Last Climb, 11/9/16

Last Climb
tortured white on canvas
bulbous tension, grasping arms
sweaty collapse on mangled sheets
— a painting of panted release
naught captured in the day
only cherished at night, under
guided eye and singeing moon
burned phrases into mind for lack
of sacrimony, testimony to the
act
and crosses stand erect
on winding roads near ruined homes
as we pass we moan for Moon
and long for Sun to die on peaks

of ashen, ancient snow.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

"Glory" 11/13/16

Glory crimson crimson crimson a decadent display of foaming mouth and clenched jaw, how could intangible tension turn to such raw, intended emotion how could the dances we drew on become us and all our motions cruelly sifted words spit from the devil inhibit our conceptions, pretensions how possessed, obsessed we are to fix what’s been taken, by the. crimson crimson crimson
Read more

Here poem 3/8/17

here is your hair. fingered and cherished as an open organ, creeping from its cloth along the L line here is a glance from man with bright white feet, small hands scruffing coiff in train window here is the moon. all rays diffused silent on window sill — on train and in your room, on the ground Here Steps March; commuter rail in corridor and station and here is the tail of a dog you saw on the L here is a smile but still rays refuse to speak and here is smirk as they trip away. under your feet and over here is drunk men still drinking and spilling themselves around you onto pavement Here is a street stricken with shadows and here is the simper you offer to the crosswalk so it gives back the purse here is the bar with the COOL lights, here is your fake but here is your curfew and here are your parents and there is your house so here is where you glide along rays until you realize you’re up and stop for a sec
Read more