Shade

Something about my life traded in a parade of egos and glittering trail of what could be disturbs me. A piece of the pie, tin star in my eyes, reaching for that next branch in the tree. Take time to assess the damage of being me, around me, inside me, and figure out if you come out on top.

Stop.

I'm closing the door, pulling up anchor and departing golden shores to give this black mist in the distance its due. Without a fucking clue I'll drive all night if it'll only lead me to where I was supposed to be. A little bit of me in encased in words and typography on my screen. A breath I made extends half way across my universe and darker things lurk in shade where it's just a little bit cooler.

A few degrees.

"Tin Cans" #Poetry

I strike—

thick.

Tin cans in a lightning bolt.

A distant cadence

but a little better

That much bloodied

Definitely wetter

A ten-thousand watt grin

I stomp my feet

and call out the passes

You bring the wine

I've got the glasses

In fact I might just

maybe might not

Need you after all...

Now that's original sin.

On-Air #Poetry

Whisper

Bring it all out into the open

This terrifying world of

words left unspoken

In the morning be sure to bring

another line

drop your dime

and listen to me as I speak

Ten worlds apart this

heart brought forth with electric spark

left out to grow and mold and to get

quickly old to bring a play in all the

words I might say

There's no play with this, the one that I know I'll

find within the confines of beaten atrocities

Kick the soul from the corpse and beat the dead

Horse to drive it down deeper

and so much farther into this cracked

ground

to lie to rest the very goddamn best

You thought you could do for me

You see?

I bring it here to spread it out and face your fears and

your burned and ashen tears that aren't really there

I swear

If someone does not change the station I am going to cut him.

On the fucking air.

- Carrie Clevenger

BeMused

I feel sometimes

Like writing my own future

Igniting the candle

To rocket me to my next

Wild tale

An insinuation of delegation

A shrugging of responsibilities

To frolic and splash in the river

Ride white horse through

Valleys of wonder

Splendor all over

Invent new ways

To say I love you

To hold a body close

So hearts tremble together

A tenderness unfound anywhere

Else in this universe

Still, I consent to overture

And descent to my own melody

Because after all it’s tragedy

And apathy that seem to trend best.

Once painted, the corner stays wet

And I sit in it to watch the room

Crumble to dust.

I don’t want to write anymore.

"This" at Soft Whispers #poetry

I am featured today at Jim Wisneski's SOFT WHISPERS Come by and say hello!

"Of Rust and Dead Sound" #Poetry

I know

that there is space out there

seated well between the scent and shape

of air

a tender repletion

a constant competition

of simmer and sweat and the best

plot yet

'Tho they wrestle the blood to the ground

I've found that there's nothing quite like

Dead sound.

Rattle bones and sweep the streets

this dark does ring

complete

although not quite as sweet

As a fresh beginning

Better than the ending and

in between

the scenes and sheen of a newborn friend

I found bells to ring heavy and

Rust in dust to bring

Me, simply.

"Unwanted" #Fridayflash

A brief span of mockery

thus defined their outlaw ways

tempted by love and lust drained

through the hole at the bottom of their fading hearts.

They held hands together every moment; clasping

fingers sensitive to learn

that the body is hopeful,

but only the soul perseveres. - "Unwanted" Carrie Clevenger

It'd snowballed, this gigantic mass of chaos. A subtle hint as to their futures as human beings. Bones lengthened, strengthened, and became brittle. Sherry was an aborted mother, lost and hungry, and hobbling on crutches.

They started on the corners. They had to fight for one, because the really good corners were someone else's. Someone bigger and meaner. Benji'd take off his hat at every red light and make his solemn march down the middle strip of median that served as their personal island and hell. An oasis in a shivering mechanical tundra inhabited by grumbling motorists in shiny Cadillacs and Hondas. Sherry watched as the last person in her life to care gave up his dignity for a few wadded up bills, presumably out of an estranged dusty corner in some attorney's pocketbook.

Her hair was silky. Some guy in a Lexus stopped Benji, asked him how long his wife's hair was. She'd grown it since she was in High School. Pretty long, he said. An offer was made. Certificate passed from soft manicured hand to Benji's trembling fingers. Benji went back and relayed the message.

The 'earnings' for that day equaled less than thirteen dollars. If he skipped a drink, she could eat a decent dinner.

The man offered two thousand dollars. Enough to live on for two months, if they stayed outdoors. One if they found a place to stay. Maybe he could get a job then. Maybe she could get better then.

Cold hurt unmended bone.

The man was supposed to come back for them after the day was through, before the night dropped the temperature to freezing and vagrants were systematically shoved off their precious corners at dusk by the police.

