:
But ever in the noonlight
She pined and pined away:
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low: (153-59).
Rossetti implies in lines 154-55 that to follow one’s desire can be addictive. Jeanie, for example, not only succumbed to her desire but could not cope with the thought of not ever satisfying her desire again. More importantly, Jeanie felt such an intense need for a refill that when her need could not be satisfied she ends up dying. Laura’s experience then begins to mirror that of Jeanie. As Laura’s cravings become more intense, she states:
“I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth water still:
Tomorrow night I will
Buy more” (165-8).
Rossetti also implies in line 166 that not only does a woman have wants, but that they are not a one time deal; a woman’s desires are always existent.
Yet, the insistent need for fulfillment leaves Laura in a somewhat detached emotional state as she goes from innocent virgin to a desirous young woman and then to a slightly mad, near death young woman addicted to her female desire: “Laura in an absent dream, / One content, one sick in part” (211-12). Laura is saved from death by her sister’s selfless act, who ends up getting “goblin juice” and feeding “the fiery antidote” (559) to Laura. Rossetti offers a complex look at the female experience, one that is riddled with mixed images of female sexuality and the guilt that was so often connected with it. However, as the later twentieth century blew in, the male stronghold was beginning to lessen its grip as women writers were now making their own traditions born out of the female experience. This tradition continues with Adrienne Rich, who explores female sexuality from a broader perspective.
The advent of the later part of the twentieth century brought with it a large exploration of themes, where women writers began “exploring and dramatizing their national, economic, linguistic, regional, ethnic, religious, and political divergences along with their differing sexual preferences” (Gilbert 1616). Women writers no longer had to worry what men thought. Adrienne Rich was concerned with her own identity and experience, exploring a female’s desire through the lens of lesbianism. Just as Behn and Rossetti wrote of a woman’s enjoyment of her desire so too does Rich. Rich explores lesbian desire in a more descriptive manner that would have drawn more than gasps a few centuries ago.
Adrienne Rich, in her poem “The Floating Poem, Unnumbered,” delights the reader with a more upfront portrayal of female sexual desire. Gracious in her description, Rich expresses a woman’s positive portrayal of her enjoyment without guilt, reservation or consequence:
What ever happens with us, your body
Will haunt mine – tender, delicate
Your lovemaking (1-3).
The narrator is looking back at a past experience with fondness and the stronger the memory gets the more descriptive the poem becomes. Free from male reproach Rich is able to fully express her direct observations on the extent of a woman’s desire. The perception of a woman’s sexuality is no longer to be feared, as Rich’s poem indicates:
Your traveled, generous thighs
between which my whole face has come and come –
the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue
has found there – (5-8).
Rich is explicitly exploring female desire by not only describing a “lady love” (1954) but addressing a “lady love.” Female desire has thus become more about women’s pleasure and enjoyment. The discovery about documenting women’s experiences now takes precedence and Rich is not shy in sharing this perspective with her reader. Lines 9-13 further illustrate this point:
the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth –
your touch on me, firm, protective, searching
me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers
reaching where I had been waiting years for you
in my rose-wet cave – whatever happens, this is.
Rich explores in-depth the wants of a woman; that desire is nothing to be scared or ashamed of, regardless of gender. The narrator’s experience becomes a fond memory which Rich outwardly describes. Her poem is thus bold and courageous with its content, extending the female tradition into further depths.
Women’s experiences were often categorized through male definitions of what women should and should not be, and this penetrated the literary voice of female writers. Christina Rossetti’s “Goblin Market” is a testament to this. Change, however, can often be a balm that heals such confusion. The only way for women to know themselves is to also know each other and this can only be achieved if women make their voice known. Aphra Behn was the first to take such a step. Each century revealed a different voice that expressed feelings about the issue of female desire and what women themselves thought of it. To know the importance of what has been achieved can only be appreciated through the path that was taken. Behn took the first steps and allowed Rossetti to continue the tradition and bring us to get where we are at present; where Adrienne Rich has spiced up the freedom that women can now express without reservation.
Works Cited
Gilbert, M. Sandra and Gubar, Susan, ed. The Norton Anthology: Literature By Women.
2nd ed. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1996.
Behn, Aphra. “The Willing Mistress.” Gilbert 111.
Rich, Adrienne. “The Floating Poem, Unnumbered.” Gilbert 1963.
Rossetti, Christina. “Goblin Market.” Gilbert 903-915.
Posted by record at 6:50 PM 0 comments
Thursday, January 13, 2011
"Alphabettica Thealogica"
Athena opens wide grey eyes to the beat of owl's wings
Blodeuedd, her body composed of exotic blooms, perfumes the air
Chang-O turns her regal back to the world, offering the drape of her deep-black peignoir to the night's darkness
Demeter garlands the chamber with sheaves of golden, shining wheat
Europa, in the form of a magnificent white cow, leaps over Chang-O bearing Zeus, her royal cup-bearer, on her pearlescent back as blood-red wine spills from her silver cup
Freya unleashes her cats, ruffling their blue-black fur with one elegant hand. She glances over her shoulder and into one of the many mirrors to see
Guinevere weaving a crown of white daisies,
Hecate combing her flowing silver hair as she toys with the locks of Heaven's gate,
Isis unfurling her protective wings over the bed, the many colors of her feathers reflecting in candlelight bounced off white silk sheets,
Juno, on her throne, fanned by the tails of a thousand peacocks, sipping ouzo,
Kuan Yin, tuning her telepathic compassionate radar to my frequency, sensing pain, and then discovering the razor sting is all part of sweet joy,
Lakshmi, her many hands throwing golden coins from her many Dolce & Gabbana handbags, whispering blessings of prosperity,
Medusa's serpents shed their skin as elegant peels of white chocolate; their mistress stirs them into my drink,
Nymphs drop the maroon leaves and pink blossoms of springtime plum trees from the rafters,
Oshun crosses oceans of time, and cultures, to pick up Lakshmi's chant and form a duet,
Pele's volcanoes spout benevolent, incensed pink smoke and rainbows of sparks,
Queen of heaven Inanna lifts Pele's sparks to the sky and transforms them into stars to decorate her temple,
and Rhiannon opens a pine chest to reveal an exquisite selection of riding crops.
Selene, my Goddess, all the minor deities Gather at your feet to worship, and my heart quivers to realize you've chosen me from all among the host who vie for your attention.
(inspired by VictoriaSelene Skye Deme and by Kris Waldherr's The Book of Goddesses)
"Moist Howlette: For Allen Ginsberg"
Sacred! Sacred! Sacred! My poet, my prophet, my Jewish saint and guru declares that all is sacred!
The world is divine! The soul is divine! The skin is sacred! The vulva is sacred! The tongue and cock and hand and asshole sacred!
Everybody’s sacred! Everywhere’s sacred! Every thing is sacred! Every day is an eternity! Every man and woman is an angel!
The sacred whore’s as holy as the seraphim! The sex worker is holy as you my soul are holy! The clitoral orgasm’s as sacred as the vaginal orgasm!
The keyboard is sacred the poem is sacred the voice is sacred the hearers and readers are sacred the ecstasy is sacred!
Holy Erin holy Allen holy Purrrrrrrrr holy Kathryn E holy Walt Whitman holy Joan Jett holy fuckers holy every human angel!
Sacred the vibrators! Sacred, the cock and the cock ring and the clit and the clit ring!
Sacred the groaning saxophone! Sacred the orgasm apocalypse! Sacred the womb scrotum balls peace & junk & drums!
Sacred the solitudes of men’s rooms and elevators! Sacred the strip clubs filled with the millions! Sacred the mysterious rivers of cum and pussy juice and blood and sweat and tears under the sheets!
Sacred the lesbian and the gay man! Sacred the bisexual! Sacred the straight feminist and sexual shepherds of rebellion!
Sacred forgiveness! Mercy! Charity! Faith! Love! Affection! Touch! Sacred! Ours! Bodies! Pain and pleasure! Magnanimity!
Sacred the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of Allen Ginsberg’s dear departed soul!
"Ode a Pete Wentz"
"Sugar, We're Going Down"
may be the only Fall Out Boy song I like
or know,
but I like things named after Simpsons characters,
and I like Pete Wentz.
When I first saw him in glossy magazines,
with Lindsay Lohan, or Ashlee Simpson,
or some other dishwater redhead,
I thought he was a lesbian,
Not a him,
But a hym,
a potential hersband for said starlet du jour.
His long-haired androgyny
and skinny legs are why
if I ever got him alone
I would like to bend him over,
pull those too-tight emo pants down
over his pasty, girlie ass
and take him from behind.
A strap-on should do nicely,
With a nice jelly dildo--
Red,
Silicone, not latex
(I have an allergy)
And, preferably, the kind that's a vibrator, too.
This has to be fun for us both.
I'm just a notch in your bedpost,
But you're just a few lines
In a dirty poem.
Erin O'Riordan
WHY DOES IT GOT TO BE LIKE THIS
I CAN’T FIND MYSELF IN THIS WORLD WIND
I DON’T KNOW WHERE I LOST ALL CONTROL
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO BELIEVE ANYMORE
WHY DOES IT GOT TO BE LIKE THIS WHO AM I
I DON’T BELONG
I LOST MY LOVE
I DON’T TRUST ANYTHING
WHY DOES IT GOT TO BE LIKE THIS
I STOP CARING AND GIVING IN
I AM TIRED OF GIVING IT MY ALL
I AM NOT ME,MAD ABOUT EVERYTHING,DON’T KNOW WHY
WHY DOES IT GOT TO BE LIKE THIS
JEALOUS OVER EVERYTHING FEEELING OF UNFAITHFULLNESS IN MY MARRIAGE
SO SAD, LONELY AND ANGRY I HATE WHO I AM
WHY DOES IT GOT TO BE LIKE THIS
lashaun guel
Posted by record at 5:52 PM 0 comments
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Queer in the bible belt
Mindless chatter flows.....
outta of my homosexual mind
do you hear it?
do you hear the thoughts I be thinkin'?
do you see the images,
that I be poulluting the air with?
