[x]

Love LetterThey talked about you today, my dear.

They were chattering childishly about you.
I think they believe they can stop us from meeting.

They spoke ill of you,
treating your existence as one
which disgusts them.

I...
I think I love you.

Everything you are
Is beautiful:
A force of life
unlike the pathetic one
I myself own.
I am temporal.
You are not.
You exist eternally,
Seeping through history:
The elegant entity ignored
Through the greatest moments of humanity......
They need you, yet acknowledge you not.
,
,
,
,
It is not your presence that pleases me,
it is the manner of your arrival,
landing in my life like a gift

PyrePyre

If our luck holds,
we will find ourselves
spread across three county lines,
charred knucklebones among corn,
in the whistle of swamp reeds, your hip
planted in loam and awaiting its flesh
of April snow, my skull home
to the golden Orb Weaver, asleep.
There are cinders in your witchlike eyes,
there are Lyre snakes in the crook
of your arms, and I would name your heart
Strawberry Leaves.

I raise the window,
shout the silent goddamns of our distance

that's why it's vulgartrust me. i'm a product of
two, eating at the eyes that
watch me from
collars hanging neatly,
barely, plainly behind
curtained closets.
and trust me, i've
written thousands of words
to replace the hard skeleton
missing at the curve of your back.

you broke each section at the
greeting of a new word gurgling
at the hollow of your throat--
each new disease tickling you
inside-out, your neurosis
peaking pretentiously,
aching at cameras
and gesticulating at the
sight of highways
spelling your death in
a matter of seconds.
run, jump, cracked,
quick roped.

so, at this sudden branching
of spite and malice
from

Crumbling Conversations"It is something to know ~ that a penis in tow,
and an arm
are very, very different...

neither
is the measure
of a master creator
a long waving stave of divinity.",

the matriarch said,

baring a strangle hold
on the wrangled mould
as she spoke to the Tiny Hiney Man.

Clearly a 'Ms. Under'... standing heeled and balanced in the cracks

Hiney Man looked on
as mustaches were hard to come by, and not every noble nose could afford one.

"And where there are pussies, there's milk, I assure
the kind that kittens with mittens adore...",

the matriarch finally felt fit to admit
as the crowd failed to roar
and the bulb never lit.

7 November 2012

If you should capture
the whole of my last breath,
I will dwell in you
with contentment,

for a portion of a moment.

If you should share
the whole of your next breath,
I will dwell with you
in them, contented still,

for a portion of a moment.

If all should release
the whole of our breaths,
We will dwell everywhere
with all, more content

for all our forevers.

Palaeothic Art     The mind in the cave
     At Altamira
     Paints rock face red with ochred
     Bison, horse, lion,
     Megafauna come to life.
     Yet in one corner
     The tiny stencilled hand print
     Says 'Kilroy was here'.

caminoi am full of war song sadness.
gathered to you in disguise i
am past you, i who lived beyond
the path, beside your route, your
avenue,
a roar on the moors,dwarfs my lonely
sigh
i am casting
myself upon the edges of those
lanes you touch
weary lover
i am a broken tourist low
with dissent, i can
travel no longer with only my
bones and conscience, even
if i am dismissed by you,
i would cross the hardened steppe,
to come upon the highest land
and trawl the eastern shore
for the sound of you in a moment
yes, how is it that you have thrown
yourself so far away from me,
what was it that compelled
you to become there,
even

10:18 to VictorySticky sour air
Unmentionably close
Friday night metro

Redshift TheoryThirteen with an abrupt fondness
for poignant promenades
alone in the dark.
The deafening lull of cicadas
roaring and rustling soundly
between heart and brain
as the hormones ran a circuit.
Through your suburban homes I spied
a line of televisions
all reflecting blue.
Shortwave frequency,
no goals in sight,
no ambitions, no hopes,
no dreams.
Just smug complacency,
far from the red,
the dullest light,
the cheapest thrill.
Relativistic Doppler,
no night sojourns
into zero gravity,
no jettisons from orbit.
Just wiling away,
waiting for the universe
to cave in on you.

The Paris PaintingParis in the spring
sounds like an Audrey Hepburn afternoon
And I paint the picture in my mind like Degas
Because imagination is the master artist
Losing genius with each step away from childhood
But Paris-
Paris is a young woman's chance to unlock that cabinet of rose-handled brushes
And an old one's chance to still say "Someday", just how it belongs between full rows of teeth
Paris in the spring
sounds like a promise that lover's make
in the winter, tangled up with misted breath
beneath shadowy window panes
empty words and all the sweeter for it
Sweet like the breath of l

As for you, SR

So Here's the Deal....

