The gray of late winter evening had settled,
slipping slowly into darkness
as soft white flakes gently fell, spare in the too warm night,
still cold
They stood in his driveway, breath fogging in the false light
talking of the old hotel where they had evened
and its many ghosts
creaking across wooden floors to dance
before its roaring fires
They stood too long, in their conversation
ignorant to the rising cold
Delaying the parting of semesters end
with talk of LP's and the deserved break
She smiled in the cold
and he remembered love
wanting to run his hand through her hair
loose about her head
like her laughter hung on fogged
The beer was cold
Tomato fresh from the garden
but they don't go well together do they?
Sitting badly in the stomach
a bad little boy pulling cats tails
I close my eyes
Nodding in the afternoon hot
I see it in my closed lids
and jerk
Awake but eyes closed
and see it again
the muzzle of a pistol
then I feel it
Back of the throat
It would be a burp
but I already saw the pistol
A stamen
There are no flowers
the only the poet in the room is me
and I begin to write.
The ground feels solid under my feet
The dust settled by the early morning slow gray rain
Hardened in the long afternoon sun
I can still smell the water
Left in the sky or devoured greedily
under the dry earth
Everything feeds like the starved
on little bits of water
The desert damned always waiting for the rain
When it comes hills glisten clean
and the sky, blue forever
Still my heartbeat echoes not
off the canyons of clear and blue
But miles away, in the footsteps of other boots
A Rifleman Went To War by Obsidian-Razorblade, literature
Literature
A Rifleman Went To War
A rifleman went to war,
He kissed his mother goodbye,
His father sent him off with a toast of rye,
A rifleman walked out the door.
He lay in the cold and the damp,
He breathed hardly a breath,
As he spat whispering death,
Marking the world with his rifleman's stamp.
His rifle in his hands as he slept,
Dreaming the gunners dream,
Life without the innocent scream,
Sleeping a rifleman wept.
By day he made art,
Painting with the leaden brush,
Sealing the devils deals in a deadly hush,
A rifleman did his part.
A rifleman went home,
Gaunt and pale as a ghost,
Quiet and without a boast,
As his soul began to gloam.
In the night he
So small the world looks from on high,
Like a distorted dream,
Safe it all seems atop the towers in the sky,
Like a glass shattering scream,
The concrete heaven surrounds,
Broken wings and tearful eyes,
Concrete waterways and concrete ground,
The angel takes one last step and flies,
For a time,
As the world goes spinning past,
She smiles for her crime,
Before it comes rushing up at last,
Broken wings and a spray of blood,
Crumpled fragility,
Like a ruined flower bud,
A concrete angel, she'll never see…
The devil is deep,
But he is mine to keep,
Inside and down,
Where only the sinners king can wear a crown,
Beat for beat, and blood for blood,
Pricked upon the thorn, and stained forever the bud,
Staring down down and down again,
Gazing into hell and pain,
Spikes are driven upon rocky ledge,
The devil works with a hell forged sledge,
Iron cages and bloody branks,
Keep iron reign upon his ranks.
Where the dying maidens bosom wept,
There has the devil slept,
Each red drop to blossom on the ground,
Each sinner to be crowned.
Deep... deep,
Is the devils keep,
Deep within,
The raw hearts of men.
Fourteen twenty,
and fourteen year old Jenny,
Jenny run, Jenny run,
Jenny run to the door
and see the soldier men standin' there.
All in dress blues and one is a man of god,
but there aint no god for Jenny,
Her brother aint comin' home no more,
Men o' faith and men o' war,
Standin' there in the door,
"Lil' girl is your momma home?"
Jenny run, Jenny run,
Jenny run down the hall
and Jenny scream "momma,
momma there's men at the door
And their wearin' their dress blues,
and their polished shoes
and they got news from the war"
Momma at the door,
Jenny standin' there but she aint here.
Her heart gone away in a hail of pain,
a
The silence of the spaces
the pain of all these places
between words and hurts
and now you learn…
The burned hand teaches best
but what about all the rest
and I never could stand the silence
and I never could stand the sound…
The word in the book
the story in one hurt look
cold wind blows across
and fans the ember fires…
Burned hands
and learned hands
now you learn
and its all silent still…
You surround yourself
with the weapons of war,
and there is a black hole
in every cup of coffee,
and you're running
man
you're running,
away from it all.
Closing the door,
and down the stair
finding you aren't there.
Edges and guns
they'll save your soul
while you run.
Cliffs and spans
open holes, and
dead mans hands
Running, away from it all
faster and faster now
the talismans all fall.
Slowing your pace,
Fall down,
running,
now you wear the thorny crown,
and they hang you there
a trophy
on the walls of hell.
Bleeding you
pleading you:
sell your soul,
give it up,
hand it over now,
its all gone now.
And ther
Gaunt eyes and sunken cheeks
Vampires of the dry, the hot and death
Shards of black, rags of brown, drops of red
Soldiers
Dust and turmoil rising from the heavy tires
Ghosts of the waste go rumbling on
And somewhere in the madness
A baptism
He says it like a joke,
because its something he really wants to be
and he dismisses it out of hand,
to hide the truth behind it all.
He lies with a smile,
and though it takes awhile,
his heart is slowly breaking….
He'll tell you like a joke,
and pray you see the desperation in his grin.
He waits for your acceptance,
to find forgiveness within,
but it doesn't come… because he said it all like a joke
And jokes are blind,
and sighted men do not see…
He wanders in the lonely streets,
listening to the conversations he'll never be
And if you talk to him,
He'll tell you like a joke…
And look for the forgiveness in your eyes….
I lost the map to your body by Danteholic, literature
Literature
I lost the map to your body
I lost the map to your body long ago;
tonight the stars will be my guide,
my compass to this body once familiar
and numbered among the dearest of lost things.
You are a journey to remembering;
your neck to a moment bent over food,
your hips to motions against the sea,
your hands to early mornings and the scent of tea.
All these hint of you,
to a season of fruit and youthfulness,
when joy was a thing we didn't know we had.
Time is playing tricks;
I once knew your every valley,
your mountains once home to my song,
a place of heat and constant motion.
Why do I expect for time to have stood still for you?
The boundaries of your bo
You are very welcome. Your gallery is very impressive - Particularly for shooting with yourself as your only model so often. Thats a level of competence a lot of photogs dont have - You handle is very well.