On a single day-
my obscenity will cover the smog of LA
but the people still be gaggin'
this not be on Johnny's balls neither
they be gaggin' at my thoughts
my own freedom of expression
my own version of true love
they be gaggin'
at me and my girl
holdin' hands
I could have been born with red hair
and freckles
I could have been born destined
to a 34DD
I could have been born to be
a movie star
I could have been born
wishing for a MBA
I could have been born with
some abnormality-
the only thing worse
for me
would have been to be born-
straight
My Number- Is like this
Liking girls isn't always as convenient
as liking boys
but sometimes it calms the heart
and seems less fragile
cause you both are so soft
you won't have to be wondering
if one of you will break
and the glue
that sticks to your insides
has already poured out
Yeah- I wish for simple things
like the love between two girls
me being one
her one too
but something came in between
the simple thing,
A boy
has screwed our equation
and now it is not equal to love
a boy has fucked
my number- on this occasion
Not A Pretty Girl
I once attempted to write a love poem
and I did write it
but why call it a love poem
I never even gave it to that girl
the girl whose phone number I got,
hung out with once,
smoked some weed with
and then I had decided,
she had made-
a bad impression
forget the fact that she likes Ani
forget the fact that night-
sitting on her couch,
she put in Not A Pretty Girl
hours earlier-
I had thought of buying a bottle of wine
so the two of us would believe-
we were intoxicated on each other
she wasn't even that pretty-
a blond
and I always state the fact loud;
that blonds aren't my type;
I am known to lie
I saw this girl once more
my hair was shorter
maybe she didn' think I was as cute-
as she once had
I did get her new number
I din't use that one either
Bethany Young
My fascination obsession
with motifs
of the woman I want
to paint
create figures
of her
multiple poses
as in Ingres’ Turkish Bath
her repeated body
playing
a canvas
in the lens of my eye
I see her
even when not present
a hallucination gift
trouble in paradise
Break
when words start to break
when “well-hello”
becomes “he-y”
when stanzas become lines
when lines become words
a letter
A
Adieu
Alicia Ristau
for adam
of the things I wish I’d said,
next to thank you, I’m sorry, and—why
one sentence sits apart
at a lonely table,
its face obscured.
it is not “I love you,”
though who can say if I did
it is not “keep faith,”
though I wish you had—
in something, anything
but what destroyed what
you loved best—
only yourself, your better dreams. but
I would not say “let me help”
those words must not be said between us.
I would not challenge again
your skill in verbal cuts;
the play has died within you, leaving
nothing
and I would not remind you.
my regrets are bittersweet and fan out like flames
but with you, I regret one thing only:
I did not tell you what treasure you held
and let you burn it all away, unsaid
if you wonder, know:
you held your dreams and
a fragment of my heart;
they are both blackened—
my heart will heal.
Alexandra Hughes
Bet on you
If I could travel time
Transcend reality today
I would return to the moment
I made my fatal mistake
If I could rewrite one song
To make the words more real
I would write dramatic melodies
To show you how I feel
If I could rewind this movie
Now a horror film
I’d erase the tapes that play
And take out all the thrills
If I could take back all my chips
And keep my poker face
Then I’d recant my bet on you
And avert this great mistake.
Forgiveness is Bliss
Everyone knows I’m stuck
On what you did to me
Old wounds have yet to heal
I still see you in my dreams.
But I want to forgive you
For all that you did
I’ve tried so many times
But I grow bitter instead.
If I could let go of this
Of all the dark shadows in my life
I would feel such bliss
In knowing I’ll be alright.
But I have to forgive you
For myself alone
Because any other reason
Would just leave a hole.
I need peace of mind
In knowing I did this
Just for myself this time
I crave that bliss.
Hate
I hate the way you ramble
But I hate than in me too
I hate the way you lie
But falsehoods tend to fly
I hate that you never call
But I haven’t at all
I hate the games you play
But that is just the way
I hate your stupid stories
But mine are also boring
I hate not knowing stuff
But I don’t say enough
I hate your parents already
And we’re not even going steady
I hate when you’re not here
But we were never really near
I hate not being the one
But I should know we’re done
And most of all I hate
Rejection to my face.
Let go
It’s been a month
It’s been a year
I’ve had my time
To shed these tears
I must let go
I must move on
I’ll make my way
In not too long
I don’t miss you
I just miss “us”
But now I’m free
Is that a plus?
I’m going now
To not look back
I need to get
My life on track
I’ll let you go
Let go of “us”
Live only for me
Feel the rush.
Testing the Water
I am a child
Running up to the water’s edge
But no farther
For I fear the ocean’s depths
As it stretches to the horizon
I panic.
What if I swim out too far?
Who will save me?
I inch my feet forward in the sand
Just enough to dampen my feet
As the next wave rolls in.
Yes, no, yes, no
Maybe a little,
For the water is cold,
And even on a hot summer’s day
It chills you to the core
I take three forced steps
Right, Left, Right…
I scamper sideways
As I feel the intruding object
Brush against my ankles
I see the seaweed and remember to breathe
I continue.
Up to my knees now,
The water is cloudy
I can no longer see my legs.
Should I continue, or dash towards shore
Towards safety
I press on,
Because Life is full of seaweed and sharks and
So many dangers,
Often inevitable.
So now, as an adult,
I take the plunge
Into life
And Love
And Loss
Knowing all the while
That potential heartache lay ahead
But knowing as well
That it is better to have tried and failed
Than to never have tried at all.
It’s time to wade into life.
Three strikes
I warned you not to break her
But you still made her cry
And even after all you’ve done
She still won’t say goodbye
I told you not to lie
But that was your first strike
I told you not to yell
But drugs became your life
I said to watch yourself
But you made careless mistakes
Your second strike was
Making her heart break
I warned you not to argue
But you control her every move
So there’s your third strike
And who became the fool?
Ready, Set, Scream
I can see it in your eyes
You can see it on my face
We can hardly even breathe
So Ready, Set, Scream
I know you want to
I can see your fists curl
I can see the tensing of your skin
So Ready, Set, Give In
I hate seeing you hurt
And I know you’re about to break
So take my hand and hold on tight
Ready, Set, Fight
I hate this room
You hate the noise
So let’s just get out of here
Ready, Set, Disappear
Leave everyone, leave everything
But first we’ll have our final words
Or maybe trust what the sun shall bring
Ready, Set, Scream
Amber Roberson
The Hydra of Female Desire within the Literary Tradition
by
Tanya Andrious
Throughout history women have been confined to the male perspective, not only with how men look at women but how women look at themselves. Women writers, especially in the early budding of the female literary tradition, barely touched the taboo topic of female desire and sexuality. The exploration of female sexual desire by women writers has evolved throughout the centuries, beginning first with Aphra Behn in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; Christina Rossetti in the nineteenth century, and ending with Andrienne Rich in the late twentieth century. All three authors, in their respective century, explore a female’s desire through different perspectives, revealing the different perceptions about women’s sexuality in the literary form.
The seventeenth and eighteenth century was not an easy time for women writers. They could easily be dismissed and ostracized by their peers if a literary topic was disliked. Women writers were thus indirectly controlled by men. However, as Susan Gubar and Sandra Gilbert mention, “Aphra Behn was England’s first professional woman writer” (The Norton Anthology 109) that took chances with her writing and began to put a dent into what was considered acceptable. She broke the first boundaries where some of her verses were “marked by an erotic honesty that scandalized many of her readers” (Norton 109). Unfortunately, consequences resulted from Behn’s bold foray into the exploration of female desire: The same literary circles that Behn frequented “…expected women to remain decently silent about their own desires” (110). Behn, however, saw nothing wrong with celebrating women enjoying their sexuality and her poem “The Willing Mistress” is a testament to her treatment of the topic.
Behn’s perception of female sexuality was not confined to the male perspective; her character neither suffers consequence or regret for enjoying her sexual exploitations. In fact, the Mistress describes her enjoyable, impending foray with a man by stating:
Amyntas led me to a grove,
Where All the trees did shade us;
The sun itself, though it had strove,
It could not have betrayed us
The place secured from human eyes (1-5).
There is anticipation in the Mistress’ voice as she describes the need for secrecy without regret. In fact, Behn writes each subsequent line by describing the Mistress’ increased gratification:
Down there we sat upon the moss,
And did begin to play
A thousand amorous tricks, to pass
The heat of all the day (9-12).
There is a sense of fun to be read in the lines, where the reader grasps the Mistress’ amplified arousal. A woman has needs, and as much as men in Behn’s century wanted to deny such truths, Behn tastefully expresses the needs of her female character:
A many kisses did he give
And I returned the same,
Which made me willing to receive
That which I dare not name (13-16).
Behn was unleashing Pandora’s Box by outwardly proclaiming a woman’s sexual experience and revealing that women’s desire is nothing to be ashamed of. The third stanza deals with give and take, where the Mistress is in control as much as the man:
On her that was already fired,
‘Twas easy to prevail.
He did but kiss and clasp me round,
Whilst those this thoughts expressed:
And laid me gently on the ground;
Ah who can guess the rest? (19-24).
A woman can be a sexual being, willing and wanting as lines 19 and 20 indicate. Women’s sexual desire should not be held as a disparagement but rather a positive aspect on the female experience. Although the Mistress’ explorations went without consequence, Behn however, did not. By bringing the topic of female desire out into the open Behn’s “reputation was to be obscured or defaced for centuries after her death” (110). Behn saw female desire through her own eyes, yet Christina Rossetti, in her poem “Goblin Market”, ends up viewing desire through the male lens.
Christina Rossetti brings us into the nineteenth century with her poem “Goblin Market,” where she offers readers a different slant on the perception of female desire. “Goblin Market” expresses a deeper journey of the female experience, where Rossetti “meditate[s] on the dangers of desire, especially the dangers of female desire” (Gubar 894). In contrast to Behn, Rossetti’s thoughts on female desire were influenced by the ideologies of the male literary tradition as well as male definitions of women. “Goblin Market” offers an enticing taste of a female’s attraction to her own desires and the consequences that come from following that desire.
“Goblin Market” begins simply enough: two innocent sisters overhearing the alluring call of Goblin men. The contrast and dilemma of the drama becomes apparent: “Laura bowed her head to hear, / Lizzie veiled her blushes” (34-5). Laura is at once attracted to the call, her desire evident. Yet her sister Lizzie is intent on preventing Laura from following through, stating: “We must not look at Goblin men” (42). Lizzie stresses the danger that Laura is toying with when it comes to the idea of not only contemplating but submitting to her female desire.
The form of the poem portrays Lizzie as the “conscience” and Laura the “desire,” waging battle between restraint and enjoyment of desire:
“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura.
You should not peep at Goblin men,”
Lizzie covered up her eyes,
Covered close lest they should look:
Laura reared her glossy head (48-52).