Your laugh lines
Must lead somewhere
Your patience
Like smooth Malbec
Must hold its breath
Now and then
Your black waves of desert brush
Waiting for curious fingers
Must want to be licked hard
By restless orange flames
That "twinkle" in your eyes
(Endears you to people they say)
Might be masked flash of conniption

Considering all possibilities
And incongruencies
(Of things such as my childlike smile
that you once pointed out)
You should be restrained
Really
Chained to that tree
Of art, knives, whips, and time.

© Debjani Chakravarty 2012

DomesticI was not made for this.
To be a house person.
(I have no lover)
Weekdays I awake before
the alarm.
Prepare my son for school.
Dressing, cleaning.
Snacks tucked in his pack
along with extra clothes.
And a wire bound notebook,
for messaging back and
forth about non urgent
matters and the going on's
of the day.
My days spent alone
for the most part.
Coffee with friends,
perhaps some shopping.
Tidy up. the apartment.
No schedule.
All the time in the World,
it seems.
Yet each day ends without
satisfaction.
My only accomplishment
lies asleep on the other
side of the wall.

stratawe can climb, vertically
through the region, the continent
a vast terrain like a length of dark cloth laid upon the clay
and when the lost sky comes against us
we can traverse a new path.
but it's hard for me to locate your many strata
within the shifting contour lines
i know only the crawl and fold of the tide
the foam and spit of the wave
and the gravity of rainwater.
to study you
is to be drunk with obscurity
i want your phenomena and your substance
to know your structure like the cap of ice on a
winter lake knows its shape
and how a portion of light strikes a harsh shadow
on the rocky outcrop
i have unfastened you

so

RecluseThis ripening pine
cone's insides

stick to my fingers
& expand into webs.

It's rained.
I've gone walking.

Now what remains
of a leaf pulled

from this tree
& limb from limb

is the spider fang spine.

love is lightwe splashed our eyes

     with dawn

--- we scattered the dark,

we set free the  l i g h t

we sew bright truth

     into our fingertips

we leap into the world ---

our battle cry is  l o  v   e

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 864 bytes more ▶

More from *TheMadMulatto

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#HumanConditions

Details

Submitted: February 21, 2012
File Size: 864 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 29
Favourites: 13 [who?]
Views: 283 (0 today)
Downloads: 5 (0 today)

License

Creative Commons License

Some rights reserved. This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.

[x]

Hunting Season

by *TheMadMulatto, Feb 21, 2012, 12:35:26 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Urban & Spoken Word

What would deliver you
if not your coiled, oiled
tail's tale
of molt 'en malevolence-

Spring-heated sentience of suspensions
you'll joyride at high tide every time

Bursting bladder of
Perpetual pestilence

Old shit on a cold spit
with Turn-Burns

Growing thinner
as the winner
of every Winter

Like hock-able clockwork, the
Spring-thing
becomes you

Thawed out
Pawed about
Marker of mangled merriment

Who could not smell your hole from here

while down wind
blows the musical hymn and howl
of an ear-clipped
Slap-trapped animal

Hunting Seasonby *TheMadMulatto

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Urban & Spoken Word

...

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~All-My-Darkness Mar 2, 2012

Grinds forehead into yours

Reply

*TheMadMulatto Mar 3, 2012

Clicks the jaw
and attempts soothing bruises back.

Reply

~All-My-Darkness Apr 8, 2012

Comes back
for a another cheek bone smash

Reply

*TheMadMulatto Apr 8, 2012

Reply

*xlntwtch Mar 2, 2012 Writer

Congratulations on the DLD.
It's a fun one to read aloud (as suggested by the feature) and read loudly! Good one, *MichelleLynn725 Thank you.

Reply

*TheMadMulatto Mar 2, 2012

I'm knocked out by this.
TRULY appreciative about all this.

Thanks with sincerity.

Glad you stopped by, babe.

Reply

*xlntwtch Mar 2, 2012 Writer

I'm glad I stopped by, too.

And you're very welcome (with sincerity as well).

Reply

*TheMadMulatto Mar 2, 2012

Reply

*xlntwtch Mar 4, 2012 Writer

Reply

=Bark Mar 1, 2012 Writer

Hey, congratulations on the DLD! I missed this one somehow. Glad it was brought to my attention!

Reply

Previous
1
2
3
Next