[x]

Insomniacs and Insecuritesthe ground is a friend, feeble feet meet stability
and never return. it listens, oh, it listens
with tiled ears and absorbs all your secrets.
fault cracks, your fears seep underneath
the pavement, someone knows
that you cry at smoggy nights and
run out of words when you stop to breathe
and you drown in your thoughts, no
one taught you to swim, your

stunted, stilted stature goes stagnant and
this is destiny. it was written in
the storybooks that the princess would find
an answer in the murky depths and her
prince would turn out to be the
desperate attempt at normalcy all along

(raw,
plunging face-first through
vibrant v

Astronauti.238,900 miles away
the Earth gleams in the darkness.
A cat's eye, opalescent blue
flecked with terra verdant,
fifty-two cream colors
of cloud.

Under a heavy lid of night,
it glares. Angry.
Baleful.

As if to say to the Sun:
I was dreaming
of all the fish
in my seas.
As if to ask why
it had to be woken.

ii.
Thoughts are protozoan here;
with glass-thin skin
transparent as the first lie
he ever told as a child.
No,

I didn't steal that candy bar.

He can see the mechanics,
the workings,
the insides.
They divide like dreams,
impossibly smoothly,
Whole and unbroken
as they tear apart. If
he could stretch far e

Sky EyesDesert hands tell tales
of a hundred arid summers, but
you are no longer as cloudless as they

(there is a storm
creeping through blue, blue veins).

But tell the sky to keep her sorrow,
that grey cascade blurring against
eyelids and horizons;

and suppress her misbegotten
droplets, seeping into the sodden
ground underfoot—

for there is still sun in your sky eyes.

a chance to breathethe heels of you hands
can be used to accept or reject;
i see them extending,
crisscrossed by lines--
a map--
and i watch knowing
that i would shrivel if i ever tried to hold them
because everything
i
touch
turns to stone
.
and there are those veins
that run up your arms like rivers, oh
dear, how i love the blood that beats in them
how i love your small bones to the point of breaking,
and every drop of skin on your frame
every breath a blessing,
like the wonder of seeing you alive
.
the stones in my stomach break my spine and
the stones in my veins leave bruises and
the stones in my eyes keep me from seeing and
the stones in my heart keep me safe
.
keep me safe
.
and don't you know that no matter how much you smile your skull is only baring its teeth
.
the sound of screaming in the hallways
and there is your body,
there you are walking,
and the screams are replaced by
the sound your nerves make
as they fray into nothing
.
so i run
my heart in my mouth and
my lungs drowning in my

The Perversity of WeSometimes on a quiet night
due to my perversity,
or perhaps my common nature,
I dream awake of what may happen
should my twin die before me.

I may be walking calm and laughing
down city street or red rock ridge
and she would reach me over the miles
reaching straight to all five senses
reaching intense with her actions
reaching deep inside me.

Stronger than telepathies
often had when we were kids
stronger than futile restlessness
unexplained 'til mail arrives,
stronger than what may surround me
I know how she would reach me.

I would see her clear as day,
clearer than the sights around me
and I'd know her way of going
and h

in wavesI felt your chest swell and recede
watched the sweat on your navel sway pensively
under the slow-burning ceiling fan
watched your eyes choke on the sun-shaped holes
in the curtains as I promised myself again
not to fall in love so easily

no one stays suicidal for very long
I learned it the hard way in autumn
when my heart swerved hard to meet your pleural effusion
and I drowned in the weight of the ocean

rotten.we all have stories we'll
never tell and they stain
our insides so that we can
taste it on the back of our throats,
but everyone else is oblivious
to the fowl burning that claws
at your internals.

but they have stains of their own,
so they have a fire inside them too
and we all just keep them to ourselves
without ever letting go any smoke signals
from between our lips that might say
help me,
or fuck you all,
or i want to die.

Hokkaido at NightThe Betula trees have ossified again
that the wild dogs may take to their bases
with delight
ring-barking them in the winter-night
all mad-eyed, saliva-jawed and rabid.

The mottled coats of the hounds
shimmer under a waning moon
that has petrified
in the black-snowed feckless sky
a distant, wood-grained-stony bowl of ginko, sluiced
and facular.

Saru River is whispering her stories
in Epicurean logic
or Pagan shorthand,
tales of being a widow
all her particles run diligent and singular
and the riverbed
runs short of breath
flowing low on jutted memories,

above, in the wash, nocturnal catfish are seized
in spasms of pure being
spotted

Cicada Songs and Cinder Beds
      My heart is swollen by cicadas' songs;
      A moment filled by agape persists

'It turns pearlescent, almost fantastical at the sight of moonrise'
I am uttering your famous words, beloved

How poetic of you, beloved-
Truly wondrous how you uncover hymns and find limericks even in my grief
      It speaks of us in volumes

If only the now barren tears I shed at every slivering of moonbeam
Could shudder the ground they fell upon with their might-
As if clashes of shield and sword

i was never very good at chess."It's good to see you again." Glasses clinking. The thin, hazy scent of liquor filled the room. Slight hum of wistful rapture before the fog rolls in.

