[x]

WildYou could never be strangers again
in that void of charged space
between the eyes and the air.
And the other people, who are
less than faces in the crowd.

Maybe it was a true dream of
dark times, always walking,
you are thief protected by gloss
that they could break
if only they knew how.

The lion at the zoo could
jump the fence, the wolves
could dig beneath the glass.

Safety is a mutual ignorance,
and it is something to be reminded
through wilds of the woods,
that she has fangs
and so do you.

Foam OverI know her secret:
she has no bile
or sweat or blood.
She's just cloth draped over
soft cloth, it is what
the edges of my hands remember,
recanting dreamily to each other.

I have made her dirty with affection.
We both are waiting for sunshine
to foam over the hills.

If you lay down in the park long enough,
someone will pick you up. Even without hope,
someone will pick you up. Even without hope,
someone will not let you lie there and burn.

Lean Over The RailA wood and steel bench on a pier
where the tourists have no reason
to go (that makes it home, that
makes it mine). It is chained to
the boards with seafoam rust
as if someone expects it to collapse
in the wind-
or to somehow preserve
all those pale carved hearts.

Like the one on the underside
of its leg, kept out of
sight (someone bent over
for this, someone wanted
this secret and forever).

(A tattoo, kept
from the family).

I can't read it anymore,
I can only touch it with
the top of my hand
and wonder if the ocean I'm
watching extends past
my eyes.

GlassI always laugh when you refer to me as glass.
Not just because of the way you say it,
(glass-as-in-gas).
Or because I know it's a crack at my fragility.

Glass is pure.
I am like granite -
my body nullified from too many clashing traits.

Glass is transparent.
I am like clay -
illegible from all the plastered smiles.

Glass is unyielding.
I am like chalk -
easily broken and scuffed away by meagre things.

Glass is hung up on walls and in great cathedrals,
tinted for enhancement, but only ever painted on by fools.

I am hidden behind keypads and camera lenses,
coated in a thick paste of deceptiveness.

No, my love,
I was never glass. (Despite

I Woke Up Like HeliumI woke up like helium,
all teeth and nails
and sunshine. Breath
that could move the waves, eyes
all over the crowd
looking for one to
latch onto.
Searching for that person who
is an island-
skin like sand
fists like rocks
palms like palms,
brushing against
the light
catching air.
Maybe they will get good, maybe
they will get
far away.
You need a place to stand
that will move the earth.
You need to
lay down like an animal,
and like
the other pretty things on the shores,
I say,
wait until you are pretty too.

Nathan Turner Nathan Turner, aged thirty, was a modest earner, if nothing other. Son of no

father and a flighty mother, and raised in most part by troubled brothers, he was never

one to put his trust in those upon whom the dust of age had scarcely settled. For a time,

he had meddled, even peddled, looking for the light in his own eyes. But never enough was

it, just as well, in his own mind, for the brand of fire which he desired was the sort a

man might chase until he dies, and even at the gates of Hell, never find.

But one cool evening in July, he chanced to meet - just walking by - a woman with

an empty stroller. "Empty stroller?" he asked at on

shhhwe are lurking too close to jesus,
on the empty edge of a lightless stage,
curved nails digging into the skin of our pale palms.

he asks as an afterthought
do you believe in something holy? and i think yes,
i think this is what i believe in.

We Can Make Reams From The TreesIt is
waiting
for newspaper

to turn
crisp,
and yellow

then red.

Autumn
novelized,
no more

stories
of winter
and

dying.

How about
we
circle our

favorite
words,

I chose

blush and
brunette
and
roof,

goodnight,
twice

just to
make

sure.

6:30:09what i wouldn't give
to have my body sink down
into yours, cocooned
in the tumultuous quicksand
of human flesh.

i have never been so moved
as by your touch, the slinking seeping
brush. the universe dispels
and in the absence of everything,
i am less alone
than i have ever been.

On the Unsuitability of Fairytales for ChildrenThe following essay will appear as an Appendix to the sequel of my fantasy novel, Her Unwelcome Inheritance, which is available for Nook and Kindle.

On the Supposed Unsuitability of Fairytales for Children

Shortly after supporting a local library event promoting fairytale literature, the folklore department at Lightfoot College received an animated communication from a very concerned mother regarding, in short, the "unsuitability of fairytales for children."

As this seems to be a rather widespread idea (I might mention the Daily Telegraph article of February 12, 2012) as well as an oddly long-lived one, I take the liberty of pu

cliffcliff
e.bojnowski

on velvet roads,
I impale a belated dawn
with my incisors and
shiver with perfect leaves-

I have no qualms
with the dark hills
that slope
and stagger into
a bed of scorched fly husks:

where
the thrum of the ground
melds
with the rapids in
my clairvoyant ears.

The Nature of LungsThere's that
feeling
you get
when you
keep
breathing in and
are
so concerned with getting
air into
your lungs,
to fill them up
so fully
that
you'll never
need
to inhale again,
that you forget
about
breathing

out.

