[x]

I Guess We'll Live To See ItYou should start looking
for a place we can make our last stand.
The dawn is breaking:
Every morning, a little less light,
and the end
is not as close as you think.
Love is not enough,

and wanting

is not enough.

The desert is coming.
The sea is coming.
God forbid
they find us holding our thirst
in both hands.

Instead,
instead;

No,

There is no
rescue.
You should start looking for a place
we can make our last
stand.
Take my frenzy for resignation, put your boots
on. I have a lantern. I have a little
knife. We have so much still
to survive. Open

your hands

and let the thirst out.

Build. We will stand
until t

list for ninth october1) your lover is dead and
you burn the eggs. grease
streaks the stove. you
sit, stand, switch off
the burner. sit.
the birds chirp. sit.

2) your lover is dead and
the birds are hungry:
the blue-jay funereal
blue, mockingbird
sick ocean grey.
you shore yourself
against the bare mattress,
empty mason jars, your
mother's phone calls,
bestsellers commended
by desk receptionists.
the author's name
dwarfs the title,
that means it's good.
that means it's popular.
you spill tea
and soak its pages
and sit. sit.

3) your lover is dead and
the tea is cold.
the leaves have settled
in rorschach patterns.

the tea

The Instinct of CellsThe Instinct of Cells

beauty softens each of us
like an egg soaking in vinegar,

but I have always been soft,
soft as baby fuzz,
a flabby soul
stuffed into my skin
like sausage meat inside a hog casing.

I have no idea what it’s like
to have to kill,
to jump out of an airplane,
to learn I have cancer.
I spray lavender-vanilla mist on my pillow
to help myself
sleep.

the hardest thing in my life
was when my dad died. they tattooed
little dots on his head
to help them aim their rays. his hair
started to fall out. luckily,
he didn’t have much to lose.

I correspond over the Internet
with a young woman
in England. she

Can I be close to you?Darling, I'm sorry

for the parched wording,
the dry vows,
terms of agreement, croaked the white dove
in that white chapel of whiskey floorboards,

for the way the moonbeam hit the windows,
and the way you said his name.

I'm sorry, darling

for the (nothing) that came in seg-
ments,
and the dusty diary memories, pieces of
lost-lover's hymns,
for the sweetness at the tip of your tongue
and the finger at your lips.

__

, and that's when he realized that some girls deserved stardust and galaxies,
and he was bright fluorescent light clouding their vision.

orthography and the right to remain silenti know just how i left you,
and i pray to god,
the same one you do each day,
that you're still as
sore,
stubborn,
and stuck
as you were
when you fled
like floodwater
to georgia.

the pile of unread books
still sit on the righthand side
of the coffee table.

i think,
but i can't be sure.

maybe they're on the left;
or even worse,
maybe they're on the shelf
over your television.

i don't know how fast
you've been sitting here
or how long you've been moving,
but i have places to go
and people to be,
warming the ache
like ringworm
in my stomach.

it's times like these
i pray to the god,
the same one you do each day,
th

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

stefanshe stood on your dock
in black pearls,
and nothing more -

wet feet
and the asian dream.

you loved her
but

when the snow fell
on the dock,
the following winter

you couldn't
remember why.

the contortionisti hold her up like an offering.
salted slug spasms,
foam dribbles.
i want to stub out the face
like a cigarette.
suspended in the amber
of this awfulness,
still as a mosquito.

the worst is the sound,
the staccato choking, perfumed
by whiskey and bile.
when i open the door for
them, black suits, yellow bands.
like wasps, they ask, they
drone in unison.
what happened?

i am ashamed because
i am not crying.

for a friendThe sky is captured in his eyes, clear and blue.
The weather etched smile is honest.
The slender face says sixty; it lies.
It is that and half again.

Knobby hands sun baked and brown
peek out from ragged gloves.
They seem part of the old split locust post
where they are resting;
one of the row of soldiers
that keep watch on their field and its occupants.

The smile broadens as I approach.
I help stretch the wire.
His archaic dialect fills the road
with cows and snow and the yankees
that his grandparents saw marching.
The hours pass pulled by the mule
he plowed with as a boy.

He mentions his wife
they'd been marri

The Stars and MeThe stars are no longer speaking to me.
I suppose we're on uncertain terms.
This day, we were meant to talk of tomorrow,
write love letters to each other and paint
dim yellow light, white sparkling lines,
in the crevasses of each other's faces,

But,

I can't bring myself to - Can't warm fingers
against the bones of things I should have done.
And this is the way it has fallen, autumn brown,
beautiful piles of useless abandon soon forgotten.

Surely,

the reasons we come to love each other,
all those sparkling drops of eternity,
cuddling close to bare skin, sweat stained,
and smelling of home, and peace, and comfort.
Surely,

passerbyraspy voice, like a demon begging for mercy. she was
always a broken melody,

a puzzle
with no corner pieces.

i can see her,

drenched by the truth in her own
words, "i am just

a crack in the concrete,
marked

by the footsteps
of people like

you."

how lilies weepobstacles
are a kind of faith,
bleeding through
intention
as if through some
amorphous skin,
red silk,
a bruised clock
covered in
veins and cloaked
with skin,
timed to burst.

i am nothing
if i am not a dream
of yours, waking
from the geometric light
of my window
into a shimmering cup,
poured full of your words
my hips dripping
their tiny mechanisms,
whirring impatiently
my mouth
made raw,
swirling in incense,
growing new teeth,
finding ulcers
to bleed through.
i drip and cough
and sleep and bleed
and hope
that i am strong enough
for someone like you.

i am taped
and bandaged
and covered up

It is not enough to writeIt is not enough to put the words on page
or to align them like cocaine lines
in neat rows of cornstalk paragraphs
fertile enough to bear reviews.

