walking home on fall afternoonicesnow in the palm of my hand
my fist is Spring.
Chrysalis.there is a boy who
he has green eyes
and does not
speak of love
They have departed,
their intimacy dissolves,
leaving empty space.
They will celebrate nearness
in a more intimate place.
In the heart
In the heart, doubts
In the doubts, a small room
In the small room, a table
On the table, a map being soaked by rain
On the table
In the small room
In the doubts
In the heart
BottomI know I'm near the ledge now
where the heart gives up on conceiving:
The parlous break of eye and ear's parley.
I need the legion of null-things now
to enter through the lesion on our pain,
the glitter to blink and wink
to obscure the abyss all of our bodies
are falling for.
7.34mmA simple measurement
can make a man
lose himself; a blurring, no more
than a grainy smudge
a scant 7.34mm long
this rice-grain, seven weeks old
with one hundred and twenty nine
heartbeats per minute
all this, from a mere sesame-seed of a heart
FragmentationThey sent the figments away so
I could see the leftover everything
-we own nothing-The sun rises; we become slaves.
Blue moon, or SadismYou would hang me from the belfry,
Coil my hair into a noose.
My hands would jerk and shudder,
My neck would snap clean
I'd dangle in wind furls,
A bloated cornflower:
You'd watch me from a distance,
Your once in a blue moon.
mercyyou incite no mercy,
I swallow your horror
As yet, untitledI swept out the corners of my mind today
In short shallow strokes
Not knowing if the dust disturbed my life
Or if my life disturbed the dust.
Sydney AirportTo hover/ in your medicine cabinet/ first-aid, French-doors/ all the words have been taken/ from me/ to explain to you that Im not here anymore.
3Gauge your days by
who runs through your house,
by the flags they carry there,
the words they leave on your rug,
by the color of the smoke you inhale after
their tomes stop burning
roseyou mime a rose
with hands I can't see
I can see
bones 9even the wind in the waves
could not hold his question
and gave it to the gulls
they circled the coast
with it heavy in their beaks
and lost it on purpose
RawIt's like thirst, but not-
it's worse; it hurts to swallow
little stirrings XX: moments
Your chaste sun-tipped fingers,
the blinding of your eyes-
how is it I never knew you before?
The moon-flecked range of your sound
from deep within caves
reverberates the ribs of shipwrecks.
I tread the curves of night
that wash ashore each hour,
the moments like seaweed in the shallows.
Crows"Crows," I whisper and she flies,
brown arrow shot
from the bowstring of a word.
|More Journal Entries|
I hope she knows you're a fighterI hope she will kissI hope she knows you're a fighter by flummo
each knucklebone tenderly,
turn the pages of your soul
hold the fire you carry inside of you
close to her chest
and tell herself,
is how he loves me.”
Amber Hueswarm hued swirlsAmber Hues by rlkirkland
swept from west-south-west
tattered clouds streaming
this orange flitters east
…the butterfly rebels
.he splits hearts like. by oaklungs
oranges in the
sinks his teeth into
ripened flesh, and
leaves nothing but the
rind, too hard to
the hanged manThis little red book you call the human body:the hanged man by zebrazebrazebra
take it up and shake it. Shake the flaking pages
out of it, shake it from endpaper to endpaper
until the last of the phrases are gone; shake it
until it's aching and empty, the soul of a bird.
I will give you new words.
not grief, but something like itmy grandmother's tartan bag sits on an upside-down bucket in the basement,not grief, but something like it by consolecadet
full to the brim with little liquor bottles and cardboard boxes
I go to do the laundry,
pass it twice an hour
and every time, just for a moment, I think she's visiting
Titles Don't Belong in the First LineTitles don’t belong in the first line,Titles Don't Belong in the First Line by Nichrysalis
and poetry is not made of end rhymes.
The ventilated fluorescence and I
flicker at the incongruence
and I want to tell her
sometimes east is left
on the map
if you hold it right.
The Simulacrum is a library dedicated to the creators of, and appreciators of, snapshot poetry. Poetry that, in no more than ten lines, expresses and captures the blink of an essence.
1) Submissions are limited to one per day, and will be judged on their uniqueness and quality before being accepted.
2) Submissions must be 10 lines, or less, in length.
3) A high, grammatical, standard is required.
4) Poetic 'quality' must be superior.
5) We do not offer critique or any literary prompts.
6) We do not accept prose.
7) Poems must be submitted by their author. Third-party submissions, with or without the consent of the author, will not be accepted.