The dilemma is nicely portrayed between Laura wanting to let go and Lizzie’s hard restraint. Rossetti’s indecisiveness and confusion shines through, unsure of which female image is the “right” one.
Rossetti continues to imply that female desire is wrong:
“No,” said Lizzie: “No, no, no:
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us” (64-66).
Rossetti chooses an interesting phrase in line 65 in regards to charm: it “should not” have an influence on them, meaning that there is something wrong about feeling attraction. However, Laura continues to become more ensnared in the game of desire: “Curious Laura chose to linger / Wondering at each merchant man” (69-70). Laura’s well of desire has sprung up inside her and she is without self-discipline. This side of the poem connects with Behn’s “The Willing Mistress,” where both Laura and the Mistress want only to succumb to the joy that awaits them. Yet, the entryway into the exploration of female desire depicts a difference between the two centuries, where Laura’s actions result in a penalty.
To be aware of consequence one must be warned, and Lizzie continues to educate Laura on the etiquette of behaving:
“Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men (145-8).
Rossetti gives the impression that Laura is in need of being saved from making a big mistake. To further enhance the loving reproach, Lizzie offers Laura an indirect experience to learn from: “Do you not remember Jeanie, / How she met them in the moonlight” (147-8). A brief reference is established before Lizzie fully embarks on the ramifications of Jeanie’s explorations and dives into the story:
But ever in the noonlight
She pined and pined away:
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low: (153-59).
Rossetti implies in lines 154-55 that to follow one’s desire can be addictive. Jeanie, for example, not only succumbed to her desire but could not cope with the thought of not ever satisfying her desire again. More importantly, Jeanie felt such an intense need for a refill that when her need could not be satisfied she ends up dying. Laura’s experience then begins to mirror that of Jeanie. As Laura’s cravings become more intense, she states:
“I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth water still:
Tomorrow night I will
Buy more” (165-8).
Rossetti also implies in line 166 that not only does a woman have wants, but that they are not a one time deal; a woman’s desires are always existent.
Yet, the insistent need for fulfillment leaves Laura in a somewhat detached emotional state as she goes from innocent virgin to a desirous young woman and then to a slightly mad, near death young woman addicted to her female desire: “Laura in an absent dream, / One content, one sick in part” (211-12). Laura is saved from death by her sister’s selfless act, who ends up getting “goblin juice” and feeding “the fiery antidote” (559) to Laura. Rossetti offers a complex look at the female experience, one that is riddled with mixed images of female sexuality and the guilt that was so often connected with it. However, as the later twentieth century blew in, the male stronghold was beginning to lessen its grip as women writers were now making their own traditions born out of the female experience. This tradition continues with Adrienne Rich, who explores female sexuality from a broader perspective.
The advent of the later part of the twentieth century brought with it a large exploration of themes, where women writers began “exploring and dramatizing their national, economic, linguistic, regional, ethnic, religious, and political divergences along with their differing sexual preferences” (Gilbert 1616). Women writers no longer had to worry what men thought. Adrienne Rich was concerned with her own identity and experience, exploring a female’s desire through the lens of lesbianism. Just as Behn and Rossetti wrote of a woman’s enjoyment of her desire so too does Rich. Rich explores lesbian desire in a more descriptive manner that would have drawn more than gasps a few centuries ago.
Adrienne Rich, in her poem “The Floating Poem, Unnumbered,” delights the reader with a more upfront portrayal of female sexual desire. Gracious in her description, Rich expresses a woman’s positive portrayal of her enjoyment without guilt, reservation or consequence:
What ever happens with us, your body
Will haunt mine – tender, delicate
Your lovemaking (1-3).
The narrator is looking back at a past experience with fondness and the stronger the memory gets the more descriptive the poem becomes. Free from male reproach Rich is able to fully express her direct observations on the extent of a woman’s desire. The perception of a woman’s sexuality is no longer to be feared, as Rich’s poem indicates:
Your traveled, generous thighs
between which my whole face has come and come –
the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue
has found there – (5-8).
Rich is explicitly exploring female desire by not only describing a “lady love” (1954) but addressing a “lady love.” Female desire has thus become more about women’s pleasure and enjoyment. The discovery about documenting women’s experiences now takes precedence and Rich is not shy in sharing this perspective with her reader. Lines 9-13 further illustrate this point:
the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth –
your touch on me, firm, protective, searching
me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers
reaching where I had been waiting years for you
in my rose-wet cave – whatever happens, this is.
Rich explores in-depth the wants of a woman; that desire is nothing to be scared or ashamed of, regardless of gender. The narrator’s experience becomes a fond memory which Rich outwardly describes. Her poem is thus bold and courageous with its content, extending the female tradition into further depths.
Women’s experiences were often categorized through male definitions of what women should and should not be, and this penetrated the literary voice of female writers. Christina Rossetti’s “Goblin Market” is a testament to this. Change, however, can often be a balm that heals such confusion. The only way for women to know themselves is to also know each other and this can only be achieved if women make their voice known. Aphra Behn was the first to take such a step. Each century revealed a different voice that expressed feelings about the issue of female desire and what women themselves thought of it. To know the importance of what has been achieved can only be appreciated through the path that was taken. Behn took the first steps and allowed Rossetti to continue the tradition and bring us to get where we are at present; where Adrienne Rich has spiced up the freedom that women can now express without reservation.
Works Cited
Gilbert, M. Sandra and Gubar, Susan, ed. The Norton Anthology: Literature By Women.
2nd ed. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1996.
Behn, Aphra. “The Willing Mistress.” Gilbert 111.
Rich, Adrienne. “The Floating Poem, Unnumbered.” Gilbert 1963.
Rossetti, Christina. “Goblin Market.” Gilbert 903-915.
Posted by record at 6:50 PM 0 comments
Thursday, January 13, 2011
"Alphabettica Thealogica"
Athena opens wide grey eyes to the beat of owl's wings
Blodeuedd, her body composed of exotic blooms, perfumes the air
Chang-O turns her regal back to the world, offering the drape of her deep-black peignoir to the night's darkness
Demeter garlands the chamber with sheaves of golden, shining wheat
Europa, in the form of a magnificent white cow, leaps over Chang-O bearing Zeus, her royal cup-bearer, on her pearlescent back as blood-red wine spills from her silver cup
Freya unleashes her cats, ruffling their blue-black fur with one elegant hand. She glances over her shoulder and into one of the many mirrors to see
Guinevere weaving a crown of white daisies,
Hecate combing her flowing silver hair as she toys with the locks of Heaven's gate,
Isis unfurling her protective wings over the bed, the many colors of her feathers reflecting in candlelight bounced off white silk sheets,
Juno, on her throne, fanned by the tails of a thousand peacocks, sipping ouzo,
Kuan Yin, tuning her telepathic compassionate radar to my frequency, sensing pain, and then discovering the razor sting is all part of sweet joy,
Lakshmi, her many hands throwing golden coins from her many Dolce & Gabbana handbags, whispering blessings of prosperity,
Medusa's serpents shed their skin as elegant peels of white chocolate; their mistress stirs them into my drink,
Nymphs drop the maroon leaves and pink blossoms of springtime plum trees from the rafters,
Oshun crosses oceans of time, and cultures, to pick up Lakshmi's chant and form a duet,
Pele's volcanoes spout benevolent, incensed pink smoke and rainbows of sparks,
Queen of heaven Inanna lifts Pele's sparks to the sky and transforms them into stars to decorate her temple,
and Rhiannon opens a pine chest to reveal an exquisite selection of riding crops.
Selene, my Goddess, all the minor deities Gather at your feet to worship, and my heart quivers to realize you've chosen me from all among the host who vie for your attention.
(inspired by VictoriaSelene Skye Deme and by Kris Waldherr's The Book of Goddesses)
"Moist Howlette: For Allen Ginsberg"
Sacred! Sacred! Sacred! My poet, my prophet, my Jewish saint and guru declares that all is sacred!
The world is divine! The soul is divine! The skin is sacred! The vulva is sacred! The tongue and cock and hand and asshole sacred!
Everybody’s sacred! Everywhere’s sacred! Every thing is sacred! Every day is an eternity! Every man and woman is an angel!
The sacred whore’s as holy as the seraphim! The sex worker is holy as you my soul are holy! The clitoral orgasm’s as sacred as the vaginal orgasm!
The keyboard is sacred the poem is sacred the voice is sacred the hearers and readers are sacred the ecstasy is sacred!
Holy Erin holy Allen holy Purrrrrrrrr holy Kathryn E holy Walt Whitman holy Joan Jett holy fuckers holy every human angel!
Sacred the vibrators! Sacred, the cock and the cock ring and the clit and the clit ring!
Sacred the groaning saxophone! Sacred the orgasm apocalypse! Sacred the womb scrotum balls peace & junk & drums!
Sacred the solitudes of men’s rooms and elevators! Sacred the strip clubs filled with the millions! Sacred the mysterious rivers of cum and pussy juice and blood and sweat and tears under the sheets!
Sacred the lesbian and the gay man! Sacred the bisexual! Sacred the straight feminist and sexual shepherds of rebellion!
Sacred forgiveness! Mercy! Charity! Faith! Love! Affection! Touch! Sacred! Ours! Bodies! Pain and pleasure! Magnanimity!
Sacred the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of Allen Ginsberg’s dear departed soul!
"Ode a Pete Wentz"
"Sugar, We're Going Down"
may be the only Fall Out Boy song I like
or know,
but I like things named after Simpsons characters,
and I like Pete Wentz.
When I first saw him in glossy magazines,
with Lindsay Lohan, or Ashlee Simpson,
or some other dishwater redhead,
I thought he was a lesbian,
Not a him,
But a hym,
a potential hersband for said starlet du jour.
His long-haired androgyny
and skinny legs are why
if I ever got him alone
I would like to bend him over,
pull those too-tight emo pants down
over his pasty, girlie ass
and take him from behind.
A strap-on should do nicely,
With a nice jelly dildo--
Red,
Silicone, not latex
(I have an allergy)
And, preferably, the kind that's a vibrator, too.
This has to be fun for us both.
I'm just a notch in your bedpost,
But you're just a few lines
In a dirty poem.