Gales of unchecked wind swirled up around them, and snowflakes cut on diagonal pathways. Benji held Sherry close and thought of hot cocoa and peanut butter sandwiches. He thought of the warmth that enveloped him when he walked inside his old place.

“He's not coming back,” He said and stood. Sherry looked up at him and took his hand. Her crutches in one hand, Benji supported Sherry's weight as they walked into the path of the waiting headlights.

"this" #Poetry

I am
a box of paradox
so hard to be free
gracefully
to be who I am
the lion eats the lamb
and I see
a peaceful eternity

I am not money
but power
in each and every
torturous hour
a simple inoculation
of revelation
into the center
of my gravity
It's hard to be
mean as me and yet
still have a heart.

I'll bet you never knew
that I could kill so very
kindly
and that those words
could tear apart your stolid beliefs
A definite electrocution
of pointed and repeated
persecution

A new disposition
on my limited edition
A snide remark played out between
the sheets of music and me
the worst drama queen

I know you've never seen
Someone as quite as contradictory
and extraordinary
as me.
an apparition bestowed upon
a grateful mind
A perfect find
to highlight an otherwise
grey-streaked day--

I don't come any other way.

Featured poem, "For M"

I might continue this trend, of featuring brilliance as time allows. This poem is not by me, but I am so very proud of her I must share it. - CC

by Christina Vincent

You leave me at a loss for words, which,

for me,

is bad business. You see,

words are all I know. Words

are how I know you. Still,

the memory of fire and solid darkness

leaves me shaking. Shivering.

So cold. You burn

so very cold.

Glowing as gold in a vault underground,

buried deep,

deep below

our feet, where

the sun cannot shine, and

the wind cannot

touch. Movement,

still and resonating. Your movement is

sound,

the toll of a bell to call the gods, the

thrum of a dying heart as it bleeds

onto the parched grave dust beneath.

What sorts of trees grow in

blood-soaked graveyard soil? What sort of

fruit would those trees bear?

A pomegranate, so

thick and juicy red, the seeds to settle

in the pit of one’s stomach to anchor

to Persephone, and you can

never go back again. A muse,

a demon, a lover sweet and deadly, a monster

of such exquisite beauty, wrapped in

shimmering gilded robes of poetry and caresses.

One bite, one slit, one

cut

and everything is blackness. Everything is stars,

and everything sinks into arms

like stone.

A precious, feral gift. A dreaming

of a time not of this world

spoken in a language long dead

with tongues that know dialects

we’ve never heard.

We used to throw ourselves on slabs of rock and beg

for a taste of your voice, for your sweetened

devil’s breath in our ear

with whispers,

soft whispers

that tempt madness from dark corners.

A precious thing

as thick as blood

and slick as ice

that burns and bites like hellfire swathed

in empty darkness where nightmares whisper.

A muse.

Vampire.

Demon.

Incubus.

Fuel another fevered dream

and let these tiny shivering hands

offer up another piece

of that twisted silver dreamscape

that holds stories together.

Invasion

This bleak

This rotten starry black

exploding beneath my closed eyelids

A dance of death; a brush with heaven

One more visit with the Other Side.

I can't sleep.

Fingers roll deeply into make-up greased grooves

and can barely make out the old typography of my face

I rise

with touseled hair tied into knots

from endless hours battling with my pillow

Dead-bone moon peeps into my window.

I close the shade;

I don't much like the invasion.

Dead Scrolls

You are the only one that makes me feel truly naked, I
burn and bleed and wink at these dead scrolls that
lie across my hood, strapped on with sinew twine.

Deepest truths are often hidden beneath pale lips and
not until something's said are they finally known
like black beetles; shining carapaces vibrating with pulse.

A life that you helped take, waste and wring out to dry
shriveled and whitened, bleached and boned,
gutted and hung
like crustacean pearls on a guitar string.

Mange.

The sickening, sleazy slime of decades past
a life I eliminated from my daily agenda
Journey back to where the book was open
and everything was up in the air

A beating of dark wings
outstretched beyond the landscape of my ideal imagination
a bile so villainous
I can’t abide to carry the concept of it existing
longer than a nanosecond.

The case was closed;
said-chest of poisonous deceit
drowned in the depths of self preservation
The page was turned;
the candle extinguished
to protect the eyes of the innocent.

Still, I pause here
on this dusty trail of what I’ve been doing
to look behind me and see
it’s followed me home
like a stray dog with mange.

Undead, unbarred.
Sunken red eyes to demonstrate
A hundred pounds of wasted skin
Mottled judgment or askew irony...

Fate is not always what we make it.