[x]

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

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

Oh CatherineOh Catherine,

I've found your letter
and your name is left trembling
on my tongue
You have been, till now, nothing;
the woman in the dream,
impalpable sylph, a silver sliver
of night-terror flicker
but oh, I recognize your scent
and I can see you now—
dark hair cut into violent angels
a fallen angel's ache
—and when he comes home tonight,
I'll smell licorice on his breath
and I'll know that he has told you

Oh Catherine,
Your windfall is taking me with it
I am listening to the sound of you
breaking my heart

prey.i'm a collection of curves in your cycle:
a single revolution of your rhythm,
my taste a mile marker.
my hunger is satisfied by your rapture,
and devoured by your voracity.
starving to be grasped, claimed,
and consumed, I feed death— give in,
swallow black relief —your belly round
and warm with the scrapings of my bones.
bury my leavings and tell me reincarnation
is a lie.

--
1/16/2013

Copyright © 2013 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved

AcquittalWon't you leave me? I will love you
more than if you stay, transfixed

to the point of reference, our bodies
melding a sad, soft sublime, the back

spine of a little universe blown out
like a crafter's hot glass, the growing

moment, the wonder, the expansion
before a chill.

SpringSummerEach night, an autumn-
Blossoms skydive suicide,
leaving branches bare.

Pestilenceall of God’s children sleep
together and count the falling sheep,
stars nestled in their eyes as they
prey upon the crumbling walls;
God loves all his children and I am
the orphan with an asphalt blanket;
clouds scorn me and I mourn
their wasted hatred

(my eyes, my broken plastic
looking glasses; my hands,
termite ridden and frost bitten;
my heart, worm holed and
seeking absolvance)

what’s there behind these echoed
words? divisions of another from
a better time, I have begun to live
and lie with no consequence

because that little toxic feeling
floating in my chest likes to
poison everyone I’ve ever met,
and I&rsqu

Regarding ProtocolThis
sunrise
is not what
I imagined--
the breathless tide of a love I can't keep.

with thanks to salingerAudio version.
it's on those cold mornings
when you are nothing but indrawn breath
swirling and knitted up inside too-big
skin and weightless bones--
when the horizon arches up against
the half-thawed tendrils of sunrise
and smiles
with golden teeth,
and smiling, begs--
it's on those cold mornings
when leaving is easiest.
the car will be cold, and you will
shiver, and the engine,
much too loud,
will smack of blasphemy
but you will find peace in the steady roll
of tarmac and the yellowing light
spilling across it,
with dust motes kicked up and carried
like fish in the undertow.
when you come to that first
crossroads, it will shock you:
the way the decision hangs there
trembling and desperate--
but there are no right answers and you will not
hesitate. and each successive choice
will be made of its own accord,
and you will roll the windows down,
and draw down the scent of ear

Mosaic LullabyShadow mosaic
across snow-frosted concrete;
winter's last portrait.

you asked me to write your eulogybut darling, do not ask such things of a poet.
We live with death and feathers
in our bones, and you—

clouds have purpose, and one
is seldom alone in the sky. To
say, smart or handsome or
funny or caring, it is the lid
on the trash, never appreciated
till missing, and you—

undercover smell of well-water
and thick terra cotta clay,
a fallen angel left in smoke-screen
somewhere below the salt, the heart
still beats, and you—

a mythology come-to-life.
Hellion and savior, black-tipped
like raven wings, always more
in the right light
than

Lovebirds' Sorrowshe was the girl with cat
eyes: broad and judging and
carnal; he was the doe
with a broken collarbone,
yet she found herself lost in
the warmth of his sighs and
asked simply for a set
of sweeter lies

[because it's only after you
sell yourself to the earth that
you learn love is not a
chemical reaction anticipating
every ignited glance and soured
word; no, it is a thing
of obligation that sleeps upon
your doorstep, knowing you
will always come back,
knowing you could never forget
its name]

he called to her on hollow
nights, and she found his
voice when she had nowhere
left to go

he was the cereal box savior;
she only needed a place
to bur

caring for p(o)etsscribbling down vicious verses on
tissue napkins while seated at
the corner of a sidewalk cafe is
about as romantic, raw and
honest a p(o)et
-outside of the four corners of your bedpost-
can get

if you've got that person dreading over
drafts and dreams on end
-of you, for you-
consider yourself a new owner
it is now time to
tame this p(o)et's perverse mane
you've got your hands on
a fragile purebred
which can be very tricky for
first timers

once in the afterlife,breathe
and b r e a t h e
and
breathe...

inhale

what
was
left

& bury

the
deep
rooted
ashes

beneath
the earth
e n g r a v e d
in heaven's
lungs.

down the rabbit holeYou are a Wonderland
but I am the wrong Alice.

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Our Chaucer, I think, would have sighed.
He would have assured us, shaking his sorrowful head,
That day the solar system married us
Whether we knew it or not
--Ted Hughes

Now that we spent an afternoon with Crow.
Now in the breadth of highway between us.
Now after your presented death and my
Wide like a canyon, like the end
Of God's whip, I can appreciate
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Amy's Baking Company: Not Endorsed by SantaOn Saturday, I decided to sate my curiosity,
drive the half hour over to Scottsdale to gawk:
Amy's Baking Company, closed
after their distasteful run-in with Ramsey.

I was alternating between giggles and voyeuristic glee
at the closed sign hanging smugly in the window,
when up pulled a late model family van,
off-white and inconspicuous.

The driver's eyes twinkled, his cheeks were rosy,
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CastingWhat was once just a hill
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Charred log bones
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The WitchesThe witches speak a language
clearer than my mother's, the edge
of a blade, crack of broken glass,
silky slide of sin, come in, come in, in
my ear, a soft patting drum, the
spell bound lullaby
they croak and coo, all manner of
tone and it is sweet as the summer
tongue growing fat on hand cart ice cream
pops, brisk as the Boston cabbies,
neither here nor there, they are
ever here evermore. They are
inside me, flapper dancing
the pelvis bones, acutely out of
style and carefree, they have me,
the potion's daughter, their invitation
sheer formality. I am in, I am
in, I am deep
at the bottom of the cauldron.
Do you dare consume me? The woman
who gives cancer out freely and lives
to die yet never dies, the sick
anomaly. Can you hear them?
Press your ear
to the flat of my skin. I am
the cast-off shell of the sea,
hollow and rustling – that, there,
that is them – their greedy hands
are chanting, come in, come in,

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Southern Belle - 4

by `vespera, Jan 16, 2013, 9:00:49 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Ray of scattered light -

a flicker pearls

crests momentarily

hovers above the water

escaping - a flash of orange -

lands back into the mirage

Southern Belle - 4by `vespera

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2013 `vespera

#4 - <*}}}<

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*lombregrise Feb 2, 2013 Professional Writer

This piece is feat here / Cette pièce est invitée ici : [link]

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*glossolalias Feb 2, 2013

your work has been featured here: [link] please go check out the other pieces & have a nice day

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~sherbetblooms Jan 31, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Yes! the imagery

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*scatteredwords Jan 17, 2013

I really like that last line.

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`vespera Jan 17, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

LOL that's the only line that didn't just write itself, so thank you

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*scatteredwords Jan 17, 2013

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*0hgravity Jan 16, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

lovely imagery.

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`vespera Jan 17, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

why ty!

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*0hgravity Jan 17, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

welcome ^^

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Mood: Love

`FuzzyHoser Jan 16, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

loooooves you.

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