You're no Kerouac
she said -
no open road of verse,
your life's work painted
in a gaudy yellow line,
slapping the asphalt
like a greedy river.
You don't own a Nikon
or black loafers,
or hop a boxcar
to sleep under stars
so eloquent
they make God himself
inhale too much clean.
You have no cool
lurking in the corners,
giving skin and ink
to strange women;
no green rush of neon
or cheap whiskey
pissing in the wind,
crawling home
to rape the sunrise.
You just have a mouth
angels could fall into,
your tongue and lips
a lean and tangled beast,
words breaking up
in a torrent
like a cacophony
of electric blue...
Dear Son,
I'm afraid it's just as bad
as was reported -
that your Uncle Sven has been deported
for unspeakable crimes
with the neighbor's cat.
Also, you should know that
your fiance was found undressed
with your sister's boyfriend, Fred -
no one but the family knows.
I hope this letter finds you well.
Oh, I forgot to tell you
that your father has to sell
his gun collection
to make bail
for Uncle Tim,
whose chasing tail
will be the death of him.
And your sister, Alice,
has grown so thin.
We think it's all that heroin
they laced the Girl Scout cookies with
(it's just an urban myth
that they're a leftist group).
Your Aunt
"Daddy?"
I lowered my newspaper just below my eye line. There stood before me, a small, young girl. She was leaning back and forth, on tiptoes, her head was facing downward but her eyes were staring at me from the corner of her eye. Her smile stretched as she bit her lip. She was just oozing with an aura of childish curiosity. I could've just ignored her. It didn't need to happen. Not to me. But I chose to. I thought I was prepared. So I replied,
"What d'you need honey?"
Her eyes widened, her smile turned to a laugh. She tucked her hands behind her back as she said,
"Where do babies come from?"
I mentally snapped my neck and
Once when the lamplight was cut
An innocent darkness abiding
And for the few halcyon moments
I indulged in a succulent tranquility
But, given the stillness, depths stirred-
It met me with smiling eyes;
Eyes sadistic and oh. The teeth;
Even the teeth glistened despite the truant light
It had no tangible presence, but it was there
And it watched from a shadow -
At first it's absence I beheld and nothing more
But then came that thundrous void
It drummed the silken blackness
It bore down hard on the corners of the dim room
Then it turned it's closed eyes on me
I rue that moment forever
The dark corners turned darker and It came un
I caught a sun gold.
Trembling old in my cupped palm, quiet copper,
as my rage on our queen, for so crippling me.
And how too did I rail
against you, Cyprian beloved?
Understand: I grow too old
for bows and arrows, Eros.
For years you praised my good posture;
my comfortable soul, my simple elegance.
You needed me when she was born,
to hold your heart so you could relax
if only for a moment.
I watched her grow; fit snugly in your arm
as you within mine.
I was a jungle gym, in constant need
of professional upholstering
which I never received; yet I didn't complain.
My limbs wore slowly, until eventual break;
but I was ever-present. I could not budge
until I was beyond repair.
Just trash;
I was but a chair.
She travels.
The grandfather's clock by the lobby ticks the afternoon away, and as light surges into the greenhouse hallways she sits by the window, her face turned away. The light fills her in waves and the wind looks bubbly, infecting the swaying trees and flowers but her hands are folded in her lap just her eyes follow.
So her hair shines copper in the afternoon gleam, a ghostly echo in her earthly brown which matches the way her skin shines pink sometimes. She awakens from time to time, to blink off the fairy dust on her eyelashes and cast glances of moving confusion around the room.
In that second I'm not there, waiting on her confusi
This is How I Want You by SilverInkblot, literature
Literature
This is How I Want You
I want you at 4am rubbing the sleep from your eyes,
sighing like the last breath
of a distant thunderstorm.
I want you in dark wash
jeans, white socks and black shoes,
pulling each article off
one
by
one
and leaving the exposed skin for me
to brush my fingertips against
and revel in the faint tremors.
I want you entangled
in my bedsheets
counting the pieces of my spine,
and the hours til dawn. I want
every synapse to crackle
with electric charge, with
anticipation;
waiting.
Waiting.
I want you,
your heavy, solid warmth
pressing down and concentrating all its force just below my navel,
to leave me struggling for
And so he walks,
Not light or dark.
Just simple, gray;
Neutral man.
He has none,
Irregular thoughts.
To dance down;
The walls of his brain.
He speaks, soft words,
Not full or less.
They stir his breath;
And the air.
He knows the want,
Of lucid men.
Yet drives,
None but his own.
He is:
A choice,
From pestered time.
Or so the mighty claims.
He keeps,
Steady with course.
Knows nothing:
A genius from his own troubled mind.