"To old times," Antone raised his glass.

"No." Paper-thin nostalgia played on Mac's lips, as he lifted his glass. "To brotherhood."

Wry smile, "Salute."

"Salute." Downing the shot, a mildly pleasant bitterness spread through his chest, warmed his heart. Mac refilled their cups. Time seemed to stretch, dragging the seconds out like tectonic plates deep under the earth. Time is not linear. We're just going round an' round. Putting the decanter to rest, "It really has been a long time. I was s

The CardinalA glittering shell of white
is washed to ice by the pale
gold morning. On the pavement,
I stand in the silver shade of
ash branches, my gaze upon
the skeleton of a thorn bush
and the red bird regally perched
in its bones.

following the colossussome days i forget my existence -
lost and writhing and twisting my wrists in some
epileptic search of the cosmos for lonely gods and
their shadows hidden among the dying stars.

with one finger one brushed my face and spoke to me
in ancient languages of the tree lords and flying kingdoms
below and told me of how he longed for the feeling of
fleeting time and of the stars that were birthed inside him.

he sobbed and crouched and the earth moved and trembled
with swift movements in unheard-of dimensions and directions
and he whispered of winds and sandstorms filling his lungs,

"i am disintegrating, i am disintegrating, i am disintegr

Existential Oink

Patience, as it turns out is
Not among my virtues
(Of which
I almost have none).

Patience replaces spines
To make great stairs
Straight to one's head
To perch on.

Meekness is really
Out of the question.
For
I don't wish to inherit the earth.

All I wish
Is to be left alone
As I work through this accident
Of birth.

© Debjani Chakravarty 2012

lovesongif you've got the time, sweetheart,
i've got the love
and no one needs to know the whies
or hows—
the whens are up to you of course—
and we can be beautiful together
melodic, even
and if we happen to be tone-deaf, well
who cares?
there are intervening seas, love, but we are oceans of ourselves,
and through tides and inlets and streams rushing headlong
from the peaks
to fall in veils and land catsoft
and tumble through the subterranea
collecting gold dust and all the
little particles the light has never seen—
and somehow connecting—
somewhere inside that hungering expanse

because you see, love
we are
ju

LointainListen carefully, for I am plucking spider-web harp strings in the light of your glistening, rain-sodden breath. There is such beauty in this city, and in symphony, you see—so keep rhythm with these skeleton trees dancing on street sides, winter branches quivering. Can you hear the beat of your heart? Its cadence is being matched by that of the shadows, ephemeral figures waltzing hand-in-hand across cobblestones and twirling at the very cusp of the lamp posts' soft glow...

Sway now, my dearest, to the allure of this chorus in the night; to the echoing sound of this moonlit sona

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wildfire logic.I cannot love you more than life itself
Because you are life, the way I see it
Reflected in a train car window.
I can love the tremor in your heart,
That of a man with boyish hands,
Moved by music, or the telling you
That you are where you are meant to be
Because you can be nowhere else-
but I am unsure that you will understand
the sound of words without music,
and that is not life so much as the idea of it,
the thing we use when breaking each other
out of cycles. You and I can be nothing
more than explanations,
Overrun with prophecies
That make us guilty
if they do not come true.

DarkcityYou cannot look directly at the ocean
Because the ocean has become the sun:
and it has been three long days
of rubbing you from my eyes like sleep,
the sky until it turns Kahuna blue
but it is only for the voice that's heard behind closed doors,
that we pretend we cannot hear
the things which cannot keep her eyes
from raking shores- to meet
the current strong enough to shift
the space between the islands-
so it is easier to read between the lines,
and harder through you. )
I am almost
too weak for capitals
the certainty of punctuation... is it
because i do not wish for strength
that your pupils widen to transmute
the sound of the highway into current?... i am
certain of nothing except
that you are not .
Are you afraid
to be alive? Will you not
move together the continents with
your convulsions at the ocean floor? Are you
afraid of running out
of breath?
(We will uncover the finale on the fringe of our stiff fingers,
stored in the clammy fumble for the keys; the way the wind will

You are the latest breathYou are not naturally this quiet.
It's just a side effect of fall,
and I know it too

Sitting back the oak catching my hair
Each time I lean my head against the bark it is
I who am a kingfisher and a swallow, a catching fire in the
Sun and movement on the whim of inspiration, the same which
Moves along the wall in shafts of light
I am my best when breaking out of
Cages
  .

