Monday, February 25, 2013

Crude Dancing

 ~ Crude Dancing ~
{A War}

Crude, abominable something,
A rare necessity,
Painful rub,
An ominous grunt,
A share of trickling water,
Flowing seamlessly, through the air . . .

A silent stream, that begged for mercy,
Yet no one listened or cared.

The world was dying,
Through the rush,
We left something,
A grunt and a rub,
Whatever it had meant,
Could not have been stated,
Because in a dark alley,
A man lay dying.
In the musical distance,
Jazz players lighted up their faces,
With a congealed red flame,
That centered only on their eyes . . .

No one saw or cared,
What this man did,
What became of him-
For he lay dying!

He would never seen the trickling rush,
Of the water the flowed,
About his body,
A silent, unseen river-
A blood-bath.

The dancers sang, and jazz-like, they tuned their instruments,
Yet the air within the alley,
Was silent,
And cold.

He was a part of all this-
This merciless killing flow,
Of screams for mercy,
Yet no one stopped,
And knew of his plight . . .

The dancers-
They basked, in their bloody light,
Creating this twisted river,
As the life,
Was suddenly extinguished-
And we never,
Saw again,
What he meant to say . . .

The men continued to create death,
And if he whispered then,
His last words,
People will still dance,
In the blood-bath,
Of war.

Adder Ropes- based in slavery

~ Adder Ropes ~
{Based within the 1860s- slavery}

It was, without question,
A dreary, dark ride,
Through “nonsense.”

It is a large,
It is fervent hatred,
And heated language,
It moves,
Like the shadows roll and billow,
And it hears the tongues of shaking adder miscreants,
That find no one place to go save for that meandering road,
Down the gripping shoulders,
Of a man without a purpose-
Tongues lap along the skin,
Bared to every single man and woman,
Tongues that find no solace,
Save for their shaking adder languages.

Lapping along the skin,
Of the dark, weary man, unloading his burdens,
By finding a place of trust,
Within his own position,
Of bondage through those that,
Cut and siphon his blood,
Through their perilous knives,
Ropes of lapping tongues,
For once again he will,
Be completely trusted,
After he’s given his respect,
Of those sordid . . .

War Destruction- Based Within the Realms of The Civil War

~ War Destruction ~
{Based upon the Civil War}

Out of the icy shadows,
Shadows that could never be lightened,
A murdering prey had fallen,
But what it was-
We could not know.

Tempestuous raging,
An aura of madness, in the middle,
And all around,
Spoke a scythe that,
Had been abused in the current,
Of terrible war hatred.
A terrible war,
And a lusty hatred,
That gripped the bones and made our movements-

The things that we could not see,
Had blinded us,
To pain,
To the fight,
What we held onto,
In our burning breasts our pride,
Our raucous, ravenous, aching, sordid pride-
Followed us to the ends of the earth,
Where we fought for something we could not name,
A bowl of misery, was claimed,
For us,
Poor, sad, droop-eyed animals,
That no one could ever have foreseen-

It was all over then,
Because . . .
This we could no longer see.
The reasons were a burning hole,
In our chest,
Now ravaged to ashes-

Us, us,
We cried out,
And no one could hear us,
As we threw our jagged swords,
Our rough-hewn movements,
Without purpose,
Against each other,
So that,
In the end,
We were really no more than,
A beastly venom,
That had poisoned the other side,
Of the North and South,
For to see the destruction,
Of the dead to the bone soldiers,
No one had one,
We were just . . .
Hanging onto our pride,
The bloodshed,
Like the cause of our sworn dignity-
But it was not so well-standing, now . . .

We were just- broken iterations,
Mimics of life,
No more human,
Than the strange,
But highly priced language,
That makes this piece of work,
Something worthy.

Yet, what does it mean really?
Not much.

Friday, February 15, 2013

Creatively Mindful

Creatively Mindful ~

 Pinkish, bizarre, cat-kisser,






But compulsive horrific rude,


That doesn’t seem,

To feel,

As if,

These things,

Are fashionable.


I enjoy not having fashion . . .

In the middle of,

The night,

It’s difficult,

To be ill-used,

By these thoughts,

Yet I must be,

Slightly insane,


It can be,

More than one would think as just,


To be plagued by these thoughts,

At night,

When beneath,

The ghostly covers,

I think of all of the words,

That describe who I really am-

So in the end,

I really am quite,


That I can display my real colors . . .

In the dark night-

So fashionable . . .

I- love it.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Shattered Me (romantic poetry)

~ Shattered Me ~



{Excerpt from Gone With the Wind}


“Stop, please- I’m faint,” Scarlett whispered.

“I want to make you faint,” Rhett said. “You’ve had this coming to you for years. None of the fools you’ve known have ever kissed you like this, have they?” She would faint if he did not stop. If only he would never stop . . .

“Marry me. Say yes, damn you, or- ”

She whispered ‘yes’ before she even thought.          

                         ~ Dedicated to my friend Rebekah Phillips


                                                                                The meat and the juice,

Dripped over my heart,

Taken from the end of,

The most fragile glass-


Someone poured me some,

Champagne that turned,

Into the blood,

Of cooked meat-

And the raw, chewy flesh,

Quenched my thirst,

As I savored for,

The love this man,

Wanted to devour me,


As I became thready kneed,

And then,

Started to fall, before he-

Caught me.


My glass became,

Slowly darker,

As I met his gaze-

Those black fires,

Cursed my drink,

Turning it darker-

Like his eyes-

Darker, and darker,



I downed the glass.


He kissed me,

And my heart began pounding,

As the drink-


And swarmed throughout my system,

And made me come alive.


Blood went through me-


It was all I felt, heard,

My heart . . .


We were so close-

And eventually,

The world disappeared,

And the Earth shattered.