Period Piece Poetics

Photo on 2013-02-14 at 21.51 #2

It’s a shame I must bleed in silence.

It’s a shame I must bleed in silence when so many others bleed.

It’s a shame I must bleed in silence when so many others bleed like me…

“It’s a damn shame.”

I say to myself in a way so no one else will hear me.

“It’s a pain.”

I proclaim as I can’t rest today when my insides are pulsing with moon.

All the world born from our womb.

Yet we are silenced with the claiming that to be treated equal I must pretend

to be the same.

Pretend

every month

again

pretend.

Pretend I do not see nor let anyone else see…I bleed.

It’s a shame I must bleed in silence when it brings me to awareness with all senses flaring as I, woman, embrace my place in the Universe’s cycle.

My place in the visual connectedness of me to Universe through season’s of blood which bring forth life.

Beautiful blood held close in the womb emptied to feel again, begin again, heal again…

Damn shame I am meant to keep this magic to myself.

For I am medicine woman.

For I am woman.

We take our stance to heal the place of the her.

I taste her blood and give thanks for it’s existence.

Give thanks to the monthly sacrifice of self and time and comfort for life to exist.

I hold her blood.

I hold my blood.

I hold alls blood.

I give thanks for it and it’s pained keeper.

“Thank you for this taste of life again.”

She circles through.

Each time I taste her.

Each time I thank her,

each time for each one.

Each time for me.

It’s a shame to be alone in all this lovely bleeding. When so many bleed and have bled…

just

like

we.

Photo on 2013-02-14 at 21.52 #2

Always wanting more than she can handle.

Photo on 2012-12-11 at 18.10 #2

Take it in happy like wine

Take it in the form of her parted lips

She deserves this.

The kiss…

The kiss that will end all other kisses.

The kiss that makes her swivel her hips and take a whiff

warm breath

exhaled by lover .

Left with no doubt of meaning.

Lusting,

Wanting…

good for you.

Getting,

Holding…

better for you.

So take.

Take the words given in the ache of a midnight

Take the information I give you.

Open her insides.

She waits. . .

she needs. . .

hair tangled hands to head to heat.

Meet and greet taking form of

warm body

holding down flesh of lover

taste of tongue savored.

Craving, real.

Passion, met.

Take these words in your mind and give her your lusting.

IMG_20120718_164750

Remember, there’s a time lag of half a second from when you perceive something to when you become conscious of it…There is no choice but to live in constant catch up.

Remember

remember the Poet,

loosed lipped and easy at the hip

her taste buds are still forming

her mind still wondering if the goose bump will drench your skin

the skin you love.

Her give

your

tug.

Remember the timing of what was right

right before the fight came storming.

the stars missing the gaze of

your eyes watching out as they passed her by.

Remember the HEY that the horse ate

and the tan lines of laugh lines

now torn tears from good bye.

hold tight and ache why, ask why, be why

Remember why not…

Remember the wander of the wonder

how words came about from ink of swivel

now the flick of the tip just the tip tip tip

of hand

that caries meanings she herself

would never dare to dream of knowing she dreamed of.

Remember that day when the sun lifted the spirit

and your dress while you danced.

the poet birthing

herself

and dancing

to the gods created before the gods,

created after, and the ones no longer needed…

Talking to you

Talking to you is like talking to air…I wonder if the clutter it takes for me to ache ever reaches your ear.

Do you hear?

Do you hear?

Talking to you is paper bag brown and vulgar.

Lusting exits, slumber begins…the death of bed.

Talking with me is no better.

If the words fall sour and the tumbler sticks due to lack of lubricated intimacy, click tracked to conversation of space and time, the sound of foot prints fading, I must hear…clank, clunk.

 Ravage me damn it!

Take it in and give it back out in the shout of your quiver.

Talking to you could be nothing, or everything. If I would stop to listen.

If you would drop in to listen.

If you would

Talk

to

You

   More.

