Burning Silos

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This Ashen Tongue

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Shall we then caress into madness?
I gather my harvest in vein
As the silo burns
I turn to the hand of my hope
Cold pale fingers in my palm
Is there not one more breath?
Blue skies
Grey skies
Black skies
Smoke and rain
How can I cry anymore?
My eyes shrivel
Becoming parchment
Fading to the back of my head
Wanting to see no more
My ashen tongue
Weary of the screams
Hinders my voice
My arms
Toil laden
As dirty and bloody as the earth
Carries my harvest in vein.

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Resides in Shadow

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Sarah’s Darkness

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Sarah’s umbrella was darkness
She carried it with her everywhere
Shielding her from the light
Allowing the rain to caress her pale skin
To trickle down her sadness

Sarah could hide in full sun light
Her darkness was so full
People could see eyes and hair
But never her
Never her

Sarah’s darkness wrapped around her thoughts
Like a warm blanket
Giving her comfort
That her loss was real
Regardless of truth

Sarah shared her darkness with no one
But herself
Because no one else would appreciate it
Cherish it
Love it

She just whispered smoky entrails
In half sentences
To those who shook their heads
And asked her
To smile once in a while

Sarah held her darkness at night
So as to not let it get away
And melt into
The darkness
Of the world

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(repost)

more animal sex news…

I have been reminded that I promised a poem to whomever properly guessed the number of hits I got due tot the tag “beastiality” in a previous post.  Some of the guesses were in the hundreds.  I’m lucky to get a couple hundred hits in a week, much less on one post.  So if you guessed that high, sorry for your luck.  So it came down to Two folks, Red (57) and Lakota (12).

Before I announce the grand prize winner ((snicker)), let me reiterate, I believe the reason for the low hit count is due to the word I used.  Beastiality, being polysyllabic, is far too unwieldy a word for people who are truly interested enough in sex with animals to, lets say, type into a search engine (or tag field).  If I had used a tag more in the line of “farm sex” or something to that effect, you know, easy monosyllabic words, I would have received far more hits.  An experiment I will use on this post. 

(aside to the aside, I did get a ping back from this site that linked me for the post, interesting.  nice to know my blog will forever be amongst a list of animal sex sites.  HOORAY!)

OK, on with the

ummmm

competition.

(Envelope please…)

And the winner is…

 

LAKOTA!

(and the crowd, once again, goes wild)

So Lakota gets a poem.  She was closest with the official count coming in just over twenty.

Gee, I wonder what kind of poem she will want?

 

 

Frickin Chickin Little

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Here I am

Waiting for the sky to fall

Yup

This is me on the hill

Lying spread eagle

Eyes peeled on the sky

Analyzing every crack

Willing the shards of heaven

 

 

Upon me

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Specimen Zero

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The kiln has grown cold

Retribute in silence

For the toxic burnings of old

The dusty hard wood floors

Holding aloft sparse furnishings

Ghosts of occupation

What love has time

For archaic beating of heart

What love has the sun

For the Earth

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The Prayer of Bearmom

 

Collaboration alert!  This wonderful piece is another by the uber talented Rick Mobbs.

The poem below is one I wrote for it.  Hooray!  (the crowd goes wild)

Farewell to father moon

Whilst in night he flies

He came and painted dew

He now seeks other skies

The spirit of the sun

She comes sprinkling light

The day has so begun

Emancipating night

The spirit of the Earth

Hair of gilded maize

Shares with all her worth

For the coming days

The Bearmom says a prayer to

All the spirits of the land

Shares with them her gratitude

Appreciation of her clan

The mothers hold their young

In rituals beginning day

Swathed in fabric long

Stitched as Bearmom prays

 

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The Splendid Undertow

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Waving hands and feet

Sinking deep

And further more pulled from shore

Vivid salient silence

Overtaking the violence

The liquid array of night consuming day

Aurora dancing aquatic

Waving so symphonic

With that deep

Solient beat

The soundtrack to my sink

Thump

.

Thump

.

Thump

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4 Masks

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1.

Porcelain

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Your fingers used to form the clay
You’ve added pieces to it every day
With word or glance you press into place
Molding this façade over my face
Those fingers used to touch my skin
Now all they touch is the porcelain
Your sighs and murmurs are colors mute
Vivid ones used when you’re a brute
Upon my visage these colors you brush
While the person beneath you slowly crush

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2.

Deep Sea Diver’s

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I don’t understand why you want me this way
Why you feel you must change me every day
And now you don’t like what I am
You say I’ve changed
I’m not the same man
You say it’s my fault
That I’m to blame
And now I must hide my face out of shame
I try to cry but my tears trapped inside
I’m just so tired of having to hide
It’s to the point I don’t know my own touch
I’ve become numb I wear it so much
Now it’s so thick my voice can’t be heard
Which I think is the way you’ve always preferred

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3.

of the Warrior

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Fuck you if you don’t want to see me for real
Fuck you for invalidating what I feel
This is what you want?
A mask on my face?
Everything I was you want to erase?
I’ll be damned if I let you make this alone
I’ll just add some clay of my own
Make sure nothing of me can get thru
Not that you’d care if I ever do
I don’t care anymore
Fuck all this shit
I’m to the point where I’m over it

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4.

for sale

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All that is left of me
Is the mask that you see
Where you see a face
I see only disgrace
I let myself become
Something def and dumb
Nothing left inside
No one left to hide
The deed is done
I am gone

 

 .

.

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‘Neath the Ground

Another wonderful work of Rick Mobbs

Where shines not the sun

Fabricated by the flesh of fallen titans

And stars long since destroyed

‘Tis not sorrow

Glinting in eyes long closed

‘Tis not death fed upon

 

The truth of this earth

Trod upon by countless souls

Is not sought by conglomerates

Nor hell-catters

The riches of which can be cupped

By no pocket

 

There is a breath of ages

Felt only by minds in motion

And bodies still

 

Shovels and picks shall not render

The indomitable sprit

Of this world

 

Know this

‘Tis not the soil that staves gravity from swallowing you asunder

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Fulcrum of Sunlight

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Speculum

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Mind like a looking glass
Focus what is perceived
Such ability
Should be used
For more
Than burning ants

The fun house mirror
In my eyes
Makes small gestures tall
The waifish fat
The linear
…Impossible

Seek not your reflection here
Unless you have a hearty sense of humor
And the true understanding
That we know nothing

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