Erin O'Riordan
WHY DOES IT GOT TO BE LIKE THIS
I CAN’T FIND MYSELF IN THIS WORLD WIND
I DON’T KNOW WHERE I LOST ALL CONTROL
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO BELIEVE ANYMORE
WHY DOES IT GOT TO BE LIKE THIS WHO AM I
I DON’T BELONG
I LOST MY LOVE
I DON’T TRUST ANYTHING
WHY DOES IT GOT TO BE LIKE THIS
I STOP CARING AND GIVING IN
I AM TIRED OF GIVING IT MY ALL
I AM NOT ME,MAD ABOUT EVERYTHING,DON’T KNOW WHY
WHY DOES IT GOT TO BE LIKE THIS
JEALOUS OVER EVERYTHING FEEELING OF UNFAITHFULLNESS IN MY MARRIAGE
SO SAD, LONELY AND ANGRY I HATE WHO I AM
WHY DOES IT GOT TO BE LIKE THIS
lashaun guel
Posted by record at 5:52 PM 0 comments
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Queer in the bible belt
Mindless chatter flows.....
outta of my homosexual mind
do you hear it?
do you hear the thoughts I be thinkin'?
do you see the images,
that I be poulluting the air with?
On a single day-
my obscenity will cover the smog of LA
but the people still be gaggin'
this not be on Johnny's balls neither
they be gaggin' at my thoughts
my own freedom of expression
my own version of true love
they be gaggin'
at me and my girl
holdin' hands
I could have been born with red hair
and freckles
I could have been born destined
to a 34DD
I could have been born to be
a movie star
I could have been born
wishing for a MBA
I could have been born with
some abnormality-
the only thing worse
for me
would have been to be born-
straight
My Number- Is like this
Liking girls isn't always as convenient
as liking boys
but sometimes it calms the heart
and seems less fragile
cause you both are so soft
you won't have to be wondering
if one of you will break
and the glue
that sticks to your insides
has already poured out
Yeah- I wish for simple things
like the love between two girls
me being one
her one too
but something came in between
the simple thing,
A boy
has screwed our equation
and now it is not equal to love
a boy has fucked
my number- on this occasion
Not A Pretty Girl
I once attempted to write a love poem
and I did write it
but why call it a love poem
I never even gave it to that girl
the girl whose phone number I got,
hung out with once,
smoked some weed with
and then I had decided,
she had made-
a bad impression
forget the fact that she likes Ani
forget the fact that night-
sitting on her couch,
she put in Not A Pretty Girl
hours earlier-
I had thought of buying a bottle of wine
so the two of us would believe-
we were intoxicated on each other
she wasn't even that pretty-
a blond
and I always state the fact loud;
that blonds aren't my type;
I am known to lie
I saw this girl once more
my hair was shorter
maybe she didn' think I was as cute-
as she once had
I did get her new number
I din't use that one either
Bethany Young
the moon hung
like a curve of a tear
in the soundless mirror
of the sky
no clouds to hide its way
this is something unsay able
this moment
this saved-up coin of happiness
i take it while I can
a blank page
our footprints write on
for Raquel
the bent figure
of a fairy girl
came to me in the box you sent
with its distant eyes
and delicate lily lines
one of the wings fell off
just laying there in the box
like the curved shell
of a tear
she is lost
and found at the same time
a secret smile
as she looks down
bent knee
she leans on open hands
Cherries
sucking on cherry pits until there's no taste left
I want to tell you what you mean to me
I've been meaning too
I've been too busy
and now it's too late
my life is a coloring book
you've missed so many birds
I'm too young to grow up
cover me with thoughts of you
hold me close
and I'll hold you true
occasionally the fruit is bitter
an angel's fallen from the sky
cherry pits fall like echo's of glass
in the bowel
Country weekend
at the lake
we sit with our beer cans
talking and laughing
and I miss you
the mirrored lake
is full of secrets and motion
back at the house
unfinished among the trees and purple wildflowers
the sun is setting
thick strokes of color
blending into each other
I remember thinking
it was like looking into a crystal
now the stars are out
shinning white
swirling in the blackest country sky
the crickets are out
off-key violins
but I can't go to sleep
until the phone rings
Egyptian Dream a woman of blue feathers and musk stares with liquid, black eyes wet onyx trembles in the night she flies over the pale golden sands the moon her pale song a wail in the night she walks on the sand beside the sphinx and looks at him with dark eyes nothing will ever change together, they turn to face the sun awaiting dawn
Take me river, carry me far, lead me river, like a mother, take me over to some other unknown, put me me in the undertow
The Lullaby
I lay awake at night
listening to the lullaby of the crickets
soft underwater whispers
mixing into the night
this is the only time
I get to not think
worries blend into the shadows
I wrap myself in the trembling blankets
of forgetfulness
the space between dreams
everything seems right
in those soft dark moments
alone with crickets
the night is deafening
when the silence is listening
Sunset
mine is an army of angels
night brings out troubles to the light
hanging on the smoky edge of dreams
hazy silvers hide the light
hidden clouds and trees like dark tears
starts with a glimmer
ending with a glow
It's so hard to forget pain
but it's even harder to remember sweetness
The Postcard
for Michael Calvello
take me to the fields
of golden green
where the flowers bloom heavy
against the scented sky
and trembling water
the path of bent grass
leads to a group of quiet trees
seeming alone
even when they are together
burnt green tears
in the distance
it won't ever change
if you want it to stay the same
wild rose
jagged, delicate petals
billowing out or darkening green
this is a memory from my early childhood
when i think things made a little more sense
when life gets to be too much
I remember I used to dream
fantasies of endless summertime
golden leafs
with crystal-blue jewels
floating gently downstream
a time when pain was too small too mention
and cold wasn't understood
Winter Roses
the winter roses
floated outside our window
honey colored feathers
lazily turning curving upward
to what is left of the sun
we looked at them
as we had our coffee
in our blue china cups
wrapped in blankets
waking up slowly
wiping away the tears of sleep
slow secret smiles
the winter roses
lightly hang there like bells
curving bells as if held up by nothing
comfort and loneliness
honey and green watercolor
like a sigh
like a whisper
breathing a little more warmth into the coldness
sooner or later
I need a savior
Sarah Calvello
Good day my love,
Why do you say that I flirt?
I see you keep staring at all the young ladies.
Good day my love,
Why do you say I tune out to what you have to say?
I told you what you need it to know.
Good day my love,
Why do you say that I don't do women's obligations?
I see how you never take us out.
Good day my love,
Why do you say that I’m a cruel mother?
I see how you are to the kids.
Good day my love,
Why do you say I’m ignorant?
I see how your boss told you to do the same thing over and over again.
Good day my love
Why do you say I’m not respectful?
I see all the bruises on my body.
Good day my love,
Why do you say I’m not a pleasing lover?
I see how is all about you.
Good day my love,
You asked why couldn't you come home?
I say because that's the last thing that I well let you do...
teresa chavez
Oral Dissertation
Your silky lips seem to mold into mine when we kiss.
Our lips part and our tongues begin a dance of their own.
Your tongue moves methodically within mine as if in search of the finest treasure.
Tasting you with every wavelike motion is reminiscent of a love language.
Verbal orgasms send me over the edge and a moan escapes me sending vibrations in our oral world of seduction.
Your hands on either side of my face let me know you are hungry for more.
I slowly pull back and look into your eyes and then your eyes lower to my lips.
A seductive smile creeps upon your face.
I take your face into my hands and I slowly trace your lips with my tongue and I see the need in your eyes to feel my lips once again.
This oral manipulation is causing us both to focus intently on the task at hand.
Keep giving me your oral jisms; your kisses are the truth, no lie.
Forbidden Fruit
A taste you can't get out off your taste buds.
I remain coated on your tongue as a reminder
of the loving you feen for.
The lover you scream for.
Better yet the lover you cream for.
My sexy talk makes you lose your mind
And a slow wind that makes you want to grind.
The one you're with doesn't understand your needs
Let me remind you of the difference between her and me.
She kicks her heels off and I keep mine on
She can't break you off, but I can turn you on.
Her favorite position is what they call missionary.
My favorite one is whatever is imaginary.
My loving has no boundaries and anything goes
I make you put in work and I always cur your toes.
Unfortunately this fantasy has only taken place in my mind.
I am your forbidden fruit, dangling from a vine.
Forbidden Love
Like an addict to a drug addiction, I go through withdrawals when you are not around.
I walk around aimlessly wondering if our secret love will be found out.
I have to love you from a distance because you belong to another.
The forbidden fruit I crave, my shelter and my cover.
I am the happiness you want and the lover that you need.
I give you a taste of what real love is and you always up and leave.
I stimulate the most inner part of your soul
but you can't seem to break free, forever etched inside the mold.
Like Romeo and Juliet, we can only love each other in the shadows.
Cause if our loved is found out, we are destined for the gallows.
A love so pure and sweet and yet I must hold it in.
Loving someone who is taken has become my greatest sin,
But it's also my greatest pleasure, to know I'm the reason you smile.
I'm the one who makes you laugh and makes life seem worth while.
The aching in my heart, I've got to rise above
but for now, you'll be my Forbidden Love.
Lyric Ishani
Chocolate Kisses
Sweet temptations graze across your lips.
An indulgence that sends a current through your body and ignites you.
My full chocolate lips are lightly caressing yours.
Your anticipation is quite audible to me.
I can hear your heart pounding through your chest.
I sample the sweetness of your lips with my tongue
to take in all your flavor.
I can still taste the strawberries that I just fed you moments before.
How delectable you are.
I gently kiss your eager lips and the vibration of your moan on my lips encourages me.
I slowly part your lips with my tongue and enjoy the flavors of our mouths.
Fiercely sensual, you make me feverish in my own skin.
Now steaming from the heat, my lips between my thighs begin to swelter.
We lose ourselves in each other, over and over again.
Each kiss, slays you with such precision and deliberateness.
The kiss of death, so sweetly urged.
Honey Love
You engage me with your honey hued eyes that have flecks of gold.
You entice me with the sweetness that lies behind them;
Making me wonder the flavor of the nectar you hold.
Fantasizing about the sticky sweetness that is your essence.
Immortalized on my lips only to taste you again with one graze of my tongue.
Such sweet seduction
Making Love
Kisses that could inflame the soul.
A tender touch that diffuses all my inhibitions.
The outside world wastes away and it's us.
We begin a dance of love and lust.
Both striving to please the other in hopes of a climatic release.
Our bodies move as one.
Methodically sending chills down each others spine.