The decomposing of me.

Crisp moon at my feet, reflect to me my truest nature.

Lie to me not, for you know no such thing as ego.

Tell me, let go.

“Let go.”

 Tell me…

Arriving at the green blades edge, my spine straightened by the freeze of the mountain water.

I fall into cold.

                                           .

                                                              .

                                                                                                           fall into feeling…

Memories once shoved into the cozy corner of the forgotten, are now jolted from their slumber.

Rushing the front of my brain like daggers shot from a booby-trapped tomb. Piercing the core of my denial.

Moods flooding, the murky reflections of meant to be.

The smell cringing in bubbles exiting my mouth.

Let me feel the burn of it.

Let me drift to the bottom, toes touching upon mud

Allow the fish to eat my eyes first.

No longer needing to see.

The pain they have witnessed, not just of myself, is enough to ache for the tinge of the first nibble.

The decomposing of me.

Hold death, let me feel the weight of water filled lungs, mouth gaping, deceived by the assumption of oxygen’s availability to me at all times.

Let me feel the disappointment.

Let the childhood stories, beginning with sledding and ending in crumpled panties and lost innocence, tag along with my last scream.

Allow me the release of knowing I am food.

Not driven with purpose yet fulfilling THE purpose…to feed what I have eaten.

No permission needed,

All are welcome to the piece.

Whispered Flaws

I write to you in my sleep.

Diamond sky, stardust lining ALL skins.

The waters touch quenching ANY thirst here or after.

The desert crumbling beneath toes dipped in valley.

You are there.

Visioned.

Seen.

Falling from risen.

True in being nothing.

Giving everything a meaningless meaning of seeing.

The dreams, like clouds, we dance upon their vapor.

Whispered flaws yelled from clasped claws…

Sleepily you write to me also…

Super Human

“You need to remember you are strong. You’re unstoppable when your strong.”

She tells me this while she sits in her own soft sadness.

We are the same. Craving love and attention, we have starved for long enough.

The nuclear family was not the support beams they were cracked up to be.

In fact the cracks were huge and she slipped through them.

Thats how we found each other.

I still have not healed fully from the chaos that was the co-dependacy and I feel her want to pull me back in and yet at the same time it is the safeness I have yearned for.

The  home of, “All things are possible.”

Don’t tell me I need you…

No answers are needed…

Only tell me I am doing it already.

I am able and strong.

I am great at doing this for others…now me…

They are nothing with me and everything with themselves.

I need this as well.

Turn to the ones living the dream.

She has to remember.

I have to remember.

This time…I am here for her.

Who will tell me?

No One. I have to tell myself.

I tell myself I am strong enough, thank you for the idea.

You, strong enough too.

Strong enough to let the world into the private warmth and chaos that is me.

Comfort while icily looking forward.

Crave the intensity of love and not the ambition.

Dance soul.

Get the hell up and dance.

Bear the soul that is deep as the ocean, the world is watching and in need.

All you envision is all that was given to you by the Universe, for the benefit of the Universe.

Sanity feeling like insanity.

Enlightenment feeling like darkness.

The tingle begins. It begins with in her grasping. . . HER.

You are the super human you have been envisioning.

Intense is the leader, hold your hand and let you guide you.

The soul is within not out, so again. . . Dance. hands high, voice just as big.

Take it all on, it was all meant for you…

Happiness is what I speak of damn it!

Enlightened with music, art, sight and sound. Take all on and be all.

For all is nothing. And nothing is simple right?

No choice. It was what she was born to do.

Me?

I am just fine. No aches at all thank you… good day.

Agreed upon pronunciation.

She believes the human lives for the story.

The story of who they were, who they are, who they want to be and who doubted them as they still believed in well, the story of . . . them. . . of her…of you.

She ponders wishing on stars in the definition of  labels.

 Believing in grimacing and taking on the TIME as hers.

Thinking  she was given IT, time, to invest in her  life.