No. One must bleed each period,
each dot-dot-dot like morse code mythology
the Gallic cry at the end of the telegraph age.
It must become an ocean in you, these voices
swelling to tidal highs, and quiet - never.
You the new folkteller, urban prophet
who can call to battle anyone with eyes.
Ooze it like sap spilling down the bark.

It is not enough to write.
One must expire with each keystroke,
endlessly. It must come from the bowels.
Purge it as infection leaking out of skin;
lance

Evangelos and that film from 1986Evangelos and that film from 1986

I am not a fish.
My mother is a fish.

You should know, my great-uncle Peter
From Hungary has a daughter
With whom I fell in love when once
I was there
That time I braided her ashen grey hair
In braids

Two

My mother's best friend only spoke Italian
He did taekwondo, jiujitsu
And played Santa every year

He was Portuguese

I want to enchant you with my secret code
Once again it has to be said:
There is no story

The hedgehog is sleeping in the garden, his father and
The squirrel:
Today they are wearing
Winter scarfs
Instead of ties
They will hold session until deep in the night

About money

Splinter helixEMBRYO
a derelict building shifts its swollen form
wire cage elevators moving carefully as it swallows
nestled in a womb of fragile concrete fibres
the child of paint and pastel colours stirs
searching blindly for that energetic outside world
it stretches its delicate arms like an earthquake
SAPLING
Tell me where you come from, what you remember
of the black ground. Talk in riddles only your kind
understands, talk in flowers, talk in thorny branches.
You crack the foundations in starlike patterns, and
you stretch the heart of you for the concrete above,
longing to carry the sky as a bed for the Sun.
GENERATION
the twisting fles

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 705 bytes more ▶

More from ~silvernium

communion
when artists forget
themselves
they find themselves.

in poetry, the forgotten
artistic self may become
transcendent

think Rumi, think Hafiz
they didn't think
just being in being is

communion. a common union
both beyond something
and union with us.

I can't turn the pages
of Rilke just now
each one is as heavy

on my soul as gold,
as brilliant
and savage. a heart

can only break so much
and it does, and
then, well

that is what they speak of.

Maybe a haiku threadthe dog barks
the moon has disappeared
this is what is

3 March 2013

'for a blink of eternity'

4 March 2013

reading profoundness
one candle burning

5 March 2013

graveyard shift
no time, no room
for poetry

6 March 2013

tired, I need
sleep yes,
but poetry first

7 March 2013

your heart:
so fragile.
love is vital

8 March 2013 ~ writ 13th March

tiring too easily
the moon
doesn't show up

14 March 2013

writing a haiku
about NSTEMI
missing beats

23 March 2013

hey moon,
you're back again!
me too. me too.

23 March 2013

stellar nurseriesI can only wonder
we come past stars
to re-starring
the dust particles sparkle
all was and will be

once you have found it eyes gently closed
even green mountain
disappears

the right way to let gocould you pull me in
with a gravity tow?
just enough
to let me go
into a better orbit

View Gallery · View Prints

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

Submitted: February 20, 2012
File Size: 705 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 48
Favourites: 177 [who?]
Views: 2,955 (0 today)
Downloads: 705 (0 today)

[x]

A Flower

by ~silvernium, Feb 20, 2012, 8:02:01 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

would I, I would
walk in Hiroshima, a flower
cannot say much

underneath cypress trees
we can believe

pyramid builders used stars
to map something there

sand in my hand, sand
back to where I gathered it

the cypress branches at
night canvas us like a pyramid

as it should be, with light
coming down in shafts

I'd have a flower for every
thing we ever did that needs one

that is an uncountable amount
of flowers and we

cannot count the stars
in a universe we do not understand

A Flowerby ~silvernium

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-02-29

A Flower by ~OnyxPhoenix ( Featured by $wreckling )

~~love 0 0~~

~~joy 0 0~~

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*GaelleP Apr 26, 2013 New member Hobbyist Writer

beautiful...!

~silvernium Apr 26, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

*archelyxs Mar 29, 2012

"I'd have a flower for every
thing we ever did that needs one

that is an uncountable amount
of flowers and we

cannot count the stars
in a universe we do not understand"
Simply beautiful.

~silvernium Mar 29, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Always trying to count ... I don't understand ...

*archelyxs Apr 5, 2012

Counting and naming. I can't tell which is more fruitless.

~silvernium Apr 6, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Hmm. Stiff choice. I have just started reading Hafiz ... he also believed naming to be confining.

*archelyxs Apr 7, 2012

Not only confining but also defining- granted there is something that can be defined.

~peaceofthemoon Mar 10, 2012 Student General Artist

*0*

*archelyxs Mar 1, 2012

"I'd have a flower for every
thing we ever did that needs one

that is an uncountable amount
of flowers and we

cannot count the stars
in a universe we do not understand"
Truly amazing.
Well-deserved DD, love.

~silvernium Mar 1, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thanks! I reached into a lot of personal depth for this one.

More from ~silvernium

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

A Flower

A Flowerby ~silvernium

Daily Deviation

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style