Each stroke makes me submit and my body relaxes only to be tensed by an eruption that starts at the pit of my stomach and simultaneously tingles down to my toes and I erupt from both of my lips.
The set betweens my thighs tighten around you and release my love like a waterfall flooding your member like a tsunami.
The lips on face release moans and screams of sublime pleasure.
As I come down from my high I am humbled to be your lover for life.
You killed the fight in me and to feel this good again, I'll die a million times.
Thinking of You
I find myself laying in bed thinking of you.
Thinking of you watching me and I begin to touch myself.
My fingers slide into my moisten panties as my eager lips await the slightest sensation.
Mmmm...Moans escape my lips as visions of you appear in my mind.
I am not sure what turns me one more.
Your sexy smile?
The swagger you rock?
Your sexy body?
maybe it’s the thought of what I want to do.
Wanting to taste your soft lips.
Or the thought of you kissing mine.....down there.
Maybe it's the thought of you stroking...my...mouthand hearing your sexy moan.
Mmmm...
My love pearl is so swollen wanting a release.
I let my fingers rub it faster in a circular motion imagining you watching me.
And then the vision comes to mind right before my release.
Your head in between my thighs licking, sucking, and nibbling on my love pear until I let my river flow all over your lips, tongue and chin.
Then you raise your head and look up at me and I see my love glistening all over your mouth.
I open my eyes and realize the mess I've made between my thighs.
I lick my fingers pretending I am tasting the thoughts of you that remain.
Lyric Ishani
GANJA NIPPLES
BY: @KEMETICQUEEN
10,000 decibels too short of hidden this beat is tight
Out of sight...
Green lips set caged humming birds free (flight)
10,000 miles a second green wings shimmer
So sci-fi sky high type fly fly fly away
Black Snow white with the wild beasts jamming to Badu
Ooooo.
As Her indigo knuckles knock on my chest I bleed hot pink emotions
Drip drying all over my flustered face in faucets of blush
Masking this funk ship shifting rhythm in under ground oceans oceans
I'm stroking y'all...
We melt in a pot of sheets like steam over fat asses we drip...
Sip and hotcake on her griddle flip...tongue? lip hip grip suck dont slip
Aaaaahhh.... damn baby slow down...
Hookah bar type tities as I succulently molest medium deep mahogany mountains
Where smoke fountains tickled my tongue...pastel painted my lungs a ganja green
Serene scene of a titie fene... titie fene
This aint a dream y'all...
Baby doll so African perfectly carved wooden
Grape Jolly Rancher Draped Pantie
Fanti, see, I woman be Purrrr Purrr Pretty Puss Beauty
Oooo weee... Hmmm
Forefinger flexes fluidly for her fluid tree
Honey bee sticky icky juicy tea...
Jerk and || Vibrate and Beatin involuntarily
OOhhh I think she like me... yall...
Negroes cant swim so I drown in it
Ta-da-da-da that ass upscale fish scale mermaid
Sex slave whole sale gmail water hole big wale...
Well... you get the idea.. yall
I'm crazy
Creative anti-virginity activity
You kiss on me crucially swirling sanity and sanctity
Flammable aerosol puffs blaze brown bellies birthing heathen activity
It's called sensual fluidity teenage eccentricity
She is the zero gravity epitome
Dippn me in and out of reality...
Fantasy on earth y'all...
I raise my hands in praise
Cupping her D-cup double gaze
I graze gracefully under holy ganja nipple a-maze
In body....
Green lips Humming birds anti virginity activity singing to me
Sex is better than drugs honey...
Shipwrecked
Water overhead, underneath.
How did we get here?
How did I get here?
Rising, sinking, sinking.
So suddenly, I am alone.
Will we ever catch our breath?
Will I ever catch my breath?
Fighting, screaming, screaming.
Water fills my lungs; I cannot speak, cannot think.
Are we strong enough to start over?
Am I strong enough to start over?
Winning, drowning, drowning.
I want to retire, just for a moment.
Can we be honest with ourselves?
Can I be honest with myself?
Pushing, struggling, struggling.
Pruny hands, hearts; we have expired.
Will we ever feel again?
Will I ever feel again?
Hurting, resting, resting.
My Heart is in Your Toaster Oven
There isn’t enough room in my heart for hate,
But I can’t even keep a promise to myself.
Your songs are just poems with a pretty melody,
My poems are just unfinished songs on a shelf.
You kiss gives me flies—what? I mean butter,
You’ve got me all worn down; I’m inside out.
But we spin faster and you tighten your grip,
Sun is bright, sky is blue, and I’m still full of doubt.
You say I’m pretty cute, but I don’t like how this rhymes,
Should we start over, make up for lost time?
I’m changing the beat, keep up with the pace,
You never seemed to like the sad look on my face.
We’re like the ocean, no, more like a tree,
I’m not sure how, but it’s a damn good simile.
Pick up your guitar, sing a song, make me smile,
I just wanna be here in your arms for a while.
I’m all over the map, but you’re the ink to my quill,
Wait, no, that was stupid; you’re the sprinkles to my vanill--
--A…ice cream? What? I’m not making any sense,
I’ll agree to let you rescue me if you’ll just be my prince.
You really make me laugh and your eyes make me melt,
You’ve got a heart of gold and you’re the best that I have smelt.
What? I mean smelled; I’m enunciating lazily,
Actually, I think it’s just you’ve got me going crazily.
Dead or Alive
This blank page underneath my pen
will soon be alive like that first night
spent in the arms of heartache.
Nothing ever felt more real,
and I never wanted so badly to be dreaming.
I was as fragile as a tulip
trying to fight off a hurricane.
I was drowning and losing.
Overwhelming, the feeling was when
you get too hot but you can’t get your coat off.
And no one is around to help you.
I was trapped inside that puffy, down coat,
all alone, in the middle of a hurricane.
If I could hold on long enough,
maybe if I could breathe in the eye of the storm.
But how do you break the news to yourself
that you’re already dead?
Ghost of You
You’re the Ghost that won’t leave me alone.
When I drive past exit sign 97B, there you are,
showing me your perfect smile,
your mouth slightly parted so the laughter can escape.
When I watch that movie,
they fall in love again and again and again,
thanks to “scene selection,”
and his body becomes your’s; her hands, mine.
When I see that dress and the silky fabric
spills over my shins, I can smell your hair
and feel your ear soaking up
my hot breath and secrets.
When I hear that song with that line
that made you laugh,
I feel your fingers between mine with the windows
down and my hair a crazy mess.
When I see my breath outside in the chilly air I look over
to my left and see you beside me on the top of your car,
waiting in the dead of winter for
a meteor shower that would never come.
It’s time for you to go now, move on, please.
You can’t keep haunting me late at night like this,
or when I’m in his arms,
or drifting off to sleep.
Let me go.
I can’t help you now.
You’re just the Ghost of who you were;
There’s a different you living inside that shell now.
But what you fail to realize is
my ghost is out there somewhere
because it made me different, too.
I’m Just a Toy Doll
The room is full of people,
but all I see is you--
you standing there in that dark suit.
Now I’m nothing but a puddle on the floor.
If you came in and scooped me up and
molded me into the girl you want me to be,
I’d look so different.
My nose would be smaller, maybe with a few freckles,
I’d be shorter, definitely shorter--
easier to pick up and carry around the house.
I’d make you feel like a man then.
Yeah, you’d be so amazing with a tiny lady
who enjoys cooking your spaghetti.
If you could, you’d take a saw to my head,
lift the top of my skull off like was just a
furry bowl resting there.
You’d take out my brain and exchange it with
you own.
I’d think just like you in this bite-sized form
with my culinary hands,
and you’d be in complete heaven.
You’d wipe off my girly nail polish,
smooth out my wild hair,
throw a racy outfit on me—no, nude.
No, everyone is looking…a turtleneck and sweats--
Then you’d complain about how I look.
Tan skin (free of charge!),
and I’m ready and willing.
It’s unfortunate for you that toy dolls aren’t real.
Forever and for All of the Universe
My life is a sad song
A capella
No noise other than
One lonely voice
Singing words
About love and sorrow
About life and sadness
But we collided
And you put music
To my melody
And I can’t seem
To put the cassette down
Until I have just one more
Listen
It’s a symphony
Of gentle passion
That floods my ears
And enlightens
My system
And I’m pretty sure
This is my new
Favorite song
Of all time.
X-RAY
How do you do it?
My skin is translucent to your eyes.
You see straight to my broken heart;
sometimes it’s scary,
but you know me better than anyone.
The whole world knows I’m a jigsaw puzzle,
1500 pieces scattered wildly.
But you see a finished work of art
when you look at me.
I am my truest self when you’re there,
believing in me.
This poem is a mess,
but it’s like my heart that started in
a bunch of tiny fragments and you
stitched it back together.
It was initially so ugly and broken up,
but each piece was honest.
And when it beat as one again,
you saw.
You saw the miracle right through my chest.
It may not be pretty,
but that doesn’t mean it won’t work.