She sees now that you are the giving of nothing.

Nothing beyond the limits set before you, by others and the little they believed of themselves.

Which was fed by others who believed  even less in themselves…and so on…

So.

She questions.

Questioning who she thought she was, who she thinks she is.

Questioning the dream created during a time of escape and survival.

Questioning even, the agreement of  ink in relaying speech.

Agreed upon  pronunciation.

Questioning, for even speech, same as God and Jesus and lack there of, was birthed by humans.

Created and passed on for the purpose of , what else but,  a STORY.

Virtual Canvas

Image

Write again and again and again.

Write despite the doubt.

Write despite the ego.

The emotional times come and go, and it is coming again.

She thinks, “I would love me if I saw me in a corner.”

“I think I would come over and snuggle up under my chin, making me feel important to me.”

“I could do that.”

“I could see that happening. “

but the thoughts. . .

The thoughts rarely make it out of the brain without having strained its first intent through second and third thought.

These Ideas are not mine.

I have read them before same as I have read all ideas.

This day being the saints day,the saints that kill in order to worship day.

My day of worship to the  jumble of word.

Worship to the emotion.

The emotion that can perhaps escape every once in a while from the second and third thought of reality.

Let the liquid squirt and let it burn in your eye, carve a memory on your intestine of the giggle that rumbled up and escaped your grown up lips.

The thoughts become murky as you try to find a way to bust through the internet lulling you to the view you have craved your  whole life.

The view of you.

The view of your creation.

The virtual is now a canvas, now the out pouring of the soul, ink no longer needed.

And the fear that it will be gone forever is not needed. IT is always somewhere.

YOU may not always have it but someone will have it.

It will BE somewhere.

Even more so than paper and blood of earth.

Now it is in the mass webbing of portals you never knew existed just from pressing send.

So. . . send, and send, and send, and let the music rock you to your lulling place.

let the jive take out the broken blues that craved the big ten inch of life the kissing time that broke the sun into blue and purple pieces of self indulgence.Mmmmmmm…

The cock of the matter comes not near our mouth but our thoughts, the rooster roosts and left alone you feel partaken upon.

Given and withdrawn.

The red of the pillow makes you laugh. makes the smile creep.

You thought you would care more and give a shit less and it has worked out to be quite the opposite.

Crimson grace my lips, finger tips touch the smooth sides of me.

Look no further than the taste on your lips.

No further than the thoughts in your own head.

No one is guilty for creating you.

You are free, the thoughts are all you are.

The time is always passing and no longer are you relevant.

No longer are you needed nor disposed of.

You are nothing. and yet you are everything bendable and solid.

Water liquid contradiction.

Ramblings on the day that wine can feel free to come and take  away.

Like it or not this is we.

Clean You

You.

You will not come to my dreams and torment me,make me hate me,take me sexually.

Give me remorse in the color of lusting after you, while the groan you carry on your lips is as deep as a valley.

Non-penetrable by genuine caring.

Genuine art.

You.

You will not come to my dreams in the form of the ultimate love, the one I cannot win.

Craving me.

Delving into me.

Taking me.

Then leaving me.

Not leaving me in the sheets for that would be welcomed but leaving me in understanding .

Understanding the lust.

Understanding the artist.

Understanding the creative process and the yearning for more.

You will not come to me in my fucking dreams and then wake me to the idea of not good enough.

Your ass crippled from the life you chose to take place of your genuine questioning.

Glittered in the saliva of your childrens conquests while the chair you sit in folds in from the weight.

The blue that sparkles in the eyes of you will not take the bad taste you have left in my mouth out.

You.

You serve no purpose but to watch the show go on and detest the actors risking their sanity to bring you reality.

Normal.

Normal you will stay.

Untouched you will meet your grave.

Gentle.

Gentle existence.

Gentle exiting.

Harsh reality…

of all you didn’t try in order to cleanly survive.