Dark, my depleted garden
no furtive rays of sunshine
August weather, clammy as a snail
sauce redolent of aged shrimp cocktail
Peonies once lined up to burst forth
‘til their came a howler from the north
A sepulchral portrait, pleasing skunks and raccoons
~ They don't cry to Heaven if a garden is ruined
Have you ever witnessed
The immensity
Of a Celestial Squid?
Coat of clammy jelly porcelain
Alien skin
Cold and damp, despite eons
Baked betwixt stars
Radiation hazed
Star sick tranquil predator
With lidless eyes
Leviathan of mountain-crushing size
Unravelled across the stratosphere
A shimmering mirage
Eclipse the moon
A family;
Pulsing pod
Of briny gods
Gobbling up planetoids like plankton
Bird mouth on the brain sells
plump unstately bucked up
matters of actual o-
bligatory occurrences at
Owl's Creaky Bridge where
forageable items can
spawn like people squeezing
elf-aware and clammy chowdered
clown adults from
rubes off courting blots of
nightingale PM firenze
crushed and all mixed up be-
between a frequent
moving stream of
freebies wheeling in a
west virginian's mother mar-
ried pupward to a
shapeless clumping mob or timely
hunk stoned sober old and sentient fac-
tory molding
silver fish resigned to meet-
ing parties all aligned and
drawn from quarters pound-
ed into minds repeated over
bendless queasy headed eggs a-
top the Falling Garden Wall.
I kissed the rain
that fell on my window pane
to catch its liquid silver drops
on my dry parched lips,
as they streaked down the glass
like tears of joy set free,
from sparkling, laughing, brimming eyes.
Time to kick up my heels,
hop, step, and skip,
in the showers,
feel the torrents press my hair real flat,
let the cool, clammy dampness
wander right in,
against my warm soft skin.
To let me feel the raindrops
kiss my skin,
embrace, hug, and caress
my spirit,
drenched and quenched,
wet, wet, wet—
wet, wet, free,
and wild.
I kissed the rain,
and the rain kissed me,
I'm stepping out
to be kissed again,
again,
again and again.
Confused is she who believes she knows
herself. A splotch in the artist's worst work yet
calls herself a masterpiece. Not even the
artist notices her mistake.
The vibrant dark red blood of a swatted mosquito
creates the edges of her face, standing out
in the sea of white, green and a sky blue.
A simple coffee spill shades in her eyes,
a simple dirt spot on the canvas, her iris.
She is hung up beside a poor copy of
Bar at the Folies-Bergère. Not more than a
pair of wandering eyes grazed over her and the clammy
artist.
But that blink, the extra second spent analyzing that
crown of hair, meant to her,
that she was the centerpiece.
Today her silks scatter crackling arabesques in the shimmering air
today she’ll dazzle the casual eye with her sweet metallic gleam
today she waddles, awkward as a cow
today she packs a punch like a fresh shot arrow
today she reverses polarity
today she groans in a furrow, slick with sweat
today she daintily steps through a violet mist
today she sloughs off gummy stuff
today her laughter is quicksilver
today she’s a clammy grey rubbery stone with bristles
today her waterfall hair sheds intoxicating unguents
today she dances without knowing it
today the beauty peels from her face to reveal a hatchet
----------------------------------------
Last night you haunted my dreams.
Together we teased under tousled covers.
Never have I felt such a loving touch;
tearing at my burning, clammy skin.
Your lips stimulated a weakened mind.
Pressing the flavor of passion upon me,
I felt my heart rise in all expectations,
as sweaty palms read the secrets of my body.
Sweet reflection of pale moonlight bathed us,
oblivious were we to entwine beneath.
A former bitter fantasy had taken me hold;
two souls have united in exhausted holy love.
Dew formed as we clung to the night.
Before you faded I called out my love,
only to awake to empty yearning—longing.
Your kiss lingered on my skin as sense and taste.
The fantasy has gone and few memories remain.
A passion hangs in the rhythm of my heart,
or when a pregnant moon shines her vigilant light
I'll remember our shared dreams all of my life.
for fun we wore a blindfold
but clammy fears left heart cold
in silence thought veil thinned out
light restored, erased was doubt
Claustrophobic, saturated white walls constrict,
sucking the oxygen from every molecule of deprived blood.
Hypoxic cells circulate through an increasingly unstable body,
whilst rivulets of sweat flow from clammy palms.
Insomniac reality blurs with insidious shadows,
dancing upon the ceiling.
Naive faith keeps insanity just at bay,
but with each sunrise, hope is chipped away.
How much longer can a soul survive without respite
before it splits open—
spilling into the realms of delicious delusion?
Counting spots of dust in sunlight streams
now becomes the norm.
Two hundred yesterday—
is that two hundred and four today?
