Flame

Coils prosper in hushed verses.

The filament . . .a constant plead,

of voids, fucking and smoke.

Worlds planted, graves unmarked,

lost to the ether. Found to the sunburst.

The flame dances alone,

because its partner always dies.

 

Dawn

A golden moon sways inside the endless reach of broken china stars whose wishes read like musical notes, risen from the dawn of time.

Darkness grows into a thick bleed of hard purple varnish, with lonely silver pinpricks of the ancient times roaming hopelessly, like lost lovers.

This celestial ballet is a tangle of poets and rock songs whose asymmetry is a revolution of math equations making babies with angry rhymes.

Serendipity pulses and bubbles in this magical pond. The restless calm before the uprising, when the might of darkness will battle with fire.

Cobwebbed stars shout in their best mighty and pray in their best kneel and get tangled up in storms whose crush is lying in ravenous wait.

Vermilion colored pebbles cobble themselves together in serrated regiments, tasked with the merciless plunge.

Stars weeping as if bent spokes on a broken down bicycle whose journey is a wheezing, desperate wreck of memories.

The sky heaves and swirls as if there is any doubt as to the outcome of its rebellion. Its tears turn to flickers and lashes and then finally, to smoke.

Black vespers of those cosmic scrolls float like ash across the moody canvas. Violet dregs to plush magenta to roasted crimson.

Plump slices of orange drip from this frosted ceiling as the moon runs away and the sky opens up to birdsong echoes and velvet cream clouds.

And dreams paint the newborn sky in sunflower drenched amulets that streak the racing heartbeat of that orange pulp with blessings.

The wind tastes of mercury and wine, with wrinkles of mystery and fate collapsing in a tranquil embrace with the ransom of time.

Morning dew gives way to plush, the chill recedes to a warm and faithful glow and miracles dress themselves in different arrangements now.

Daylight sings its cursive song as steeples sing to blackbirds. As a fresh coat of paint comforts an old house. As stained glass speaks of truth.

Dawn has arrived.

 

 

Come Fly With Me

By Ali Clark

Your soul is made of stars… I dream in constellations of you.

Your fingers leave trails of stardust; your kisses – black holes.The cosmos dust your cheeks leaving a spattering of freckles to fill my night sky.

Let me dance in your moonlight and swim in your milky ways. I could drown happily in you.

Our galaxies were made for each other, gravity slowly pulling us closer and closer until impact: a supernova upon first kiss.

I count my lucky stars for the fact that I get the chance to bask in your rays, you light up my life brighter than any solar flare possibly could.

Celestial beings bow down in your wake for you yourself were forged from the moon and stars for me to adore.

Just as the moon transitions, so will you.

I will love you wholly no matter your phase… you may wax and wane as you please, my love.

Drowning in the Shallows

I wished for a simple peace of mind.

It came to me on a street corner in New York City in the middle of the night as I was walking off a bout of insomnia and getting nowhere with it. And isn’t that the way it is? That you find somewhere in the middle of standing still.

It happened suddenly, like a lightning strike on a still night. It was a loose thought that got away from me. This thought that we’re all gonna die and that I might as well gain peace of mind before it’s done. It was taking me on this hopeless fucking trip, as if I’d just shot up Bukowski. You can overdose on bad shit like that, which is where the wish came in.

Wishes are crazy things. There’s a sanctified applique to wishes I never have been able to understand. They’re made of air and treated like Sanskrit. Wishing? It’s like popping coins in a soda machine and expecting holy water. And yet, that’s just what I did. I made this wish as if spinning freshly culled wool from a crescent shaped pasture in some odd sounding place. I made this wish with the very same intent . . . to chase away the cold fisted melancholy. To brave the chill with warmth. It seemed poetic.

There was an abundant quality to the wish, to the way it made me feel in that moment. I felt as if I was standing in the middle of a field dripping with orange blossoms. I closed my eyes and I could find those velvet eyes slinking their way into me with their honeyed seduction. Those crooked stems, making it appear as if they were kneeling into a prayer with my name on it. I could even taste the perfume, and it was busy shaking loose a brilliant fever dream. A dream that spun on fiery coils, rousing bonfires in the dying night and willing the sun to feast on the desperate clutches.

The hunger in my darkest thoughts began to wane. The science in its talons wavered as if a crumpled paper airplane falling short of the make believe parapets in a war of toy soldiers. Inside the shallows of kismet and all their spent catastrophes is where I found my simple peace of mind. Borrowed from a wish whose equity was a quiet roam in which I put the moon to sleep.

The morning sun splayed through the stalks of steel and concrete and glass, birthing archipelagos of crimson and sienna across the yawning streets. The skyscrapers, still nestled together in sleep, like shipwrecked boats. Their deaths borne of the mighty reach, like spells upon the wishes thrown.

Wanting too much of that thing forever sells.

