[x]

Raw           Hailed as the weeper
                    that cries in your stead
  Those Albatross claws ruptured my redd
              Gone is my hollow
                            of prickly twine

O Dan Rot.Dan Rot, a man
of considerable comic timing
who came on rackety wings around the globe
in thirty days or so,
visiting once again with a night on his heels
copping feels on innocent ladies pillowed in bathtubs,

i.

i was black like night
and i was ringed in rainfall
i was so glorious

a spiraling psyche led me to one thing
and this town never could have contained me
a spinning science to my insanity

bends in the system and curves of the power lines
a beauty to plywood and splinter breaks that cannot be defined
bends in the path, a northward slide

strand you in a parking lot
i was vicious and viscous
and i was perfect

as i die

Morning Walk in AutumnThe marsh is half frozen,
splays of ice scattered
over leaves and mud.
Reed tops coated in frost
bowing to the cold.
I walk over the creaking bridge
and think of autumn,
clutching in my stiff hand
three fallen branches
and dead leaves--
a brittle bouquet
for my vase--
their stillness says
I died to make all things new.

for exit 165.in the outstretched wingspan of
tuesday night you'll find them:
the foothills slumbering jagged under
sixteen inches of loose sand and
the city hushed and glowing, lines
of porchlights strung together in suburban rows like
beads on a chain

your house was cavernous hollow like a lung
the colors were dim and
jaundiced, a quiet rush of tepid water
bent the silence while thirty years of
smoking hung ownerless
in the air like the cling of a dead moths to a wall

you tell me of a dream that's vague like
clouds in the sky like
clouds in the sink with
your body limp and damp like
hot tea bags and
your face like spilled milk
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.

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

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.

The SiegeThe first mile is always the easiest.
—Kyle Lynn to me, circa 2006

Tell that to the ghosts,
men soaked in sand and blood spray,
storming the shores of Normandy.

First Infantry's sprint through coastal
trenches, up bluffs, under ruptured drays.
Tell that to the ghosts

huddled in half-channeled holes,
a captain's dash through shrapnel, gray
storm on the shores of Normandy.

A German boy adrift in the compost
of his legs, his elbows' grand flail.
Tell that to the ghosts

ripped in four by mortars posted
over Omaha. Dawn's evenly keeled decay
storming the shores of Normandy

Ms. Foxrummaging through the night;
I find her buried in a handsome coat.
the darkness softens her
trash-strewn make up
to lay bags under her eyes.

I have always thought to chase
a beauty like that; blow my
hunting-horn like kisses
as I saddle up.
I would wear her around my arm and
discuss the big-game
and the beasts at bay
with boys that brandish
scorecards into the hundreds.

but,
she hid from the canines
lapping her neck with a head
buried in all fours.
I skinned her like a poacher
bearing my ivory smile
for her to unfurl
flushed and screaming
like a new born baby.
caught in my hooves the wrong way.

Recycled DreamsI was halfway down the second floor apartment stairs when I realized I'd left my left arm on the table.

It's no surprise of course, for I've always had a habit of misplacing important things like keys, documents, and identification cards, but to leave one’s arm on the table is truly embarrassing. I would have run back to get it, but the bus driver is always a bit early on Tuesdays and I could already hear the distant hum of the engine making its way to me. And it's not like I really need it for work anyway. So I left it behind.

It's penguins and oranges today; my latest client is a fairly normal one. The last dreamer wanted marsupia

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

Of Half-Filled WordsShe is not a flutterbird.
Her fingers are skittish,
her smile is not.
Do not fear that you will
drive it away.

Sadness is her fumbling limb.
It is unwanted, yet
necessary.

When it is January
she will tell you,
"I am still struggling.
And I am becoming so many people
all at once.

A conglomeration of beauty that
I have managed to mangle.
Please, do not be sad for me."

Sometimes her sorrow is
meant for you. But mostly her.

Those specks and spots
of ocean storm lulls
reveal her truths:
ones she does not want
to extract from herself.

Her heart is not a rabbit.

When it beats
faster, faster, faster,
you need not
run harder

Zindigi Life Monsoons Ch 1When Pavarti died, the sunlight went with her. Any fledgling rays that had once, cautiously, shined down on a family so desperately in need of light, left nothing but the dust of Mumbai roads clinging to the windows. It was hastily snuffed out, like the lazy wisps of a tobacco beedi, purchased by a seedy rickshaw driver at cheap roadside stalls.

