Tameless night – black
Wild as the dark
Alive on Buckingham carpet
Alert beneath an ivory moon
Sensing, sad sensuous
The spirit of silent age
Timeless spectre
Soft floating as night clouds
Touching gifting the aura
The sight beyond sky limits
Shrouding sweet senses
The spirit of a sensual age.
© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018
If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61
He follows you, silent
Gliding, dark-cloaked, invisible
As whispering eddies in the night.
Through streets shrouded
In simple shadows, and light
As pallid as the Sun in winter
Kissed skies.
Across cobble and path,
Through doorways abandoned
As cold as hoar-frost mornings
Creeping tentacles brushing
A shoulder of flame.
In ancient corners, windowless
Led deep within a labyrinth moon,
A face forms shapes melts
Features upon your flesh,
A windless sea carries call to home
Acceptance sighs to welcome.
© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018
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They say that femininity is sweet to the taste
and too delicate to choke on.
It is a platter of cucumber finger sandwiches
and lukewarm tea served with sugar cubes
decoratively catered to the Male Gaze.
You, girl, are an edible doll.
Soft on the stomach, primed and proper to devour,
the only thing to satisfy a sweet tooth as well as a bored hand.
And you were always taught not to play with your food
but that didn’t stop him from making you desert.
You are the epitome of finger food,
your worth designed to be unraveled like licorice twists,
candy coated in curtseys, blush, low self-esteem,
and poisoned pastel femininity—
you delectable, delicate, porcelain machine.
You only let yourself bleed in pink.
As fingerprints are exchanged for your “purity”
you must melt on his tongue like chocolate
and always smile with your teeth—
nice girls don’t shatter on display for the world to see!
And you should always be sweet like frosting
and convenient like a dinner mint
and only cry tears of glitter and confetti.
Your suffering is a bittersweet delicacy,
Like sprinkles, add just enough but not too much!
You are too much, girl.
Mourn your body in silence and bow defeatedly to frailty.
Cry in such a way that they still love you
and fall apart softly like angel food cake.
Because if boys will be boys, then girls will be play things.
© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018
You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.
Here in the heat
All bodies are lost
No room for the vain
No fear anymore,
Down on the floor
In the diamonds and dust
Distorted truths fail
And lies bear their soul,
Space counts the distance
Marked by your hours
No time for the chosen
Who drown in the sand,
Rise like a phoenix
To burn in the Sun
I’ve bathed in your tears
Can’t feel any more,
Chance now to move
Take control again
To shed all the secrets
Like aging dead skin,
Dance in the heat
No care for the days
Which burn into one
No fear anymore,
Dance in the heat
All bodies are lost
No room for the truth
Can’t feel anymore.
© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018
If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61
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
I am the name you never said,
The one who slips from bed to bed,
The favoured book you never read,
A constant doubt within your head.
I am the cross upon your door,
The creeping root beneath the floor,
The tortured dress you never wore,
An icy vein that will not thaw.
I am the word you never spoke,
The mirror’s face behind its smoke,
The frozen time behind night’s cloak,
A laugh too late to catch the joke.
I am the time you never planned,
The days that slipped out of your hand,
The rusted icon on the stand,
An effigy on broken land.
I am the cry at dead of night,
The splintered dream lost in mid-flight,
The falling bird that knows its plight,
A final line you could not write.
I am the bridge you could not cross,
The path below grown old with moss,
The road behind grown cold with loss,
An ancient sign now lost its gloss.
I am the one you’d never court,
The fated friend you never sought,
The thief of time I’ll leave you naught,
A ghost to haunt your every thought.
I am the name you never said,
The one that fills your heart with dread,
The name in everything you read,
A ghost to haunt the days ahead.
© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018
If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61
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
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
MORALITY PARK 