[x]

Look above you DaedalusThe art of flying is throwing yourself at the ground and missing
- Douglas Adams

Love poem homicidesi stutter when i'm nervous which is almost all the time. she used to say that it was cute and that i was cute, count my smattering of freckles and call each one an angel toothed nibble and whatever that meant it sounded un-hideous so i didn't ever disagree.
i think it was that time in the sun drowned jungle where the children shoot each other with invisible guns that i realized she wasn't exactly normal. she kissed me under the gnarled roof where gold dusted fairy motes hang like clouds waiting anxiously for rain and i stuttered because her lips were my side of the pillowcase and pink corner store bubble gum.
she smiled like white linoleu

the clause of human nature.Outwards from lungs burst the girl, a gasp of a breath, a giggle and an imperfection. She felt foolish; her fingernails were trimmed and painted, her hair combed and her clothes pressed. Childhood was forcing onwards into the future but she grew with it, longer limbs and a pretty smile. Lightly toned locks; she clicked her tongue and found someone special.

Once in her past someone murmured against the shell of her ear and she sighed, she realized then that the romance between two dueled with the intimacy shared by adults needed closure that children didn’t have. Under the guise of comfort, she could swim deeper until there was a ghost o

The RibDear Adam:

I have thought about your formation
And mine – a glorious rib, extracted.
I have examined your godly ribs,
Found nothing Christian.
I swear on the saints, I searched.

You are part deity, but a Grecian one:
An ancient and anonymous bust of marble,
Stone-cold, unsmiling.
I looked for you in myths and I found silence.

You must be part creature:
I thought I'd uncovered you part-by-part
From fetid swamplands, pale and sinewy,
Grasped by roots of blackened trees
Whose branches writhed, serpentine, above.
I thought you struggled there, caged –
Or maybe that was me,
And you did the finding.
Does that make you

ambulophobiai.

once upon a time, i knew who i was.

ii.

i remember when i connected my heart to the rest of the universe with a shoe-lace. it was weak to begin with and grew more decrepit with age, like the neglected kaleidoscopes of immortal astronomers - they are still alive in the vague glimmers of fading stars. you can only see their light in the blackest of nights, in the middle of nameless deserts, amidst Mediterranean seas and Andalucian shores.

(somewhere, there are lights that never dim and keys that do not lock.)

iii.

bless me mother, for i have sinned.

iv.

i remember when kings were still princes, when princes were still paupers, when p

Summer fruitThe summer fruit of her kiss,
blossoms into soft red petals
and deepens the kiss with her thorns.
I prick my tongue and bleed,
showing my devotion to her.

The ripened berries burst,
rouge and orange mingling onto the pallet.
It burns like acid,
fighting for survival.

Those passionate deep lips,
fall and freeze over my skin.
She loses the spring in her step,
and her green fingers hesitates to touch soil.

Back to hibernation,
where her dreams reflect reality.
Time turns back momentarily
and the cycle begins, bringing a new year.

mispronunciation.i am far from where boundaries create me.

breathe.
i saw you undress during a july storm.
where notions of life became irrelevant.
here, i believed that the stars were small.
here, where it was believed that i was small.
breathe.
i heard you sing to life itself, under the maple trees.
where your music makes me erratic.
here, i create for the ones who can not.
here, where creating is lavender, and gold.
breathe.
i tasted your sense of love, harmony kept.
where induced memories become unwritten.
here, i survive.
here, where i collect the wings of birds, and butterflies.
here; with a slow bray of a steady chest.
bre

140. ShadeThe bar was, as usual, relatively busy. Through the minimal light, clusters of Lyr’s most disreputable people had gathered in a common gloom to drink, gamble, and relax. This was a frequent haunt, so the amount of people within the dark establishment didn’t really bother him. It was reputed to be a bad spot, a cliché dark refuge where murderers, thieves, and dealers dwelt. Whores punctuated the hazed room, passing through the cloud of weed smoke as though it were nothing. Considering where they lived, it was doubtful they’d even manage a contact buzz from the faintly blue smoke.

Everyone here made no effort to hide their

My freckles are cancer.My freckles are cancer.
I tell you this calmly. I am twenty one years old.
My freckles are cancer. You look down,
drawn to the spoiled canvas of my breasts.

I mouth the word malignant --
it breaks on my tongue,
and I clear my throat,
and try again.

Melanoma, I explain.
It began with the mole that
grew from a speck to a cloud,
till you kissed it and declared it the sky.

I talk about my options.
My beauty marks have become
the unwanted pregnancy
fucking everything up.

Your thumbs hide in your pockets.
I stumble over medical words,
so foreign from your poetry.
You hem and you haw.

There are no collect numbers,
for unw

ten reasons whyten reasons why
i can't write:

1.
i can't write because when i do i
take inefficient showers and get in
with all my clothes on and sit there
like an environmentalist on strike until
my jeans are soaked all the way through

2.
i can't write because
when i do i tell my cat, bonnie,
that her name is really beatrice and
that she is descended from a long
line of cat-queens and one day her
real family will come and claim her,
and that's really not very nice of me
to lie to her like that.

