Everything I do seems to find a way to mock me.
A jeering derision to the paradox of my delicacy.
Each impulsive haste of emotion knocks on the wood of my wretch.
A doleful stimulation to invigorate the louse of my lassitude.
The inertia of my cunning shrewd howls against the odium of my filth.
Against the odium of my haste.
The odium of my humility.
And the odium of my unadulterated abhorrence.
I find myself comparing the speckled illustrations of my masked exploitation.
One of a noble morality.
One of a sinful salvation.
And one of the reprehensible dignity I carry within the reality of my reviled anatomy.
The reality of my depiction.
The reality of my void.
Every word of degradation invokes the ice of my celestial petition.
A celestial plead for an implosion so grave; it dares to uphold a cathedral of my indented dejection.
My fortitude of a sunken dejection.
My poverty of an exiled dejection.
My deception of a gouged dejection.
I am nothing but the prolonged corpus of my own vile vulgarity;
I am nothing but the corrupted potency of my own induced pallet;
I am nothing but the misdemeanour of my own cholerised pertinence.
They removed the bench a few weeks back
to prevent the homeless from sleeping there
a concrete pad still sits;
four exposed bolts, waiting.
Worn, indented dirt from countless feet
still attracts the squirrels, pigeons, ducks;
But now no one sits to feed them.
The park is empty.
Flourished and nourished,
hair locks resembling branches,
I gaze as it dances —
when blowing, he looks glowing.
Twenty years had passed,
but still, I last.
I may have ripened,
but I'm still the same berry, same fruit,
slightly fragmented, a little indented,
not demented.
You got a sample of me when I was at my prime,
taught a few tricks — oh, to replay our time.
Let me discover what you have learned;
still, I yearn —
like the eternal flame, I burn.
Do not read me as if I come with the label “handle with care,”
I am more than able.
Only sixty-five, still alive!
Round-bodied, the taste of sweet and sour —
come and devour during lunch hour.
Do not guzzle — sip slow,
take the time to enjoy this aged wine as we intertwine.
Oh, how you've practiced —
glad to discover upon this mattress.
I want to cling
To you
The way vultures do
Circling in
On every movement
Until the last exhale in winter’s air
Replacing bed sheets
With blankets of
Frosted covered grass
Opening up to me
Slowly
Like a flower at the end of March
Almost as if
The exposure
Tickled your rib cage
Tell me
About the things
Your eyes have held on to
As the canvas
Of light blue
Admixes to obsidian
Over the
Taut inexpressive
Coat your skeleton wears
I want to cling
To you
The way black widows do
Circling in
On every movement
Until the last tug against a web
Replacing bed sheets
With blankets
That feel like silk
Becoming closed off to me
Slowly
Like daisies when the sun goes down
I want to be
Indented
In your mind
Like a child
After
Their first bee sting
Cautious of my presence
But still wish
You could touch my face
Ecstatic eye of night
thoughts tangled tangent
tint of orange moon
slivers were just hazy
incipient learned launch
as the querulous quirk
indented ingress idly
still desperate to capture
though less likely
lavishness connoting mood
human forest focal point
I dream in dribbles soppy
though never flagged yet
as futile aspiration amid
hues strictly night bound
might benefit wistfully
when strident slumber
indigenous to townscape
has its muted rippled
riddle not tactfully
resolved due to blind
daylight tinctured template
aroused by the clangour
of mint medley lure of
Arcadia circus dangle
of inchoate promise known
as crystal carrot jewellery
box whose flecks fly a riot
before the milling cluster
who wantonly wonder
at collapsing fortress inside
whilst rugged resilience
that tower block of prime
revitalised endeavour bent
on a fantasy forage with
disposition a pointless block
though underbody wobbles
if left without the widest
custodial watch of the self
one might be elated finally
In nature's view
indented path along beach
your feet shall lead me
Stirs gently the breeze of late
summer's grace
Endowing fall its trails ,and all is fair
Pine trees quiver in cool mists which
embrace
The last of September... winds'
final flare:
Each ornament from nature's afterglow
Mesmerizes these eyes through
golden tones,
Bearing harvest moon's radiance its
flow
Enticed by interludes of heated
moans.
Rainfall melts summer into silver- blue
Forever a cycle of rosy sands...
Always my year's flamed passion,
always true
Livening romance, flings, their endless
strands.
Let September drift far onto the west
Still my heart whispers, I am wholly
blest!