This is my digestion:
How long should it take before I am consumed?
How long must I stay devoured by the sun
before I taste flight?
-
/ There was a time I wanted to raise
  hell against the sky, crimson strata
  the burs

being near you.I saw your house when you were gone
a single glance into your row of houses
on a passing train,
        not being enough
    yet to measure the way
       measure away at the breath you'd stolen
with summer's wild arrest.
      In summer we arrest
each other with careful eyes
and careless glances,
speak voiceless into barlines
     in a barlit summertune.
          and with the throaty sigh of autumn's
drowning fascination

         we will love each other with a secret love
         that steals into dark alleys at the break of dawn
         in secret and in measure which,
         as all falls silent
falls to sound

what it waswe weren't meant to die together,
but rather be invited into waiting benches
under trees sprawled sweetly as
the weather warms
         in love unaccounted for
I found you were off by seconds, miniscule
and uncanny, luminescent like green fireflies
outsinging fireworks in summer's faint allure
                  I was
born shivering,
        the ghost between two lights.

     We listened but summer never had it,
never knew the way to your house,
    never knew the thrill of
         being near you.

synchronyI was learning to love you- ;

before the sun had risen
the overcast taught me to behold you
the birds revved daylight softly into view
and on hearing their symphony beginning

you woke me

and my fingers on the blades of your back
kept you awake through the intervals.

I read your stars, (gravity as it pulled you straight)
and left them pulsing on the table:

I who pretended knowing, and never imagined
the feel of eyelashes dusting the back of my neck, until you left me
upswept and trembling-ready
for the dawn to strangle

( It was
too beautiful for me, )

what your hands spell on the triangle-end
of my ribcag

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telling

by ~hyperfluxy, Nov 9, 2012, 11:21:15 PM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

If I press my ear against my arm I hear the metallic hum of white noise;
press it hard enough and it will buzz uninterrupted, the steady red
light of a cigarette that indicates she is watching you. I am here
to feel your eyes on me, the tingle in the center of your palm,

to tell you about the space between my words, of the space between us that becomes
so tempting to infuse with color, the red which runs beneath the bite of winter snow.

you drum the beat into your body because you cannot get enough. you love her
because your heart is not enough, because the stammer of your words will outdo
the finality of your hesitation and even the permanence of silence-

I am here,
I am here
I am here

to refrain from relative happiness- to feel the pleasure of thought running
through my mind; to develop a handwriting as cursive as my memory,
slanted as the sun. maybe I may be something other than what I say
at daybreak, what I will say breaking in the morning into day
like a pair of new shoes- but now my thoughts are tangible
like the crisp weight of foreign bed sheets over skin.

tellingby ~hyperfluxy

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.

vision

certainly a little less choked-up than usual
in my opinion ...

*archelyxs Nov 30, 2012

It's hard to describe but you have this clarity in your words, not just clarity but fullness, completeness, like you're holding the bag and you have shaken all its contents out, and the contents are these little houses that breathe your poems and communicate between themselves.

~hyperfluxy Dec 1, 2012 Writer

I hope they're houses with the lights on at the balconies in the dead of winter. Like the quiet perspective of lifting away you get from flying over a city at night.

*archelyxs Dec 1, 2012

Yes, houses like those. Houses that are so far away but so close, at the tops of wooded hills, their yellow lights fussing with our planes of perception and becoming immediate.

~hyperfluxy Dec 1, 2012 Writer

Far enough away that you forget distance.... immediacy makes you forget. You couldn't have said it better.

*archelyxs Dec 4, 2012

Thanks! It's always a pleasant surprise when something I say makes sense...

~TheMoorMaiden Nov 14, 2012 Student Writer

Really lovely piece.

I don't know why, but my favourite line is: to develop a handwriting as cursive as my memory; I just love the way it sounds.

One little thing I noticed, in the third stanza you've written: 'because your cannot get enough', but I'm guessing you mean 'you' rather than 'your'?

Other than that I didn't notice anything wrong with this piece at all. I like the imagery throughout a lot; it feels like that weird, half asleep moment early in the morning when you just wake up.

Keep writing!

~hyperfluxy Nov 14, 2012 Writer

Thank you so much, you're very kind... and I'm very happy to hear, it is a line that sounds whole to me-

actually about the waking up, its quite funny that that is exactly the moment that I was trying to capture... except the moment right before falling asleep was what reminded me of it. Either way there is something I vaguely remember about writing a poem, or wanting to, about the six minutes of being at peace that we get before waking up fully.

~TheMoorMaiden Nov 14, 2012 Student Writer

You're very welcome.

Well I think you definitely succeeded in your intention.

*0hgravity Nov 12, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

lovely piece.

I like the repetition of I am here
and the stanza before that is actually my favorite of them.

~hyperfluxy Nov 12, 2012 Writer

Ah, thank you so much. I am pretty sure i meant that to be the "telling" part of the thing, both figuratively and literally (as opposed to showing).
Glad that you picked it out!!

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