Ashley Doty
like a curve of a tear
in the soundless mirror
of the sky
no clouds to hide its way
this is something unsay able
this moment
this saved-up coin of happiness
i take it while I can
a blank page
our footprints write on
for Raquel
the bent figure
of a fairy girl
came to me in the box you sent
with its distant eyes
and delicate lily lines
one of the wings fell off
just laying there in the box
like the curved shell
of a tear
she is lost
and found at the same time
a secret smile
as she looks down
bent knee
she leans on open hands
Cherries
sucking on cherry pits until there's no taste left
I want to tell you what you mean to me
I've been meaning too
I've been too busy
and now it's too late
my life is a coloring book
you've missed so many birds
I'm too young to grow up
cover me with thoughts of you
hold me close
and I'll hold you true
occasionally the fruit is bitter
an angel's fallen from the sky
cherry pits fall like echo's of glass
in the bowel
Country weekend
at the lake
we sit with our beer cans
talking and laughing
and I miss you
the mirrored lake
is full of secrets and motion
back at the house
unfinished among the trees and purple wildflowers
the sun is setting
thick strokes of color
blending into each other
I remember thinking
it was like looking into a crystal
now the stars are out
shinning white
swirling in the blackest country sky
the crickets are out
off-key violins
but I can't go to sleep
until the phone rings
Egyptian Dream a woman of blue feathers and musk stares with liquid, black eyes wet onyx trembles in the night she flies over the pale golden sands the moon her pale song a wail in the night she walks on the sand beside the sphinx and looks at him with dark eyes nothing will ever change together, they turn to face the sun awaiting dawn
Take me river, carry me far, lead me river, like a mother, take me over to some other unknown, put me me in the undertow
The Lullaby
I lay awake at night
listening to the lullaby of the crickets
soft underwater whispers
mixing into the night
this is the only time
I get to not think
worries blend into the shadows
I wrap myself in the trembling blankets
of forgetfulness
the space between dreams
everything seems right
in those soft dark moments
alone with crickets
the night is deafening
when the silence is listening
Sunset
mine is an army of angels
night brings out troubles to the light
hanging on the smoky edge of dreams
hazy silvers hide the light
hidden clouds and trees like dark tears
starts with a glimmer
ending with a glow
It's so hard to forget pain
but it's even harder to remember sweetness
The Postcard
for Michael Calvello
take me to the fields
of golden green
where the flowers bloom heavy
against the scented sky
and trembling water
the path of bent grass
leads to a group of quiet trees
seeming alone
even when they are together
burnt green tears
in the distance
it won't ever change
if you want it to stay the same
wild rose
jagged, delicate petals
billowing out or darkening green
this is a memory from my early childhood
when i think things made a little more sense
when life gets to be too much
I remember I used to dream
fantasies of endless summertime
golden leafs
with crystal-blue jewels
floating gently downstream
a time when pain was too small too mention
and cold wasn't understood
Winter Roses
the winter roses
floated outside our window
honey colored feathers
lazily turning curving upward
to what is left of the sun
we looked at them
as we had our coffee
in our blue china cups
wrapped in blankets
waking up slowly
wiping away the tears of sleep
slow secret smiles
the winter roses
lightly hang there like bells
curving bells as if held up by nothing
comfort and loneliness
honey and green watercolor
like a sigh
like a whisper
breathing a little more warmth into the coldness
sooner or later
I need a savior
Sarah Calvello
Good day my love,
Why do you say that I flirt?
I see you keep staring at all the young ladies.
Good day my love,
Why do you say I tune out to what you have to say?
I told you what you need it to know.
Good day my love,
Why do you say that I don't do women's obligations?
I see how you never take us out.
Good day my love,
Why do you say that I’m a cruel mother?
I see how you are to the kids.
Good day my love,
Why do you say I’m ignorant?
I see how your boss told you to do the same thing over and over again.
Good day my love
Why do you say I’m not respectful?
I see all the bruises on my body.
Good day my love,
Why do you say I’m not a pleasing lover?
I see how is all about you.
Good day my love,
You asked why couldn't you come home?
I say because that's the last thing that I well let you do...
teresa chavez
Oral Dissertation
Your silky lips seem to mold into mine when we kiss.
Our lips part and our tongues begin a dance of their own.
Your tongue moves methodically within mine as if in search of the finest treasure.
Tasting you with every wavelike motion is reminiscent of a love language.
Verbal orgasms send me over the edge and a moan escapes me sending vibrations in our oral world of seduction.
Your hands on either side of my face let me know you are hungry for more.
I slowly pull back and look into your eyes and then your eyes lower to my lips.
A seductive smile creeps upon your face.
I take your face into my hands and I slowly trace your lips with my tongue and I see the need in your eyes to feel my lips once again.
This oral manipulation is causing us both to focus intently on the task at hand.
Keep giving me your oral jisms; your kisses are the truth, no lie.
Forbidden Fruit
A taste you can't get out off your taste buds.
I remain coated on your tongue as a reminder
of the loving you feen for.
The lover you scream for.
Better yet the lover you cream for.
My sexy talk makes you lose your mind
And a slow wind that makes you want to grind.
The one you're with doesn't understand your needs
Let me remind you of the difference between her and me.
She kicks her heels off and I keep mine on
She can't break you off, but I can turn you on.
Her favorite position is what they call missionary.
My favorite one is whatever is imaginary.
My loving has no boundaries and anything goes
I make you put in work and I always cur your toes.
Unfortunately this fantasy has only taken place in my mind.
I am your forbidden fruit, dangling from a vine.
Forbidden Love
Like an addict to a drug addiction, I go through withdrawals when you are not around.
I walk around aimlessly wondering if our secret love will be found out.
I have to love you from a distance because you belong to another.
The forbidden fruit I crave, my shelter and my cover.
I am the happiness you want and the lover that you need.
I give you a taste of what real love is and you always up and leave.
I stimulate the most inner part of your soul
but you can't seem to break free, forever etched inside the mold.
Like Romeo and Juliet, we can only love each other in the shadows.
Cause if our loved is found out, we are destined for the gallows.
A love so pure and sweet and yet I must hold it in.
Loving someone who is taken has become my greatest sin,
But it's also my greatest pleasure, to know I'm the reason you smile.
I'm the one who makes you laugh and makes life seem worth while.
The aching in my heart, I've got to rise above
but for now, you'll be my Forbidden Love.
Lyric Ishani
Chocolate Kisses
Sweet temptations graze across your lips.
An indulgence that sends a current through your body and ignites you.
My full chocolate lips are lightly caressing yours.
Your anticipation is quite audible to me.
I can hear your heart pounding through your chest.
I sample the sweetness of your lips with my tongue
to take in all your flavor.
I can still taste the strawberries that I just fed you moments before.
How delectable you are.
I gently kiss your eager lips and the vibration of your moan on my lips encourages me.
I slowly part your lips with my tongue and enjoy the flavors of our mouths.
Fiercely sensual, you make me feverish in my own skin.
Now steaming from the heat, my lips between my thighs begin to swelter.
We lose ourselves in each other, over and over again.
Each kiss, slays you with such precision and deliberateness.
The kiss of death, so sweetly urged.
Honey Love
You engage me with your honey hued eyes that have flecks of gold.
You entice me with the sweetness that lies behind them;
Making me wonder the flavor of the nectar you hold.
Fantasizing about the sticky sweetness that is your essence.
Immortalized on my lips only to taste you again with one graze of my tongue.
Such sweet seduction
Making Love
Kisses that could inflame the soul.
A tender touch that diffuses all my inhibitions.
The outside world wastes away and it's us.
We begin a dance of love and lust.
Both striving to please the other in hopes of a climatic release.
Our bodies move as one.
Methodically sending chills down each others spine.
Each stroke makes me submit and my body relaxes only to be tensed by an eruption that starts at the pit of my stomach and simultaneously tingles down to my toes and I erupt from both of my lips.
The set betweens my thighs tighten around you and release my love like a waterfall flooding your member like a tsunami.
The lips on face release moans and screams of sublime pleasure.
As I come down from my high I am humbled to be your lover for life.
You killed the fight in me and to feel this good again, I'll die a million times.
Thinking of You
I find myself laying in bed thinking of you.
Thinking of you watching me and I begin to touch myself.
My fingers slide into my moisten panties as my eager lips await the slightest sensation.
Mmmm...Moans escape my lips as visions of you appear in my mind.
I am not sure what turns me one more.
Your sexy smile?
The swagger you rock?
Your sexy body?
maybe it’s the thought of what I want to do.
Wanting to taste your soft lips.
Or the thought of you kissing mine.....down there.
Maybe it's the thought of you stroking...my...mouthand hearing your sexy moan.
Mmmm...
My love pearl is so swollen wanting a release.
I let my fingers rub it faster in a circular motion imagining you watching me.
And then the vision comes to mind right before my release.
Your head in between my thighs licking, sucking, and nibbling on my love pear until I let my river flow all over your lips, tongue and chin.
Then you raise your head and look up at me and I see my love glistening all over your mouth.
I open my eyes and realize the mess I've made between my thighs.
I lick my fingers pretending I am tasting the thoughts of you that remain.
Lyric Ishani
GANJA NIPPLES
BY: @KEMETICQUEEN
10,000 decibels too short of hidden this beat is tight
Out of sight...
Green lips set caged humming birds free (flight)
10,000 miles a second green wings shimmer
So sci-fi sky high type fly fly fly away
Black Snow white with the wild beasts jamming to Badu
Ooooo.
As Her indigo knuckles knock on my chest I bleed hot pink emotions
Drip drying all over my flustered face in faucets of blush
Masking this funk ship shifting rhythm in under ground oceans oceans
I'm stroking y'all...
We melt in a pot of sheets like steam over fat asses we drip...
Sip and hotcake on her griddle flip...tongue? lip hip grip suck dont slip
Aaaaahhh.... damn baby slow down...
Hookah bar type tities as I succulently molest medium deep mahogany mountains
Where smoke fountains tickled my tongue...pastel painted my lungs a ganja green
Serene scene of a titie fene... titie fene
This aint a dream y'all...
Baby doll so African perfectly carved wooden
Grape Jolly Rancher Draped Pantie
Fanti, see, I woman be Purrrr Purrr Pretty Puss Beauty
Oooo weee... Hmmm
Forefinger flexes fluidly for her fluid tree
Honey bee sticky icky juicy tea...
Jerk and || Vibrate and Beatin involuntarily
OOhhh I think she like me... yall...
Negroes cant swim so I drown in it
Ta-da-da-da that ass upscale fish scale mermaid
Sex slave whole sale gmail water hole big wale...
Well... you get the idea.. yall
I'm crazy
Creative anti-virginity activity
You kiss on me crucially swirling sanity and sanctity
Flammable aerosol puffs blaze brown bellies birthing heathen activity
It's called sensual fluidity teenage eccentricity
She is the zero gravity epitome
Dippn me in and out of reality...
Fantasy on earth y'all...
I raise my hands in praise
Cupping her D-cup double gaze
I graze gracefully under holy ganja nipple a-maze
In body....
Green lips Humming birds anti virginity activity singing to me
Sex is better than drugs honey...
Shipwrecked
Water overhead, underneath.
How did we get here?
How did I get here?
Rising, sinking, sinking.
So suddenly, I am alone.
Will we ever catch our breath?
Will I ever catch my breath?
Fighting, screaming, screaming.
Water fills my lungs; I cannot speak, cannot think.
Are we strong enough to start over?
Am I strong enough to start over?
Winning, drowning, drowning.
I want to retire, just for a moment.
Can we be honest with ourselves?
Can I be honest with myself?
Pushing, struggling, struggling.
Pruny hands, hearts; we have expired.
Will we ever feel again?
Will I ever feel again?
Hurting, resting, resting.
My Heart is in Your Toaster Oven
There isn’t enough room in my heart for hate,
But I can’t even keep a promise to myself.