* done on cellphone; some lines indented
For the contrived inducement of fixated being,
the transmuting tenet of uniqueness,
the personified indented identity,
changes in the self-devised palette
of metamorphosed color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon slyly cocooned,
paints the shifting façade of deception.
In the ostensible enactment of life’s incredible drama,
the performance perfected in one-act play
with the obsession of passion professed,
gilding the consequence crafted by alchemy,
the surreptitious shift from one actor to another,
is an axiomatic drive of the dormant design.
Out of the limelight, the clandestine colors fade
on the tangible visage of virtual makeup,
the pallid original face morphs mystically into
the veracity mirror of fragile actuality,
reflecting the real rendering of identity,
rinsed with the primal hues of persona
of the distinctive disposition embodied once.
The spasm of schematic perception splits the mirror,
the shapeless shards of shattered pretence
scatter as discarded debris willfully abandoned.
Transformation creates the deluding entity,
an alien in its own renovated realm,
completes the illusive paradigm of contrast.
Sometimes words are like scars indented on paper leaving a lasting memory
The water,
the distant buildings,
the small boats nestled
in their own reflections,
all seem captive
to a still
that has settled
the evening,
paused in a lull
between breaths.
There is no wind
to crease the surface
or send a tremor
through the trees -
the only movement
is the gentle drift
of a thought
towards meaning
sleeping somewhere
beneath the quiet.
At times
I have come close
to its place of rest,
felt its presence
edged around
a hollow
as you would
with someone
sunk deep
in the soft comfort
of a bed.
I reach out
but what was there
has gone
leaving nothing
except an imprint,
an indented space,
still warm
in the arms
of an April evening.
For the maneuvered inducement of compulsive being,
the transmuting tenet of uniqueness,
the personified indented identity,
changes in the self-devised palette of color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon furtively cocooned
paints the shifting façade of deceptiion.
In the ostensible enactment of life’s amazing drama,
performance perfected in one-act play,
and with the obsession of passion ostensible,
gilding the consequence crafted by metamorphic alchemy,
the surreptitious shift from one actor to another,
is an axiomatic designed drive.
Out of the limelight, the clandestine colors fade
on the visage of the virtual makeup,
the pallid original face morphs mystically into
the veracity mirror of fragile actuality,
reflecting the real rendering of shape rinsed with primal hue
of the unaltered distinctive disposition it embodied once.
The spasm of contrived perception splits the mirror,
the shapeless shards of shattered pretence
scatter as discarded debris abandoned.
Metamorphosis creates the deluding creature,
an alien in its own transformed domain,
completes the contrasting paradigm of illusive shape shift.
foot tracks foot prints in
in the snow boundaries shown
harnesses patterns
~
of trail blazed shoes worn
"Timberlands™" conversions runs
runs atop the ice
~
snow tracks giant feet
steps, -my eyes sees he's fallen
now I see the shape
~
of an angel on
the ground indented shape of
heavenly body
12/8/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©
A flash, the first strike;
I want to be where you are,
nothing more or less;
Feeling all of your impact
I’m not ready to let go;
Memories can’t last
like this dramatic image;
Instantaneous;
Streak sparkling in the darkness
an indented frozen line;
Take a slow step back
undisciplined rotation!
Pastel colors stay;
Oh, I could get used to this;
I don’t want to end today.
The building of me stands erect
Perfectly, imperfectly flawed
My plastered, painted smile hides the cracks
inside my walls
From outside looking in
sun shines through the windows of my eyes
But step inside my humble self
hidden leaks will soon arise.
In the rooms of my conscience
dirty laundry laid out bare
But clean laundry hangs out to dry for all to see — to air
If you’re looking for a show home
this house is not for you
The foundations of me wired with many faults
but abides with integrity
Warning!
I ask that you tread carefully
stepping on my indented floors
the building of me may stand erect
But I’m perfectly imperfectly flawed.
Written by Kiki Ray
My eyes swim up from a tangled seaweed
of long forgotten data.
Now I remember that instead of going home
I stayed on at that topless bar.
I am unprepared for future-shock, ill-equipped
to decipher questions, that like shaggy owls
hoot in a darkening lecture hall.
I used to panic myself awake at such times
but this reoccurring dream has become a parody,
a Dahliesque floor show of every
melting pants-down moment.
I have been dreaming
of my post-graduate thesis
it rides still on a city bus,
where I carelessly left it.
Passengers sit on it as they come and go;
the unfinished manuscript
is deeply indented with butt cheeks.
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