[x]

Southern Belle - 2I want to sing you songs on the low notes
for hours. Comb your hair behind your ear,
gentle and lingering. Slip into your eyes-
anything. You are

a ripple spreading across me. You are refracted light;
slickness of an abalone's back. The soft pearl.
Idle thought of my afternoon- always, always

I imagine. And Bourbon's not so far:
nineteen hours through a day,
then I could see you. Will we ripen
on touch?

Ryan's PoemHow many times did you save me
from myself?

The quiver girl,
strung tight and shaking,

self-nursed at the end
of a whiskey bottle;

your ever-night,
shuddering off to sleep

a sick bat wrapped up
beneath your bed,
half rabid;

half intelligible-
if you were lucky.

Good nights I curled up
against your broad shoulders,
smiling
as you palmed a bowl,

taking in air
to request records
and savory things
to eat - and then,

I nested on top of your pillow
as much
as any girlfriend

yet never quite
a lover.

I was hard on the heart, Darling, wasn't I?

Never yours
and now

we never speak.

AlterI stopped dreaming the color of my wedding dress
years ago

the picket fence around a small square home

the soft surety of a kiss
every evening. One morning it was

one leg in the left and one leg
in the right

you know? Things change. These days
I dream simpler: Waking up

laying next to another warm body, at least
a little in love.

Bad Mouth Habitsi.
I carry God around in my lip like he's chew,
spitting his name out in poems like potholes,
I make everything a simile
for the hold he has on me.

ii.
When it comes to men,
I've the appetite of a Roman housewife,
I take, I taste, I tear,
swallow and then then toss up
for the next course.

iii.
I don't kiss anyone so dearly
as the glass pipe bridged between lips
and fist.

iv.
Jameson, you're an Irish Lad,
a young ram of bucking proportions,
I let you rattle around my mouth
til I herd you in
and down.

v.
Sometimes there's nothing so sweet
as the jack-hammer of angry words
or the steel trap clamp of silence.

I exercise m

You Need A New MusePoets, if your muse smells like eggnog, boiled eggs, fresh eggs,
or any sort of egg at all: get a new muse. If your muse makes sounds-
chomping or mewing, smacking, or worse, slurping - when she eats
animal crackers: you need a new muse. If she’s that sloppy gal that
downs a pint and hollers, “Freebird” at the bar, you know where I’m going with this:
you need a new muse. And trust me, pudding, when your muse misquotes
Bill Cosby while eating jello, you're going to wish you had gotten yourself
that new muse.
If she begins to insist on beginning debates with “irregardless,”
you won't need a dictionary to tell that you need a new muse. Even brings
to question your rhyme scheme or does not know how to tell you
she set the table in iambic pentameter, seriously, you need
a new muse. If you can’t get her to write you letters, but can’t break her
from sending four-page texts, then it’s time to call in a new muse. If she doesn’t know
t

RiftTrains collide through a fist of hot snow. Her eyes
and mine. Soot against the thick storm skin,
flashing metal and scraping bones, the earth
screams something primal. She looks away
and through the peppered sparks of fire
a silence prevails.
Quiet lips say too much. I follow spotted horses
to the meadow, the waterfall is broken, and
I see her mouth make fog. Lumps of coal
are stacked in the distance, making a hut.
I do not enter, the windows are tied to the sky
with knots.
9am there was a rift in the evermore. They said
the sky belted open, stars wept plasma coffins,
and out of the dew she put one foot,
then the other. In her left hand there was a blue fig.
I could not see the other. The arctic sun set
and a desert sun rose.
Her hair was put back with paperclips, glimmering
in the cold light. I fell into a vat, watching
a thousand four hornets unnest from behind her. I felt high,
but sank deeper until I touched bottom. She pulled at me

Seventy-FiveWhen spring is impossible to recall
except in the eyes of fresh-hearted young
I will seek a new tale in the grey autumn woods.

Holiday TweetBaked two spiced pumpkin pies,
barely stretching the crusts over
each dish & everyone will know
that I am a poet, not a baker.

Wrote no poems.

FloodAnd when the tide rolled swiftly in

we forgot what songs to sing.

I swam for you, I swam for you,

but only saved the horror

of knowing you wanted to drown.

Part of me returned to dry,

the rest is lost at sea.