Slowly losing grip,
twisted nursery rhymes play out in a fracturing mind:
One, two, no one is going to save you.
Three, four, get ready for the relentless gore.
Five, six, they will play with your bones like sticks.
Seven, eight, for this occasion you better not be late.
Nine, ten, you are now in their sadistic den.
Praying for sleep, it never comes,
as reality dissolves
and this phantasmagorical nightmare commences.
Florence has warm blood
and cowrie teeth that seldom clatter,
even in the chilled, fluttering dance of July rain.
She’s an element of Shiloh
in weeping quest of a promising Samuel,
and for this,
walks through long and clammy paths in July rain.
July, a month of sacred yams,
with breast tubers and milk tendrils,
befriends Florence,
an eloquent lamenter,
the quintessence of languor,
this day of streaming showers.
I have often had her tears
on my palms —
tears that sob gently, lest the temple yonder
hears her and pronounces them FAITHLESS.
Florence, battered in the rain,
frazzled by extreme caution,
with ambiance of July
and naivete of the grey ewe,
has prayed for her breasts, for her milk
and for the growth of her stunted soul.
I, too, have prayed —
for the rebirth of the seventh moon,
for Florence and her bedraggled sorrows,
and for strength on behalf of our weakened village.
How fresh the shower a man takes at dawn
Daylight already so hot and intense
But switching to ‘Cool’ shall stifle a yawn
And shampoo lasts ages… on hair not dense
A towel that is dry so patiently waits
For wet human flesh which aims to be dry
Perchance the human has meetings or dates
Neither is true for that human is I
Show me a towel that can dry a wet man
When hot outdoor air sucks no vapour out
But how shall I dry: I doubt that I can
“Darling, please bring me one more towel,” I shout
Although clammy still, aftershave won’t hurt
Famous last words as I stick to my shirt
Breaking night is just another habit now
we in a whole different dimension somehow
glidin through the cloudy haze
Givin a whole new definition to Dazed
Tryna find a way out, but so stuck in our ways.
Mouth dry, skin clammy, eyes glazed
swear this aint the life we want
But it's so much easier to stay
half dead & the otherin a semi-craze
killing more & more brain cells
as we be-bop to the beat
of our own screwed up brain waves
The only thing on my mind
is the passion & lust we share
IT'S ALL I CRAVE
cutting throats with our words
Kuz at times, it's so hard to behave
Such an exciting reality we've made
this aint anywhere close to as fun
as the old games we used to play
strung out, tired & feeling so damn insane
Seeing everything around us slowly decay,
never forgetting We traveled to a whole nother mindstate.
Feeling at home, but still lost
and honestly, Him & I & this world we continue to create
is something that I'd never, ever trade
The night before my father’s heart attack,
my brother and I were splayed across a bed
watching a re-run of “Happy Days”
and eating Oreo cookies.
My father sat stiff and upright
in a wooden chair. By then, his back
felt like it was being pierced by daggers
and the pain made his face pale and clammy.
I offered him an Oreo,
one of his favorite snacks,
as I gently twisted apart the dark discs
to reveal the snowy treasure
in between.
He watched as I scraped the cream
from the dry, crisp chocolate with my teeth,
then he turned his head
and said, “No, thank you.”
I never wondered if he knew
in those final hours
that his emerald eyes
were about to close forever,
or if he felt death spread inside of him
like a cool drink.
Because if he did,
he would have taken the Oreo,
if only for one small bite,
just to feel the gritty chocolate,
that ordinary joy,
crumble over his tongue
one last time.
Drizzle and frizzled hair crinkles,
such sounds demand a symphony;
Clammy cold showered with sprinkles
there’s a vibe that says ‘Be easy.’
Stock up the wood burning fire place,
it’s raining I’ll send you a song;
Smoke creates a treble clef trace,
that rhythm will help you along.
Streaks of pallid moonlight
wash over blood-stained
burnt umber leaf blight.
Glistening stainless steel remains
within wilting noir roses
and blistered blades of grass.
Sickening hands shake my repose,
heart racing, sure to collapse,
feeling faint.
A revolting nausea elevates,
trying to find restraint,
as madness deregulates.
A heart separated
from a lifeless corpse—
death awaits.
Flashbacks play like static reports,
too hard to get a clear picture.
Splashes of splattered red fill
spaces in between scriptures.
Screaming echoes spill,
dirty visions getting clearer,
as the sacrificial lamb
becomes the predator, evaporating fear.
Fighting for the blade, fingers clammy,
spinning out of control.
How could you bring me to this?
Steel cuts against palms, foretold—
splatters of crimson spray, don't resist,
covering fear-filled eyes.
One last-ditch effort:
grab the hilt and arise.
On this deadening night, collect.
You became Samhain’s sacrifice,
a feast for the demonic nether, sanctified.
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