[x]

Fold Overi.

across the vaults estimated by every milky tone
the curious whirl in old friends gather a surface
wholly between each divide of behavioral light
cones bend to placate our amass combustion

that is

until her legs uncrossed absolving my repetitive
nature to forget what conditions a truth has also
to submerge and share in upholding closely
the uniqueness of love we each must extinguish

our self

to then

ii.

across
the vaults

estimated by every
milky tone

the curious
whirl in

old friends
gather

a surface
wholly

between each
divide

of behavioral
light

cones bend to
placate

our amass combustion
that is

unti

It's not Rocket Science a poem for Jack Parsons

Lucifer took a hit, landed
face-down & flat-broke
back in the 40s
out on the West Coast
eyes the colour of Swarfega
teeth rotting, shoes worn through,
and dying for another high

too early for acid he takes
the mescaline trail
down into the Mojave
where the rattlesnakes are
locked in their kundalini and the
stillness flickers like god
across a lizard's eye

Lucifer hitched a ride
(another genius-bum)
over to Pasadena
to see Jack and the Rocket Boys
see what they can do
to put him back in heaven

too long in the desert
Jack's a

Even ThoughThere will be no caged fingers,
no tendons finely tuned to A from tension.

There will be no clenched teeth, gritting rosin,
to make the final singing note growl.

There will be unwinding bed-sheets,
hands slowly releasing the tuning pegs.

There will be slowly sliding scales
as the four limbs loosen past playing.

There will be a simple, quiet exit,
not to ovation, but to a hushed audience
who anticipate an encore,
even though it is uncertain.

Retrograde Scents from inside the suit intertwined their intentions with the sights of tangled and tessellated hair illumed by firefly LED's, spiking my circulation with memories and murmurs of dopamine.

I took her by the gaze; she steered her sight away from mine. I led her through a glance that involved no scuffling of hands.

She was one of two wayward strangers passing in the cosmos; two separate glances met as objects in motion tending to motion. People aren't the same however.

Drifter was the term we were known as, people cast off of vessels and ships, mostly by accident, condemned to trudge about the univ

SoftThe rain comes in
from the mountainside

and the musculature
quietens. The birds, the beasts,
the slanting cliff,

the light, the restless
hollowed emptiness,

the bits of lava and bits
of heartbeat and bits of
racing animal mind.

It quietens.

The rain comes in like a slow blink.

petrichorNiobe weeps.

gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.

some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.

listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.

Niobe weeps.

OrientalismIn the day, yellow sand
from the Taklamakan
coats the motorbikes
of your overlords

At night, this city's towers
gleam, a Chinatown of lights
(dragon gold, lantern red)

Here, you can eat
a Philadelphia roll
or a fortune cookie
with fictional
Confucian quotes
on the side

Or you can dive
into a Pacific of
specific patterns,
woven with
living threads
in wire cocoons

Don't get distracted
by the innumerable
neon kanji; trace
the tiny green
lights to the
computer shop
at the end of
the way.

The HologramsBefore Casper we were a quantum band,
an act that only happened when unobserved.
Our drummer maintained we'd split
the world, then took a full-time position
in PR. Auditioning his replacement
round our Crouch End front room,
with his white vest, buffed All-Stars
and holographic principle patter,
Casper shone. 'These,' he said,
nodding at his drumheads,
'are my event horizons;
it's where the beat really happens.'
To prove it, he worked up an almighty storm,
while we puffed on our cigarettes.
Short of a singer, Casper made a call.
Yume Shirakawa, he explained,
would beam in her performance. Jay,
sliding milk down his

On conversationsI
have upset the order
of things, birds
fall fast and featherflappingly from
shaken skies, and leaves
curl backwards into trees
which snap
from frost in summer, my heart
is a bell that rings until
glass shatters and frost falls
fearful on the ground and I
just do not know how
to tell you.

FFM 2011, 29.7 - The Tower"Dora speaking."

"Mrs. Appleby? This is Aimee Bonner. I don't know if you happen to remember me..."

"Ms. Bonner? Of course I remember you! You were my star pupil in the 7th form. I'm so glad to hear your voice."

"That's right! That's right, Mrs. Appleby. I'm glad you remembered me. Um. I know this isn't strictly according to procedures, but I was wondering if you could help me with...a thing."

"You're being awfully secretive, Aimee. I can't promise anything before you tell me what it is."

"Well, ah, you see, it's a matter of...uh...invading realities? Maybe I better explain...."

"Ms. Bonner, if you have a haunting or a poltergeist or an

Rock Meautumn blunders in, clumsy
stiff fingers frosted still
by early winds, rocking trees
back and forth

red leaves splatter the ground
paint drops, hanging from drooping
branches, rotten fruit still litters the sidewalks

i head south for the fall with the ducks.

the train creaks like aching joints
there's a crow on
my windowsill, ruffling his feathers
the trees flash by
red -yellow-red

my ticket's got a hole in the middle
from being folded over and over
the crow says "summer ain't that great, Peach Girl."
i watch the sky and ignore his clicking black beak
"the autumn's gonna follow
right behind ya
'n turn the whole world re

SubductionWe drip into October
with the silence of spiders
heavy in our chests,

our hearts curling in
on themselves like
leaves in autumn.

Lungs unfurl into the
stillness;
there is a breath, a whisper--

This dying wind whistles
through empty throats,
as if to murmur a warning,
perhaps, that we threaten
to become
earthquakes
along our hipbones.