3.
i can't write because when i do i don't sleep
because there are all kinds of spitting
things waiting in the dark full of words
and words

awakening.for the first time
since november
human contact
isn't like flurries
of marching ants
over a wasteland
of puckered skin
stretched from
growth spurts
and sun burns

for the first time
since november
knees falter into
bedridden comas
on copper ground
wearing matching
threads of violet
defying the sky
and breathless
communication

for the first time
since november
fingers scamper
to find loopholes
in coiled muscles
and weak tendons
to break up bonds
as if not to allow
the movements
of feeble wings

for the first time
since november
blood cells swim
in thick fluid from
noses onto lipstick
hiding the fractures
and f

36. Precious TreasureI am maps of olden worlds burnt
to a crisp and motion-sensing globes
of red-pink that hang above kitchen
chairs and forgotten dinner plates

but

you're love drunk cocktails reverberating
against the hollowness of my breastbone
and restless nights filled with too many
shiny, golden-white galaxies

and

I can't help but notice that together
we're like rusty copper latches
locking treasure chests full of
ship-in-a-bottle's and letters
written in Latin on sheets of
papaya-paper

Shalott RevisitedBleak November
Dies December
Gone are the fields of rye
The river weeps a whisper cry
A ghost of frost-rimmed eyes

Bleak November
Dies December
Gone are the fields of sky
The clock heaves a swishing sigh:
The sound of time drifting by

You Know Who You AreYou Know Who You Are (Are You Who You Know?)

1. The Thread of Terms

Your lungs taken in breadth
rising through the cloak
you deal a feline tread,
a 145 degree twist of the head
short of falling off the ledge.

You
like every breath
fogging a mirror to write on
the horizon to pull you back
in line with atmospheres.

2. The Demolition Crew

Little made so undue

but do you know when questions fail
to provide shelter from the wind
tunneling down the look in your eyes,
where the old halls are warped to blame,

the demolitions team
is here to help you fall apart?

3. A Flutter of Wind

Love is a bug on a scavenger bird

StaticThe night was savage, and the house exuded a general hum of lunacy. If someone was passing by out front, they would see silhouettes of the wild patrons inside like shadow-puppets alighting across the windows. But there was no truth in that living room, and it was better to walk on by.

The house's location was convenient because it was in the dead center of town. You could be Johnny from the east side or Penny from the west—the time it took to arrive was one and the same. The ladies generally took longer to get ready for the night, so they always said nine. Of course that meant they wouldn't arrive until a fashionable ten, and so t

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Fallen Sunshine

by ~scarlettdarling, Jun 2, 2009, 3:40:34 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction

A grey cotton dress arcs slowly over the round curve of her belly before falling to brush the porch floor. She leans against the doorframe, carrying tired eyes filled with all the sadness in the world. One hand rubs small circles around the protrusion of her belly button, the other hangs limply at her side, clutching loosely to a phone.

She watches as a skinny little wisp of a five-year-old girl looks carefully down the street- both ways- then runs across the black asphalt to the mailbox. Looking as if she's won a gold medal, she pulls out a fistful of mail and waves it over her head triumphantly.

“Mommy, I've got it!” she cries. Her mother offers up a splintered smile.

The girl's dress is buttercup yellow, matching the sunny-day-blue color of her eyes. Rainbows flare in her smile. Her mother receives her back with a one-armed hug. The girl nuzzles her head against the skin that covers her sleeping baby brother.

She pushes the mail into her mother's hand, her face radiant. Her mother flips through it, apathetic, until she comes across the letter that breaks her.

She falls heavily into the rocking chair, pressing the familiar handwriting to her chest. Her daughter is confused. She tries to climb into her mother's lap, but there's no room.

“What's the matter, Mommy?” The words fall like rocks between them and the phone slips from her mother's hand to shatter on the floor. Only five minutes ago, it had carried the words of an apocalypse to her mother's ear.

Her daughter locates the fallen batteries and their cover, but they refuse to fit back together. She abandons them under the chair.

“Who called? Why are you sad?” Her daughter kisses her, still sure that a kiss remedies all. Her attention falls on the envelope still pressed between her mother's hands.

“Is that from Daddy?”

These words wrap around her mother's throat, strangling her. She nods, mute.

How is she supposed to tell her little sunshine girl the words that will eclipse her?

Fallen Sunshineby ~scarlettdarling

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction

©2009-2013 ~scarlettdarling

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~reddaverocker Aug 15, 2009

I liked this, it was very simple and yet involved wonderful description and imagery, especially the last line.

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~scarlettdarling Aug 15, 2009

Thank you

Reply

~kallia-goldenwings Aug 13, 2009

just amazing

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~scarlettdarling Aug 13, 2009

Thank you

Reply

~burning-waters Aug 13, 2009

i loved the last sentence. loved it.

loved all of it.

Reply

~scarlettdarling Aug 13, 2009

Thank you very much

Reply

~burning-waters Aug 13, 2009

welcome. and congratz on the DLD!

Reply

~scarlettdarling Aug 13, 2009

Thanks!

Reply

~Maggot34 Aug 12, 2009 Hobbyist General Artist

A beautiful piece... Very moving....

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~scarlettdarling Aug 12, 2009

Thank you very much

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