We were the meager funeral procession, my father and I, the now oldest child, and we watched the two disinterested day laborers unfeelingly carry her remains to the cemetery of an abandoned church. The smug sunlight languidly settled into a distant horizon. Even as the blazing humidity diminished, sw

fatefatalism stalks me.
its chalky finger-bones
scrabble at my windows,
greedy to pry panes
and rend gaps—
mouth agape
to vent its algid breath.

conjured,
like a voodoo zombie
of the bayou,
by pious disciples
to the temple of matter.

they strain to evade
the burden of their choices,
worrying at the knots of destiny
and scattering dust
to fill in our footprints.

in a sly reversal of legerdemain,
they entice hands from rudders,
with their relentless mantra:
"free will is illusion!"

but illusion is smoke,
and stars still burn in my chest.
not nebulae, but hard points and brilliant.
I pass through them,
burning the fog

The Thin HoursI.

Those of us here in this skeleton time,
this time of the year when the nights are thin
and dark, and dark with anxiety, peeling
as layers of an oyster shell, brittle and effaced
and somehow iridescent.
When the bell tolls out the time the sound is thin
and reaches into fractured air and softly
seeks the spaces between the atoms and
misses the vital Os and CO2s in a lasting,
failed pinball. The bell sound dies in
some space between midnight and thereafter,
and each tock tock of slipping cogs is
a repeat and not a moving on.
The air is filled with each dull sound,
each tock a repeat and a repeat again. And the
slip betwee

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Rich in Nothing Are My Kings

rich in nothing are my kings
who set my sun that quiet sings
this sun, this soul, this weeping beast
here in my temple ruin lies
as ashes choke Gomorrah skies

ill-lieges see the wealth decreased
imprisoned guilt through bribes released
a golden soul cast off to starve
blossoms rich that crown my head
the carcass rots, the body dead

unemperors grip knives to carve
removing what they then discard
the rest passed on to orphaned thoughts
the carrion to fill their need
they on my flesh forever feed

my shell soon emptied by the lot
with all the worthless offal brought
to children of my lust and rage
as still the sun now dying sing

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blue sluice

by ~Quemaqua, Sep 22, 2011, 6:52:57 PM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Erotic / Free Verse

cast off care like blue
snowfields into rigid water,
and wash with mud the thrust
of earth, our skin soft as salt mines.
built you are
of bitch and buttercream,
of soured elements in the blue
dot of a pin-prick spotlight
and windowed skull.

we can watch the fire fade
into a black rat canvas,
into blue gates that tumble up
and loose finger grooves,
smear eyes across your face like warpaint,
faster and faster,
momentum in the race to nowhere.

and once done, we turn,
we go aground and push
up the lines of blue backs
orbiting the moons of that
rising ass, around corners,
a shattered life in starshine,
the masks
beneath the dream
of every glance.

blue sluiceby ~Quemaqua

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Erotic / Free Verse

Based loosely upon the following picture, as per #transliterations prompt 9: [link]

This may not be erotic to anyone but me. Hard to say. I love the picture and it brought out a lot of things deep, beautiful, and bad.

Daily Deviation

Given 2011-11-15

blue sluice by *Quemaqua suggester writes: Blue Slice has an understated flavor and portrays a relationship in an intricate way. ( Suggested by =angelStained and Featured by ^Beccalicious )

~~love 0 0~~

~~joy 0 0~~

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

=DailyLitDeviations Feb 2, 2012

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DLD (Daily Literature Deviations) in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article.

Keep writing and keep creating.

~Quemaqua Feb 3, 2012 Professional Writer

Thank you much! I continue too appreciate the DLD support. You guys are awesome!

=DailyLitDeviations Feb 9, 2012

You are quite welcome!

~Davidpoet30 Nov 15, 2011

i really love this its an awesome piece

~Quemaqua Nov 16, 2011 Professional Writer

Thanks so much, mate. I appreciate that.

~Davidpoet30 Nov 17, 2011

no problem i really loved it and i hope you check out mine and you are like emily dickison in your writing keep it up and may i read this at an open mic as long as i credit the author so of course i will need your real name email to me on here please

~Quemaqua Nov 18, 2011 Professional Writer

My name's no secret around here, I'm Michael J. Riser. You're more than welcome to read the piece if people know who wrote it, and if you direct them on to my website ([link]), so much the better!

Good luck with your writing.

~Davidpoet30 Nov 18, 2011

thanks michael and i will be sure to read it tonight at an open mic i am attending

*archelyxs Nov 15, 2011

Congrats on the DD, love!

~Quemaqua Nov 15, 2011 Professional Writer

Thank you.

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blue sluice

blue sluiceby ~Quemaqua

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