Your songs are just poems with a pretty melody,
My poems are just unfinished songs on a shelf.
You kiss gives me flies—what? I mean butter,
You’ve got me all worn down; I’m inside out.
But we spin faster and you tighten your grip,
Sun is bright, sky is blue, and I’m still full of doubt.
You say I’m pretty cute, but I don’t like how this rhymes,
Should we start over, make up for lost time?
I’m changing the beat, keep up with the pace,
You never seemed to like the sad look on my face.
We’re like the ocean, no, more like a tree,
I’m not sure how, but it’s a damn good simile.
Pick up your guitar, sing a song, make me smile,
I just wanna be here in your arms for a while.
I’m all over the map, but you’re the ink to my quill,
Wait, no, that was stupid; you’re the sprinkles to my vanill--
--A…ice cream? What? I’m not making any sense,
I’ll agree to let you rescue me if you’ll just be my prince.
You really make me laugh and your eyes make me melt,
You’ve got a heart of gold and you’re the best that I have smelt.
What? I mean smelled; I’m enunciating lazily,
Actually, I think it’s just you’ve got me going crazily.
Dead or Alive
This blank page underneath my pen
will soon be alive like that first night
spent in the arms of heartache.
Nothing ever felt more real,
and I never wanted so badly to be dreaming.
I was as fragile as a tulip
trying to fight off a hurricane.
I was drowning and losing.
Overwhelming, the feeling was when
you get too hot but you can’t get your coat off.
And no one is around to help you.
I was trapped inside that puffy, down coat,
all alone, in the middle of a hurricane.
If I could hold on long enough,
maybe if I could breathe in the eye of the storm.
But how do you break the news to yourself
that you’re already dead?
Ghost of You
You’re the Ghost that won’t leave me alone.
When I drive past exit sign 97B, there you are,
showing me your perfect smile,
your mouth slightly parted so the laughter can escape.
When I watch that movie,
they fall in love again and again and again,
thanks to “scene selection,”
and his body becomes your’s; her hands, mine.
When I see that dress and the silky fabric
spills over my shins, I can smell your hair
and feel your ear soaking up
my hot breath and secrets.
When I hear that song with that line
that made you laugh,
I feel your fingers between mine with the windows
down and my hair a crazy mess.
When I see my breath outside in the chilly air I look over
to my left and see you beside me on the top of your car,
waiting in the dead of winter for
a meteor shower that would never come.
It’s time for you to go now, move on, please.
You can’t keep haunting me late at night like this,
or when I’m in his arms,
or drifting off to sleep.
Let me go.
I can’t help you now.
You’re just the Ghost of who you were;
There’s a different you living inside that shell now.
But what you fail to realize is
my ghost is out there somewhere
because it made me different, too.
I’m Just a Toy Doll
The room is full of people,
but all I see is you--
you standing there in that dark suit.
Now I’m nothing but a puddle on the floor.
If you came in and scooped me up and
molded me into the girl you want me to be,
I’d look so different.
My nose would be smaller, maybe with a few freckles,
I’d be shorter, definitely shorter--
easier to pick up and carry around the house.
I’d make you feel like a man then.
Yeah, you’d be so amazing with a tiny lady
who enjoys cooking your spaghetti.
If you could, you’d take a saw to my head,
lift the top of my skull off like was just a
furry bowl resting there.
You’d take out my brain and exchange it with
you own.
I’d think just like you in this bite-sized form
with my culinary hands,
and you’d be in complete heaven.
You’d wipe off my girly nail polish,
smooth out my wild hair,
throw a racy outfit on me—no, nude.
No, everyone is looking…a turtleneck and sweats--
Then you’d complain about how I look.
Tan skin (free of charge!),
and I’m ready and willing.
It’s unfortunate for you that toy dolls aren’t real.
Forever and for All of the Universe
My life is a sad song
A capella
No noise other than
One lonely voice
Singing words
About love and sorrow
About life and sadness
But we collided
And you put music
To my melody
And I can’t seem
To put the cassette down
Until I have just one more
Listen
It’s a symphony
Of gentle passion
That floods my ears
And enlightens
My system
And I’m pretty sure
This is my new
Favorite song
Of all time.
X-RAY
How do you do it?
My skin is translucent to your eyes.
You see straight to my broken heart;
sometimes it’s scary,
but you know me better than anyone.
The whole world knows I’m a jigsaw puzzle,
1500 pieces scattered wildly.
But you see a finished work of art
when you look at me.
I am my truest self when you’re there,
believing in me.
This poem is a mess,
but it’s like my heart that started in
a bunch of tiny fragments and you
stitched it back together.
It was initially so ugly and broken up,
but each piece was honest.
And when it beat as one again,
you saw.
You saw the miracle right through my chest.
It may not be pretty,
but that doesn’t mean it won’t work.
Ashley Doty
Dear reader
Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past year and a half. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 536 poems, 370 short stories and 86 pieces of art in over 162 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan and Thailand. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under will806095@bellsouth.net, you just click on profile and look under photo albums. He hopes you enjoy His work.
Website- Ronnie.Weebly.com (Swamplit)
Website- Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com
Website- WolfFray.blogspot.com
Website- RavensWont.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Fathermostdream.blogspot.com
Website- Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
Sincerely Yours
Ron Koppelberger
Drunken Dry
Whiskey ice and shots of silvery thirst, all in all the dream was in drunken silent caress, a thirsty request for beads of sweating frost, filled to the brim Jim. He saw more inspiring seasons and moments in revolving mirrors of rain, sweet rain, clean air and sober harvest yet all the drink cried, “Deliver me unto the dry tongue, the parched lips of deserts alone, of desolate abandon, deliver me in gulps and swallows of silk!”
He worried the thought for a few seconds and minutes unto days before he found the melody of dry ground, a foothold purchased in long drunks and tattered seams, bought by the pain in sleeping illusions of peace, borne of loud puking heaves and convulsing sweats.
He found the bone dust, the sand, the warmth, the sun, the hot winds of what one owns in the midst of chaos and cure. He owned dry drunks and days between the longing and that, in value, was the treasure he had sought for years. Through it all he had his vision, an endless horizon of dry wind and blue heaven, this is how he survived the drinks enchantment.
Divine Bedlam
Where was the image of illusory flurry, arrogant and revolving near the melody of formerly complaining patients, the flurry of cotton dander and rainbow suns, the flurry that prevented the nightmares from crowding the image of opiate bliss in hospital delirium.
The blockers wore white starched uniforms and Pity William Kind along with the other patients wore green, puke green. The exotic looking woman standing next to Pity was a blocker; send me some good vibes baby he thought. A psy dream pervaded his senses for a moment; he saw soil, mounds of dirt and garbage then the words in bold red lettering above the piles of garbage, “YOUR FILTHY PITY, YOUR COVERED IN FILTH!” The words pushed into his consciousness, she pushed at him, “FILTHY PITY!” He had made the mistake of looking toward the hospital exit. He saw the neon sign flashing his escape, “THIS WAY OUT!” The living common was filled with other patients and all were oblivious to the exit sign. She had pushed her psy and blocked, he had been thinking, thinking What he thought? There were piles of garbage and dirt. The exotic looking blocker turned from him for a moment and he saw that she was really rather plain, not very exotic in appearance, his eyes became slightly glassy and fogged.
The door, he moved toward the door, “EXIT TO FREEDOM!” it said above the door. Pity shuffled through the doorway and grinned as the sun shone in waves and a gentle rain sang on the other side of the doorway. He chanced to look back, the exotic woman who wasn’t really exotic was staring at him her brow creased as she pulled at him with her mind, “GARBAGE!” he heard faintly as he walked away from the hospital and into the light.
Distasteful Conduct
The assets were agreeable and the inner longing he was avenging claimed his conscious perceptions with lilac and vanilla flesh, sweet lips and tender throbbing neckline, in bursting ardor and the thirsty dreams of a vampire.
She spun and sang, she danced in pirouettes and gentle swirls as he applauded and cheered her performance. When she had finished he hurried to the stage and handed her a single blood red rose, a touch of drama for the masquerade he thought, sweet homage to my feasting desire.
She disappeared for a moment and the lights dimmed. Romantic he thought as he was the entire audience. She returned to the stage moments later with a small basket and a bottle of cognac. She sat down gently and opened the wicker basket. The vampire disguising his impatience smiled and said, “ Tis a loves feast, well worth the performance darling!”
She replied, “Indeed grand vampire, if I am to console your bloodlust I must be carnivorous as you are!” After saying this to the vampire she took a small sip of the cognac and pulled a large cobra from the basket. Holding the tail she lifted it above her head and milked its venom, each drop landing in her upturned mouth. The vampire blushed and made an excuse leaving her in the dim lights of the stage.
She was an once too much and he didn’t care for snake venom, his ancestry denied the ballerina her vengeance as she was toxic to anyone’s touch.
The Ritual
Iron Crosspoint acknowledged Crisp with a brash expression of trust. Crisp had firmly accepted Irons dedicated resolve. They would breach the veil, forgoing the murmur of immortal deserts and encroaching shades of evil.
Iron delivered the appropriate phrase and slashed the palm of his hand. A well of bright scarlet announced the advent of mortal conclusions. Crisp winced as Iron handed him the hilt of the duel edged blade.
“Yer next!” Iron said pointing to Crisps palm. Crisp closed his eyes and inhaled as he held his breath. With a violent slash his palm was laid open, crimson springs of coppery baptism flowed in rivulets and beaded confluence with the ritual.
Iron held his hand over the bone fragments that were scattered in the shape of a cross, Crisp did the same. The sun shone saffron gold amidst the bones; tiny puffs of dust arose from the arid ground as the blood spattered in gentle rhythm, a rhythm of passion and heartbeats, fury and anger and vengeance. The conviction of bond and infamy wore the lined faces of their determination. They paused in red ribboned whispers of release. The bones rearranged the disarray and a creature of purpose was borne. The anatomy of an enchanting allure in the embers of spirit, in tender devotion to the cause that drove them both. A shadow, a silhouette in shape, in symmetries of divinity and purpose, the legend lay bare in wrath and wonting songs of legend.
It arose from the desert sands and dust in the order of the brotherhood and the task at hand. Growling it flexed its sinew, its breath the incense of a thousand dreams and understanding purpose. The two men stepped back a few paces as the creature considered them. Crisp troubled the bleeding wound on his palm with a complaining grip, hands clasped he remembered the silence of the moment. An empty space filled with cascades of blood, dripping to the dry skeleton of the creature.