UnlayeringThere are words queuing in line
 for the page, simple words, trite
 words, words of circumstance, words
 the world could have never gone on
 without their repeating; as day and night and fear,
 the kind of words you never wanted from me,
 void of Eutony, a simple psalm
 of sound rhythm, but—

  they cannot go unspoken any longer:

  My heart unfolds like an infinite peel,
 an onion pulled fresh from damp earth
 that has forgotten it was once fertile.
 You wash away packed dirt and tear
 roots with your fingernails. The inside
 of y

SiestaWhite hot stick
Spanish afternoon

All the store windows
Shuttered to sleep

sparsestark hard beauty
windblown
few things move
few things grow
pipes skirl their wildness in the air
above mountains and water
in the moments of a life without fire
when I can feel clearly
I am born and borne aloft
and truly fly

Lancelot Price 2012 February 06

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 694 bytes more ▶

More from `vespera

Southern Belle - 3Pathwork

Lady: follow. Take me down;
entire worlds, for a while. Let it drown,
lay it down, consume me. My desire
is ambitious; my smile, precarious-

Slip in and take a sip. The darkfall
is ripe for dipping; as am I, my Lady,
as am I: flushed for picking. Hungered

as the crow, I have salivated to the bone
of this carnivorous being. I have looked

far to find you; the arid blaze of the desert
and the ice-lick air of the plains- yet

it was by chance I found you,
crescenting gleam that you are:
hitchhiker, quiver, quake- somewhere

in the non-existent, conscious weave across interstate.
And now here: two, tied;

we are, we a

Jukai IIYou are a soft rustle of promise
across the calm Pacific and
wasted sun of the Sonoran

and the sad truth is: I don't know
if I can wait for you

BlurThe road curves,
the centerline blurs,
mileposts count to somewhere

The speakers blare, omnipotent—
Queen, Abba,
AC/DC

It's the highway,
the swerve,
the blear in your eyes,

the passing lane—
what you dart past,
what we leave behind

It's the drum of the wheels,
the whine of the road

It is all-important;
so little of it matters

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#HumanConditions

Details

Submitted: December 3, 2012
File Size: 694 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 24
Favourites: 14 [who?]
Views: 160 (0 today)
Downloads: 1 (0 today)

[x]

Jenner - 35

by `vespera, Dec 3, 2012, 9:02:17 PM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Post-Teen (Mature) / Free Verse

This will be the Christmas I remember
stringing popcorn and cranberries for hours
to wrap around the tree

the lightly buttered popcorn, all we could find
musking fresh pine- and a smidge of blood,
won over by the needle. The year of a

mostly empty apartment: the plain
white walls and black metal chair
we use as a TV stand. Telling ourselves

we're not broke; we choose to live like this:
nomads with little to grab
when we get out and go

and one buttered Christmas tree
adorned with blue lights
and beer corks.

Jenner - 35by `vespera

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Post-Teen (Mature) / Free Verse

#35 - Christmas 2012

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

Please sign up or login to post a critique.

love 1 1

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

`YouInventedMe Dec 29, 2012 Writer

The year of a

mostly empty apartment: the plain
white walls and black metal chair
we use as a TV stand. Telling ourselves

we're not broke; we choose to live like this
nomads with little to grab
when we get out and go

`vespera Dec 31, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

~WaKip Dec 8, 2012 Writer

At first, I kind of got a bittersweet feeling from this, but in the end, I couldn't help but smile. Christmas isn't about all the fanciness and money, after all. Its about...well...I could go on and on about the different meanings, but to me its just about the joy it brings. If it isnt bringing joy whats the point? Ah. Kind of unrelated. I liked this. It was simple, yet it showed so much.

~AcedidDecath Dec 7, 2012

That Tree is truly Amazing!!!

`vespera Dec 7, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

it smells like butterrrrrrrrr

~AcedidDecath Dec 7, 2012

AMAZING!!!!

`vespera Dec 7, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

XD it's supposed to smell like pine...

*almcdermid Dec 5, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Take tell if the narrator is happy with the choice, or resentful, or resigned. Very nice. I like the uncertainty.

`vespera Dec 5, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

thank you!

*almcdermid Dec 6, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Most welcome, of course.

More from `vespera

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

Jenner - 35

Jenner - 35by `vespera

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style