The Last Time

By Linds B, 

So, if this is the last time . . .

The last time I ever stare into those beautiful amber colored eyes,

The last time I ever see you smile because of me,

The last time I get to hold you in my arms,

The last time I get to hear that infectious laughter that touches my heart in ways you could never begin to understand, I would look back at it all so fondly. Not with one single regret.

I would do it all again, in the bat of an eye, in a heartbeat.

Loving you was a privilege, a privilege I never thought I’d have the opportunity to experience; but surely enough, there you were, willing to give me the chance to give you happiness.

I held your hands in mine, I told you to place your heart and all of your trust in me.

I have and always will protect it with my life, as you have endless love and kindness to give.

For the moment, you may view me as your end all be all, but darling I promise you, you have much to do in this life, and even more to experience.

So go, live your life, see all the joy you can bring yourself. I promise life is so much more than one human. Show yourself that life is more than existing, teach yourself that every emotion is worth feeling.

Most importantly, grow, learn, love unapologetically.

Just know that in the end, regardless of where we end up, I will always be on the sidelines cheering you on.

The Living End

It’s poetry week here at Sorryless! Well . . the next few posts anyhoo. One post each by me and the lovely and uber talented Linds B. And as an added bonus, we’re doing a ‘Wordless Wednesday’ which will feature Linds B’s amazing photography skills. So yeah . . three rounds of poetry, if you will.  Hope you enjoy . . . 

I sit on the edge of a pier whose crest is ruddy from salt and whose pores speak in countless years worth of retreat. The sun’s pledge is not simply to give life to everything, but to rearrange the composition of those silent places so that they may speak to us in the quiet of their nothingness. Which is why a simple plank of wood can tell stories. Richly hewn splinters swirl in the sea breeze while the deep and swollen ridges burn in myriad colors.

The moon has sliced deeply into the evening sky as if a serrated disc tearing through the raging mysteries of the dark. It presents itself as low hanging fruit ripe for the picking by lovers with a million different ideas on how to possess its sublime intentions. The songs it carries inside its plump belly, they plunge and holler and sway as the sun slowly descends into the ocean.

Night is spilling itself across a dying summer day as if ink spilling slowly across a landscape portrait. Its reach is lustful and outrageous but the severity of its reign is a bold disguise that is revealed before too long.

The stars. They begin to pockmark the roaming blankness with a lustrously magical spell full of brand new mysteries. Soon, the sky goes loud with shine as the moon imparts the wit and wisdom of the ages into children of a million torch light songs. They appear as crystallized shards of an ageless mountain range forged by ancient tales. They whisper in a language constructed of the first words to the last. They regale in the majestic union of bloom to dust. And then the world collapses into this endless wait that never loses time. Ashes marry to ashes, dust to eternal sky.

A song begins to play . . its lyrics woven from the living end.

 

Drinks with Jack London at the end of the world

I had this fever dream that I was having friendly drinks with Jack London, and he was telling me how the world is on fire and how we are plum out of fire exits.

He spoke of how the world had driven itself off the shoulder of its Dharma in the middle of the night, with a gas tank that was running on empty and an engine that was shit for.

Jack said it was meant to be . . a fait acompli borne out of the wedlock of boomers and hippies and all those lies they built fortunes and fairy tales on.

Big lies, like the stunted pupils of one of those gated community white girls who think they’re bad ass because they shoot up while listening to gangster rap.

Me and Jack are drinking scotch and smoking Camels and making eyes with the ladies hustling C-notes in the billiards room in the same way Eve once tended to that garden.

The Jukebox spill is Elvis Costello, whose nasally quiver is singing about another love gone wrong. But I think he’s talking about the end of innocence.

Jack insists there was no beginning to innocence, that the game’s always been rigged. So it stands to reason we shouldn’t be holding any funerals for its death.

When the barkeep does last call, we double down. And then we talk up zombies and Marilyn Monroe, Tupac and Nixon and Julia Child’s unmistakable laugh.

I run my hands across the caramel veneer of the oak bar and Jack laughs a staccato whilst cursing in stiletto. He says I’m a purist and purists are fools.

To Jack’s way of thinking, Charles Darwin was a glorified safari guide and Isaac Newton was a frustrated astronaut and Paul Sartre was our greatest fucking truth.

We opine on Andy Warhol’s fifteen minutes and the death of baseball doubleheaders and the curious timelessness of pirates and Liz Taylor’s porn star lips, and we both agree that Stalin would’ve shopped at Target.

I tell him the world is equal parts Gatsby and Garibaldi; it’s a beautiful lie dressed in Army boots, intent on planting a flag on the moon and then digging into a stack of pancakes.

Jack London says it’s more like Hemingway and Cobain. He says the world is a brilliant and tortured place, that it’s a great big tease of a loose marble, looking down the barrel of a gun.

He says we have it coming.