A bit of saliva fell to the desolate soil as the beast snapped its muzzle in fussy fanged hunger. Iron reclaimed the moment as he approached the creature.
“EEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” it cooed. Touching its fur covered paw he intoned a Latin phrase. It moved forward and Iron saw the flames in its eyes. Fields in ash, burning, burning. In staid sober certainty Iron imagined his enemies falling, one by one.
“Burning saffron seas!” he muttered as they began moving westward toward their fate and the vengeance they would exact in fire.
The Circle
Rationed by burdens of reflection and the omission of pure recollection the secret was a tangled cleaving taboo, a dawn of rare breed, a velocity of ragged union. The sun he thought, the sun. Thrilled in spears of glory and hope, the sun. The embracing alliance and divinity of the fates called in perfect harmony.
He flexed his chapped hands, seeing, seeing the long nails and the growth of fur covering his hands, his paws, his body. Contracted by the skeletons of misery and the faith of crowns that spoke of allure, allure to the darkest realms of shadow and to the wont of seas in saffron gold. Ancient old gardens of naked passion and angels in flight.
He saw the circle of bloodied stones in a dream and the gathering of men. A fracture in the gloss of humanity, the aberration, men in delirium unsatisfied with the gift of wheat, of saffron and light, men of doubtless conviction, nevertheless hell and sin following. He saw the revelation of his purpose. He saw them in his dreams and nightmares, in evening twilight hunts and the glow of the full moon. They waited for the third coming of Eden, their calling, the advent of their damnation.
The stones, guarded by endless waves of wheat, the garden, the blessing, the spell of patience. The men would open the seal and the old garden would burn, and the lycanthrope would sense the wont of mortals in trespass. The stones, the palace of blood and dust, waiting for the blood rush of sacrifice. They would spill blood there, in the circle of rock and granite and the wolf would scream, scream for the angels to champion the secret place and the garden.
The men would destroy the saffron conclave, in their gathering of destruction, hate and greed……unto the advent of the last, the conflict between good and evil, war and eternal blessings.
Falling to his hands, changing he ran toward the endless eternal wheat. Perhaps a wolf can peruse the world he thought, perhaps.
Ron Koppelberger
Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: He has been submitting his work for the past year and a half. He is thrilled by acceptance. He is always looking for an audience. He has published 536 poems, 370 short stories and 86 pieces of art in over 162 periodicals, books and anthologies. He has been accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan and Thailand. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. His art is viewable on Facebook under will806095@bellsouth.net, you just click on profile and look under photo albums. He hopes you enjoy His work.
Website- Ronnie.Weebly.com (Swamplit)
Website- Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com
Website- WolfFray.blogspot.com
Website- RavensWont.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Ethrealsouls.blogspot.com
Website- E-zine Fathermostdream.blogspot.com
Website- Mirageinblame.blogspot.com
Sincerely Yours
Ron Koppelberger
Drunken Dry
Whiskey ice and shots of silvery thirst, all in all the dream was in drunken silent caress, a thirsty request for beads of sweating frost, filled to the brim Jim. He saw more inspiring seasons and moments in revolving mirrors of rain, sweet rain, clean air and sober harvest yet all the drink cried, “Deliver me unto the dry tongue, the parched lips of deserts alone, of desolate abandon, deliver me in gulps and swallows of silk!”
He worried the thought for a few seconds and minutes unto days before he found the melody of dry ground, a foothold purchased in long drunks and tattered seams, bought by the pain in sleeping illusions of peace, borne of loud puking heaves and convulsing sweats.
He found the bone dust, the sand, the warmth, the sun, the hot winds of what one owns in the midst of chaos and cure. He owned dry drunks and days between the longing and that, in value, was the treasure he had sought for years. Through it all he had his vision, an endless horizon of dry wind and blue heaven, this is how he survived the drinks enchantment.
Divine Bedlam
Where was the image of illusory flurry, arrogant and revolving near the melody of formerly complaining patients, the flurry of cotton dander and rainbow suns, the flurry that prevented the nightmares from crowding the image of opiate bliss in hospital delirium.
The blockers wore white starched uniforms and Pity William Kind along with the other patients wore green, puke green. The exotic looking woman standing next to Pity was a blocker; send me some good vibes baby he thought. A psy dream pervaded his senses for a moment; he saw soil, mounds of dirt and garbage then the words in bold red lettering above the piles of garbage, “YOUR FILTHY PITY, YOUR COVERED IN FILTH!” The words pushed into his consciousness, she pushed at him, “FILTHY PITY!” He had made the mistake of looking toward the hospital exit. He saw the neon sign flashing his escape, “THIS WAY OUT!” The living common was filled with other patients and all were oblivious to the exit sign. She had pushed her psy and blocked, he had been thinking, thinking What he thought? There were piles of garbage and dirt. The exotic looking blocker turned from him for a moment and he saw that she was really rather plain, not very exotic in appearance, his eyes became slightly glassy and fogged.
The door, he moved toward the door, “EXIT TO FREEDOM!” it said above the door. Pity shuffled through the doorway and grinned as the sun shone in waves and a gentle rain sang on the other side of the doorway. He chanced to look back, the exotic woman who wasn’t really exotic was staring at him her brow creased as she pulled at him with her mind, “GARBAGE!” he heard faintly as he walked away from the hospital and into the light.
Distasteful Conduct
The assets were agreeable and the inner longing he was avenging claimed his conscious perceptions with lilac and vanilla flesh, sweet lips and tender throbbing neckline, in bursting ardor and the thirsty dreams of a vampire.
She spun and sang, she danced in pirouettes and gentle swirls as he applauded and cheered her performance. When she had finished he hurried to the stage and handed her a single blood red rose, a touch of drama for the masquerade he thought, sweet homage to my feasting desire.
She disappeared for a moment and the lights dimmed. Romantic he thought as he was the entire audience. She returned to the stage moments later with a small basket and a bottle of cognac. She sat down gently and opened the wicker basket. The vampire disguising his impatience smiled and said, “ Tis a loves feast, well worth the performance darling!”
She replied, “Indeed grand vampire, if I am to console your bloodlust I must be carnivorous as you are!” After saying this to the vampire she took a small sip of the cognac and pulled a large cobra from the basket. Holding the tail she lifted it above her head and milked its venom, each drop landing in her upturned mouth. The vampire blushed and made an excuse leaving her in the dim lights of the stage.
She was an once too much and he didn’t care for snake venom, his ancestry denied the ballerina her vengeance as she was toxic to anyone’s touch.
The Ritual
Iron Crosspoint acknowledged Crisp with a brash expression of trust. Crisp had firmly accepted Irons dedicated resolve. They would breach the veil, forgoing the murmur of immortal deserts and encroaching shades of evil.
Iron delivered the appropriate phrase and slashed the palm of his hand. A well of bright scarlet announced the advent of mortal conclusions. Crisp winced as Iron handed him the hilt of the duel edged blade.
“Yer next!” Iron said pointing to Crisps palm. Crisp closed his eyes and inhaled as he held his breath. With a violent slash his palm was laid open, crimson springs of coppery baptism flowed in rivulets and beaded confluence with the ritual.
Iron held his hand over the bone fragments that were scattered in the shape of a cross, Crisp did the same. The sun shone saffron gold amidst the bones; tiny puffs of dust arose from the arid ground as the blood spattered in gentle rhythm, a rhythm of passion and heartbeats, fury and anger and vengeance. The conviction of bond and infamy wore the lined faces of their determination. They paused in red ribboned whispers of release. The bones rearranged the disarray and a creature of purpose was borne. The anatomy of an enchanting allure in the embers of spirit, in tender devotion to the cause that drove them both. A shadow, a silhouette in shape, in symmetries of divinity and purpose, the legend lay bare in wrath and wonting songs of legend.
It arose from the desert sands and dust in the order of the brotherhood and the task at hand. Growling it flexed its sinew, its breath the incense of a thousand dreams and understanding purpose. The two men stepped back a few paces as the creature considered them. Crisp troubled the bleeding wound on his palm with a complaining grip, hands clasped he remembered the silence of the moment. An empty space filled with cascades of blood, dripping to the dry skeleton of the creature.
A bit of saliva fell to the desolate soil as the beast snapped its muzzle in fussy fanged hunger. Iron reclaimed the moment as he approached the creature.
“EEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” it cooed. Touching its fur covered paw he intoned a Latin phrase. It moved forward and Iron saw the flames in its eyes. Fields in ash, burning, burning. In staid sober certainty Iron imagined his enemies falling, one by one.
“Burning saffron seas!” he muttered as they began moving westward toward their fate and the vengeance they would exact in fire.
The Circle
Rationed by burdens of reflection and the omission of pure recollection the secret was a tangled cleaving taboo, a dawn of rare breed, a velocity of ragged union. The sun he thought, the sun. Thrilled in spears of glory and hope, the sun. The embracing alliance and divinity of the fates called in perfect harmony.
He flexed his chapped hands, seeing, seeing the long nails and the growth of fur covering his hands, his paws, his body. Contracted by the skeletons of misery and the faith of crowns that spoke of allure, allure to the darkest realms of shadow and to the wont of seas in saffron gold. Ancient old gardens of naked passion and angels in flight.
He saw the circle of bloodied stones in a dream and the gathering of men. A fracture in the gloss of humanity, the aberration, men in delirium unsatisfied with the gift of wheat, of saffron and light, men of doubtless conviction, nevertheless hell and sin following. He saw the revelation of his purpose. He saw them in his dreams and nightmares, in evening twilight hunts and the glow of the full moon. They waited for the third coming of Eden, their calling, the advent of their damnation.
The stones, guarded by endless waves of wheat, the garden, the blessing, the spell of patience. The men would open the seal and the old garden would burn, and the lycanthrope would sense the wont of mortals in trespass. The stones, the palace of blood and dust, waiting for the blood rush of sacrifice. They would spill blood there, in the circle of rock and granite and the wolf would scream, scream for the angels to champion the secret place and the garden.
The men would destroy the saffron conclave, in their gathering of destruction, hate and greed……unto the advent of the last, the conflict between good and evil, war and eternal blessings.
Falling to his hands, changing he ran toward the endless eternal wheat. Perhaps a wolf can peruse the world he thought, perhaps.
Ron Koppelberger
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