Devoted exclusively to the creative process. Here you will see photojournaling, poetry, prose, an occasional review--journaling or philosophical writing can be found on our other blogs. This is our attempt to use our imaginations. Enjoy!
Sunday, November 26, 2006
"Son, you got to decide,
On your own, if you want bloaters of anchovies,
Because I'm just an ice cream man,
I can give you tutti frutti,
That tastes like something that came out of a rat's ass.
But bloaters or anchovies?
That's your choice."
Thursday, November 23, 2006
(Photo by Rod Lane-poem inspired by Ezra Pound)
Bah! I have sung men in three cities;
They're all the same.
So let me sing of starlight and waves.
Smiles,flutters--you snare them.
Fantasies, words--they curl into your hand.
Those spells of pagan times:
Candles, incense, burnt offerings to the god--
You call them your own,
But you are nothing,
Just the whisperer of dead songs.
Smiles, laughter, touch--so the night goes.
I take my wares to the road once more;
Forgotten, I continue--
They must tune their instruments for the next singer.
You are nothing.
Yet they say, Selina, the moon goddess,
once hidden between the linens,
Selina of the sorrowful heart.
Silver lighted,bursting into bright flare.
How well we sit between her thighs.
Would that she would visit us again--
Taunt us once more with her silky voice
While we wile away the nothingness
As the moon and stars become one.
Yes, the dream continues...
I have sung men in three cities.
They blend into one.
They know nothing of sunlight,
So let me sing of blackened waves and dark tides.
God's blood! You mock us, woman!
You forget the chants of old--
no more warbling of strange enchantments.
We knew you once; we'll know you again--yes, all of us:
While you break your glance upon the rocks.
and curse the vileness that sought us out.
You say we are nothing.
This we know.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
2 million people have been displaced
more are dying every day
this isn’t poetry
this isn’t prose
this isn’t art
this is criminal
this is sudan and it is happening now
now in the dust and the dirt
underneath an unforgiving sun
watched by an uncaring world
400,000 people are dead.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Friday, November 03, 2006
into grotesque flakes
as your fingertips slash
my tender silken face
with rage and vengence
you infect me -
impale my gauzy soul
on your poisoned barbs:
hatred and lusty greed
once, i loved you -
worshipped you, adored you
eviscerated my heart
as i watched my adoration stream past
your inert, stoney heart
my trembling eyes splinter
into a thousand tears
when i look upon your face -
my reflection -
in the looking glass
you ... you ... you ... always ... you
this dark riverbed of adoration
that flowed in my viscera for you
has dried up; my heart --
which once glistened sublimely inside yours,
now lies in eternal anguish:
dessicated, petrified, searingly denuded
your grace crumbles
into grotesque flakes
of grief, rage and greed
soaked in the brine of remorse
you beg, like i did, for morsel of mercy
i will starve you of forgiveness
Sickly words drip off her tongue,
I turn my head and vomit.
He puts his arm around me,
I shrug him off with eyes of stone.
I invited them into my fortress of ice
and melted in the rain.
I fell apart,
so I pushed and ran away.
Repulsion escapes a grinning face--
sadness for loss
full of remorse
of gardens portrayed
to always stay in bloom.
Winter is here,
the flowers have died--
count my blessings,
and move on with life.
Copyright Eating Poetry: www.eatingpoetry.com
he smiled him into kisses, so
he bent blind between him
for him all night to whimper
then joining seperate spines"
Porcelain Skull see's things that have never been.
his tongue is morning mist.
his eyes are from a distant place.
he tastes of cork.
speak to the dark angels
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