6Either way

It is past seven and there is a rumor that you are coming home.

When I saw you last, I found
that word in your mouth. It was
foreign, a small success for your vocabulary.
I stalked it all the way back to the house,
sucked it clean and dry and no longer holy,
hanging by a horrifying thread.

What will be the first thing you speak of tomorrow;
what wills your growth, what wills you to change?

If we are wanted,
if the earth swirls right, almost cloudlessly,
if you should find my hand and whittle out
a new word—

If you hiss
like a turntable
as you try to spin me round and round—

It is only seven; I trust you w

The Farmers SonWe sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridges
like the smoke from some great unseen inferno,
the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to us
in low groans,
of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,

and there was flickering light from a candle,
and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspond
in some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythm

and I believed that part,

and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey day
and that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythms
or any question a farmers son could ever

immolatethe first step
to sadness is to
have.

[3]

poseidon
punctuates the bruised
shorelines with broken hearts and
shattered abelone
shell fragments.
sometimes the
shore creeps up, kisses
my feet. sometimes he rips through
the distance between
us, taking
what's his.

[5]

the air here
vibrates to a fire,
sparrow's heart humming in c
major. it does scare
me sometimes,
how i might love you
more than ibuprofen, or
the way the light might
oscillate
through an ether storm.

the person i am now is
not compatible
with who i
was before you. but
how do i scrape myself out
from under my own
fingernails?

[7]

we caught the
moon

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National DayThe nation is another year
older and so are we.

The peasants are back to selling
pumpkins on the roadside

and we are back together again.

Spring is in its body bag;
Mao on display in Tiananmen

and we are walking down an aisle
of torch trees.

The WeathermanThe first anniversary is unmistakable
but to think of all the last anniversaries that go unobserved,
masquerading as the next one or just another!

If only there were an automatic notification system.
Even an annual forecast would beat the prospect of living
each day as though it were the last.

Imagine being piled into a rabbit hole or a pillbox,
passing into the alternating stranglehold of all the now & then significants.

One would wish to take one last walk through the neighborhood
and in the after-dinner dusk perform as privately as digestion
an insignificant death!

First and Second ChroniclesWhen the evidence is gone
and the witnesses are silent,

let the dead God come back
for one last remembrance.

How beautiful it was
to be human.

Summer in Southern ChinaEvery day it rained at eleven
o'clock and the lane was lined
with mango trees.
Occasionally a mango fell and split
open on the sidewalk
so you had to watch out.
My memories of that time
surround my first
pack of cigarettes, which I smoked
without knowing how to
inhale, my first box of condoms,
which were never properly
christened, and the first tremors of
the failure of my parents' marriage,
my mother's fainting
on the balcony while reaching
for the clothesline, screaming
through a closed door.

Struggling with My Mother TongueI tape a new word over the old ones,
attaching one or two more labels each day.

There are fewer and fewer places to hide.
Even the can opener is bandaged around one leg.

None but the dishes have escaped because their memory
is continually being scrubbed away

and the bathroom is drenched with steam.
So that the mirror in which my morning sees itself

cannot forget its mother's name.

Missing YouOn my way home from the kindergarten
you know there is a small market

and I saw two live fish in a basin.
The fishman weighed the one I picked
on his scale

then killed it on his big chopping board.
Scraping away the fish scale
he cut the stomach.

In the supermarket, I bought pickled cabbage.

The point is that when I pricked the fish it moved
holding the shape of the letter U.

The black eyeball was still very big
and I felt its grudge against me

but then it lay down like the Chinese character "一".

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At The Old Folk's Home

by ~i-too-am-karamazov, Oct 14, 2011, 7:42:12 PM
Literature / Poetry / Nature / Free Verse

There is a chair beneath the cherry tree
velvet red upholstery peeling off the yellow foam.

There are no cherries left
and no one in the chair.

The two emptinesses commune to the sound of
the cicada reciting his mantra.

I would sit but look
the seat is wet with August rain

At The Old Folk's Homeby ~i-too-am-karamazov

Literature / Poetry / Nature / Free Verse

This is an ekphrastic poem. The original work consisted in taking a chair and putting it under a tree; the artist is unknown, perhaps even to him/herself.

Daily Deviation

Given 2011-10-20

At the old folk's home by ~i-too-am-karamazov is an incredible moment of a poem. ( Suggested by ~ashellessmind and Featured by $wreckling )

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*Angie-Pictures Nov 11, 2011

Congratulations on the DD!

~i-too-am-karamazov Nov 11, 2011

Thanks.

*Angie-Pictures Nov 12, 2011

My pleasure!

=Muse-of-Thor Nov 5, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

Hey there, your work has been featured here --> [link]

~angelpunch00 Oct 20, 2011 Hobbyist Photographer

He Ho! Nobody's home, Meat nor drink nor money have I non, till I will be married, He Ho! Nobody's home.
We sing this to practice cannons and your little reminds my on this

~Outsidelander Oct 20, 2011 Hobbyist Digital Artist

That's really good.

~Amafel-Elf Oct 20, 2011 Hobbyist Photographer

This is beautiful.

~ArTisTPeaCe Oct 20, 2011 Hobbyist

very beautiful poetry

*rt364 Oct 20, 2011

The emptiness resonates

*rlkirkland Oct 20, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Reaches a tap-root of human experience in such simplicity as is the desired outcome of many 'Eastern' forms.
Well done, and congratulations on your DD.

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