Slo Mo

Let’s make love suddenly
with all the lights on
and everyone home
Cross-legged, sprigged
thick like a leaf
skirting the horned edges
of that cracked
flower pot in the garden
where everyone else is
brunching on Prosecco
with tongues ready for deep gossip
while they work the runny
eggs off their chins
slo mo sizzle on a Sunday

Let’s, you and I, dip our fingers
in the punch bowl
Two, no, three body lengths away
Let’s grab the cherries
by the pits, my dear,
while the espresso roasts
and the jazz grinds slo

Let’s make it with our teeth
and tangle the stems into kinks
Let’s prick all the peaches
with our thumbs
And suck out the meat
of the oranges
And dance on
the pomegranate seeds
that slip out
from under the backs
of our thighs
As we shine the last
apple to sparkling
Toes to heels
Straight up

While the dank breeze hangs lo
And the music swells
up like a lagoon
Let’s raise our bellies
to meet the slo mo
burn of the rum
And the char of the grill
and the clink of the glass
frothing at the mouth
of the morning that’s rusting
like two dirty ankles beneath
the weight of our overripe
bodies begging
to burst like swollen plums
Caught in the pollen
of our two eyelids

My darling, let’s stare
at one another
until the ice melts

Originally published on The Used Life

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Patchwork – The Used Life

abstract world

I don’t contemplate trees
or the latticework of a banana peel
like a tulip lined fence
under the bark of a dogwood
preparing to burst its flowering
buds in the wake of a blue bird’s
wing

I don’t like structure or formalism
or heavy expostulations or connect-the-dots
1-2-3 like academics and paper hangers
do abab and pundits and other well-read
people who are all big
draggy brains (like Ginsberg says)
and no music

I like people who can hear
the sound who move to the beat
who think in rhyme and dance down
sidewalks in scuffed up kicks and
who know that souls have their own shoes
and tap their own chorus and cut up
their own verse and who listen to the rhythm
with their long hair and see the words with
their ears like paper birds
dangling from the yellow pleats of their eyelids […]

Continue reading on The Used Life

Pantomime ~ The Used Life

The world is high enough
The sky is on the second floor
Ten tiers and a castle
Peering through the eye slits
of the morning, a connecting wire,
two dungeons and a beetle,
an elevator where the moon lives,
nipping at the bower like a starfish

There’s a boudoir with no name
Where the mirrors are high and the panties
ride low and the women stain the cups
with red lipstick and the men play
solitaire with one hand, not two
Four fingers and a thimble

A room where all the aces are spades
Where the world is inside out and
everything is a reflection
of everything else
and all they can think to do is
mute their mouths on a mattress
and pull up their pantylines
Pantomime, a shot of gin and a stale cigarette

The chime of a smartphone
Give your girl a kiss and tell her she’s pretty
A sentence like a sphinx
A thumbprint
A swipe of the hands
(There is no ending)
In the castle that opened its doors
to the skin of the world
Unknown
Except through a language
of signs and plastic arrows
That hides the empty sky from our faces

In the room of no heroes
Where all the endings are written
somewhere in California in that
no name city six floors down
where once upon a time the earth
slept in its cradle and
Jack and Jill set fire to the pear trees
and Cinderella flung off her pumpkin
while Snow White shot pool with
the seven dwarfs stripped
down to their hats

And none of the stories they tell
have any beginnings
And their eyes keep reading
And their hands keep catching stars
But the world’s not high enough
Just not
high
enough

Anachronistic Rant – A.G. Diedericks

ANACHRONISTIC  RANT.jpg

History void of sapience

I am the spectre

of regurgitated fallacy

I carve the crevice

in impregnable absolutes

The blood-spatter in the crevasse

of your ice sculpture

Where i birth postmodernism

and cut off the crimson springs

of solipsism

Children raised by the idiot box

extinction of libraries

words replaced by letters

A climate change

bonfire of trees

A nation impeached

acclimation to a blue bird’s speech

Hubris draped in white cloth

the sloth that doth not protest

Suffragettes suffocating

for egalitarianism

Robots dictate pedestrians

look to your alt-left

look to your alt-right

I know where i left my keys

can you help me find

my fucking mind?


Let Go – The Stories in Between

My hands scrape the cold ground

Digging for the final exhale

Which to shake the Earth

Punish time

Take this down

Stripped to naked regret

Upon my dead shore

The last remains

To be seen

 

Let go

Of the benign

Indifference

You hold in your mouth

We are ghosts

In this place

With nothing

To haunt

Our time punished

Through broken lens

Without understanding

 

We all let go

Sometimes

Or try to

Attempted facade

A slow dance

Running from dreams

A lethargic assault

Tumbling over

The broken

And reckless

Until the time

We are caught

In stillness

In understanding

In difference

 

What do you see?

Nothing

I caress your cheek

Explore your eyes

 

We really don’t know

Do we?

 


More from the author can be found at The Stories in Between

Ocean Side – The Stories in Between

Quietly I lay beside

A stricken moon beam, at ocean side

Feel it breaking, tremble inside

Do you hear me cry the oceans tide

 

Can you hear me

Can you see me

 

I feel you breaking

A silent fracture, Torn in time

Are you beside me

Reaching for that, Which you can’t find

 

Wait for me

It all ends soon, I promise you

Walk beside me

Hand in hand to the ocean’s moon

 

Can you hear me

Can you see me

Can you feel me

 

moon

 


Originally posted at The Stories in Between

Introducing Chris Nelson ~ Magpie

My perch it is the highest fence

My view the clearest view,

I scan the city streets all day

In search of something new.

 

I watch the faces passing by

The frightened and the brave,

And steal their thoughts before they know

They’re stumbling to the grave.

 

But never tree

Or hanging branch

Will ever hear me sing,

 

I move with grace

From left to right

But never on a limb.

 

I’ll take the shiny and the dull

And keep them in my nest,

All the doors that never opened

Now locked inside my chest.

 

And when at night you cannot see

The memories that you lost,

I’ll gaze upon each every one

And marvel at the cost.

 

But never will

I take the dive

Or sing out loud my song,

 

Just bob my head

From side to side

And pray that I’m not wrong.

 

I’ll watch the Sun both rise and fall

And welcome day and night,

Basking in the cloak of darkness

And hiding in the light.

 

I’ll never fly too far from home

For fear I’ll lose my way,

Rather nest on stolen chances

As on my perch I stay.

 

So neither tree

Nor hanging branch

Will ever hear my song,

 

As safe I grasp

The middle ground

To be neither right nor wrong.



© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61

When You Understand – The Stories In Between

And sometimes we adopt these casualties as if they were our own, in the darkest of times, during the only thing we know as real. Finally we struggle to give it away but the most painful of realizations is the moment when we understand this is ours to keep. I will open your eyes to the death of innocence. There is a truth in my anger, an outstretched grasping hand. There is little sympathy in this place, and even less understanding. We are all washed as clean as we can get. But save the dirt and praise tomorrow because it all makes no difference.

Do you want me to really show you something? Really? Because I can. But you may not like what you see. If you want me to, I can turn this whole thing inside out and pull what you thought was reality away, piece by broken piece, then maybe, just maybe, you might have something to say.

 


More from this author can be found at The Stories In Between