Terminal Moraine

Emboldened by the newfound sense of a lover’s urgency,
I decided to capture him on a canvas, switching from
pencils and charcoals to pens and markers, a riskier medium,
since each stroke was committed indelibly to paper,
my imagination took over, supplying from memory,
intrinsic shading, cross-hatching shadows, and blackness of
those eyes lit up by the magical incandescence of my kisses
their lofty plumes broken by silvery glaucous tones
I could spend a lifetime shading and refining one drawing
as he revealed his body to my pencils and brushes
but how could I promise living truly with him
for the rest of his life? Beneath the natural ogival cavity,
where his smile appeared, at the spot where lovers
caressed and women wished to consecrate, love was
quite worn away and polished. It was time to go home.
I was wandering the continent on an endless search
and then I thought it would be better to stay; where I was.

Posted by aria at 3:39 AM | 9 comments  
Labels: creative, experimental, scribble

There awaited another encounter, not so lucky, with his grotesque boss. She was an angry sea suddenly rendered silent by secret order. He could imbibe her violet scents, just on the authority of last night.

Sun didn’t ascend everyday; that was one time; and one day wasn’t like the other.
“ma’m, you have an appointment.”

Posted by aria at 2:03 AM | 13 comments  
Labels: creative, fifty-five words, shenanigans, story, wingding

Unblinking faces, flat and numb, hair well combed, attire clean,
made for special customers , we are not displayed on stalls,
like posters adorning walls, advertising dentists, teachers, elocutionists,
fresh goods, recycled, from all over,
we seem freshly arrived or taken by some privateer.
At times our owners linger on the fringes,
shouting the virtues of their wares
to those who can not read the signs
more often, our posters do the shouting.
‘This elegant face lives a comfortable and gracious life
with their happy and healthy family.’

You’d think our physical descriptions sound like
Sunday customers at your grocer.
some probably are, I am one amongst many,
wherever I am. Getting ready to run.
Sitting on a gilded chair waiting for my bidders,
the icy demeanor not to melt. Through other windows
I can watch the show, shuffling back and forth, patiently,
everyone holding their signs to the windows, for us to see.

Some scurry over me in all fours, they pounce
I promise a list of referrals, photographs, records,
neither of us meaning a word of it.
I love being shocked,
growing wonderfully imperious and offended.
We meet often, exchanging subtle nods of recognition.
They keep fancying me as a runaway. My answers
to their questions are shapeless.
Nouns without verbs.
Lust. Desire. Connection. Weakness.
What I say doesn’t matter. What I don’t, does.

I want a man’s body, a man’s voice in the dark
I can not imagine a life with children,
in a house where I’d live and die, far from home.
I can not imagine building a hearth
that would put a soul in house shared with one
Not now. Not yet. I can imagine no future until I’d rid myself
of the pursuit of the present. I do go on.
There are a few people listening this time.
Its very difficult. You might try it someday.
Believe me, you’d sing a different tune
if you had to risk yourself; as I must.

Posted by aria at 5:07 AM | 28 comments  
Labels: creative, poetry

There were days this year that were nonsensical
listless hours that had nothing to do with you, though
in a strange way had everything to do with you;
days of cerulean tobacco fog and tea,
gossip and light talk, cocktail and bitter men,
gorges of crème caramel under tapered candlesticks
nights I’d clutch a pen and decanter
stirring random ounces of scotch with words
telling myself I’d review my efforts later
for the evidence of each potion on my poetry,
knowing damn well that the quintessential pith of
the exercise was an excuse to get rotten drunk
I began with an account of our longest kiss,
two mugs later squeaking aloud, writing
in a surly scrawl interspersed
on blots of alcohol dripping from gelid lips
suddenly I fancied myself in the pitcher
an addled figure galloping beside cubes and cups
cajoling, conjuring, imploring all that drifted
to carry me along to the future
that would make everything all right,
the future was immense, wise and rosy,
final abide of all who were drifting
so I’d said to myself, skim, skim to be a part of…
the first thing I remember about future is
how cold it was, faces hit by hurricane of letters
past settled on crevices like mounds of debris
the shelves of hereafter obscured by history,
stray moments bleeding onto the hearth,
I wished you were happy; with whatever or whoever
it wasn’t love described in poems, some rapture
wafting into the realms of bliss
was it leading us somewhere I could not go?
I hope you weren’t imagining a future with me
for I had no true vision of that future,
or whether I’d live long enough to have one.

Posted by aria at 12:23 PM | 32 comments  
Labels: dipsomaniac, experimental, poetric(s)

Do you smell sweet-sick flesh out here, moths and lust?
skeletons hanging like scarecrows, their jaws framed into grin,
outlines of hazy dreams, a shadow, a pulpit,
a ragged tree and endless miles of self-churned mud

this is my world, my poetry, sporadic murmurs of "fuck"
strewn without heat, drowned by wave after wave of
swelling phrases, enjoining, parsing, rushing, flooding
language is bottomless, dark pool out of which

I rake spectral cinders of my thought, a blank mote in blank
muteness, grappling at nothingness I had aimed high,
addiction that had come with wanting to serve poetry,
then wanting poetry to serve me when a flurry of volcanic words

spewed out from my fingers, rage of crapulent antipathy
surmounted and my keyboard rattled, when it snowed outside,
the sight of letters dancing on the monitor was better
than a shot of whiskey, restoring my blood to pump again

you chew these discourses with angry lethargy dear reader ?
lurch past something you ought not see, this lengthy poem
makes no scrap of a difference, you plunge no further under its spell,
before exchanging even a word here we've reached the stalemate

publicness has eroded my intensity, you snare library mold,
words everyone else has forgotten, my biggest flaw?
absence of a living spark, so I’d become fire, as fire,
my only wish was to flame, to deplete, to develop,

dazed and burning I’d blackened my soul, thrown my notebooks,
vocabulary and keys that abandoned me in presence of desolation,
the fire laughed and devoured, it reminded me of
something nighttime; subterranean and clandestinely crude

a room full of shadows, more unfortunate than that lurid first failure,
from which appears no escape, this knot in stomach, I’d known before,
somewhere and somehow I’d failed there I have failed here,
in my own territory I stand defeated; Defeat is a habit too.

Posted by aria at 9:49 AM | 9 comments  
Labels: dark, dipsomaniac, poetry, vent-elation

Paltry squalls of rain spatter on panes
warming under the coverlet I switch off lights
hunger fighting exhaustion, both in combat
with the images of Y’s body
the combination of Y and X
has placed tremor in my heart,
where love postulates fearlessness
I know Y isn’t like X,
and that X is now loyal to someone else
all men aren’t like the men
I knew in high school,
college university work or net,
however their presence remains alive,
full of potential for illusions and betrayal
“Expectation” pushes at our backs
like deflection forcing us away
until it prods us into limbo
that perhaps is the only explanation
for what happened to X and me,
just as it may have happened to A and B,
the same will happen to Y and me,
inseparable as we may seem
destined to diverge from this union
it’s the law of motion, science of separation
we remain lonely in proportion, while
seeking refuge in wineglasses, kisses, shadows
letting all our notions of permanence
and posterity wait for the future
as rain whips the window-glass,
nodding; thus I fall asleep.

Posted by aria at 9:47 AM | 12 comments  
Labels: crap, experimental, monsoon, poetric(s)

Posted by aria at 11:14 AM | 12 comments  
Labels: creative, fantasy, poetry