But when you do,
the emptiness feels
so
much better than all
the oxygen in the world
pressing out on that one
overcrowded lung.

crystallophonethere is a punchcard sin
like a queen of spades smoldering in an alley.

Engine,
you hear how the gears churn,
singing faster than we did before
back when black magic dropped like a
pair of socks from the sky with supplies
taped to a note that said
(oh, look at you now)
'U.S.A.,
freedom.'

such a beautiful brain:
what
what girl
runs on gasoline?

have a gallon
or we can call it a balloon,
and a new pair of glasses
for your tapered eyes
(you peel the bark back on the logs,
darling,
but you're not sure what you see),
and life says,
either nail jello to a tree,
successfully,

or keep your
icicles hanging from the eaves,
ca

FiftyPlease understand: I do not want
to want this (you).

I realized at poem nineteen-of-fifty:
You (college-borne) are a new you,
I (weaponized) am a new me,
and the new me still wants the new you.

ImpatientIf you talk to anyone who waits at red lights or cares about fashion or owns a gun, they'll know a thing or two
about all of us; all of humanity. We are all flowers, we are all little universes, we are all the underdog future.
And maybe this is completely true, and maybe some girl pierced her ear in the 8th grade bathroom, and maybe you
have sand in your shoes from that visit to the beach last week. What does it matter, is this an absolute?
We are all pieces of God, we are all forgetting about Heaven, we are all waiting politely for death to break in
through the bathroom window. You can ask the stains on the sidewalk, the birds who refus

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Illuminate (Collab)The early sunrise singed
its way through the
barren canopy like
braided fire, lighting up the forest,
his eyes and his chest in one swift motion

It was a far cry from the concrete colossi
he had grown with, and the green
glowed in the sun, welcoming it
rather than blocking it,
as the grey used to.

His breath glistened with
smokestack plumes amongst
the trees and
autumn snow and he was instantly captured
by the nothingness.
there was a lack of colour and yet it was
the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
a few notches on the colour spectrum made
all the difference.

(Have you ever really looked at
the world in colour?)
His

The Little Things She Noticed At The AltarHis tuxedo's cuffs were frayed; worn.

The Painter And The VeteranHe wanted to pull out the pain
with a syringe, as if it were
black jelly that had accumulated
underneath his skin. This was
how morning welcomed him.

***

On saturday nights, he was
the kind of man who went around town
painting murals with a can. They
were gorgeous, especially when city
employees melted them with hose-water.

***

In America you can find dollar bills
stuck deep in the cracks between
sidewalks; you can find people stuck
deep in the cracks between
buildings too.

***

You can also find people inside
said buildings, inside beds,
inside...

***

One
and only one
night, the painter was approached
by a hairy young

Violet Lightning1.
Violet lightning pulsed
between the clouds.
I wondered how much
electricity was trapped
within my ribcage.

2.
Pulse, flash;
pulse, flash.
Thunder roars with
pride and it
starts to rain.

3.
I have never seen a
soaked umbrella look so
shapely before. All black coat,
bright hazel eyes that scream
so softly under dripping mascara.

4.
Our first date is traditional,
which is odd because I'll soon
find that neither of us are that
type. The dinner was too cheap
and the movie: too expensive.

5.
We held hands the whole time;
she kissed my cheek in the cinema's
private artistic darkness.

6.
When sh

Six Feet Of WinterWe left Autumn buried under snow.

Spring Is In The..."Spring is in the air",
she sighed, as
snowflakes fell
under a frosted
glass sky.
The window
smoldered into mist
from her monotone
whisper. "Watch",
her finger traced
something on the pane,
but the breath had
disappeared.

All I saw were
snow white flakes
and Spring; falling
through her hair.

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Ravageby *FallingAsleepTonight

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Mature Content

Short stories are coming very slowly, I'm finding it hard to say what I want to say in more than one or two sentences.
So, more poems, because poems are good.

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Given 2013-01-13

Ravage by *FallingAsleepTonight ( Featured by ^Beccalicious )

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~Naughty-Nice-Twist3d 1 day ago

I love it

*FallingAsleepTonight 1 day ago Hobbyist Writer

Thank you thank you

~Naughty-Nice-Twist3d 1 day ago

You are very welcome
I really do love it

~ChaoticM3thod 3 days ago

"I'm finding it hard to say what I want to say in more than one or two sentences."

Don't fall for this. All good writing is brevity. Whatever you do, do not run in circles.

*FallingAsleepTonight 3 days ago Hobbyist Writer

Sometimes I just want to go slow

~ChaoticM3thod 3 days ago

Forgot to add; the rest of the stuff you see in good novels is either story or poetic fluff. Both are fine, but the real meat, the idea you convey, shouldn't be so verbose.

*Sinnomangirl Apr 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

The beginning really draws you in. You know its going to be interesting right away. This is so visual, I even know his card donates to pandas. Haha. I love it.

*FallingAsleepTonight Apr 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Hahaha yes, oh and my card does actually donate to pandas

*Sinnomangirl Apr 21, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

That's awesome pandas are my favorite!

~MusesDaughter Mar 1, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

YEs but this poem IS a story as well. Very good. Descriptive.

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