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.
Santa FeWe circled the bustling square,
bought the silver belt buckle,
Navajo-etched for fertility.
I made a painting of the blue bowl,
Cafe Pasqual's, glass in the sun,
truth from those unripe symmetries
sliding along our tongues with
salty shivers, icy, like hope.
You bought the bleached cow skull
so I could be Georgia in my mind.
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|
autumn breeds emptinessautumn breeds emptinessautumn breeds emptiness by toxic-nebulae
and they are slithering down my throat,
the rapacious beasts
my thighs rattle and creak
in sparkling afterlight
where are your wings, Ophelia?
impuritythe moon, rusty and fattened for slaughter,impurity by toxic-nebulae
lapses grim and full in the empty night.
I wait for the harrowing obstructions to fade,
but they do not die and do not die.
forgetful Autumn has stained her hems
ExhaleI wanna be the smoke of your cigaretteExhale by aFteRLifeR
I wanna linger around your addicted lips
And when you inhale me I'll force my way
Deeper and deeper into your insides
Burning and crashing your blood like a dancer
I'll bloom like a sweet disaster and penetrate your lungs
I'll be your joy, your addiction and your cancer
When you exhale we'll be the bitter end
The destruction and the light
Like the flames of the sun, that ever burn so bright
legs so longThe goodbye is never neededlegs so long by LancelotPrice
if the hello will never happen
so the spiders will not be lifted
so high above
on stilted legs
ready to fold
and touch us
with their fangs of truth
Luna Cityby the light of the wild moonLuna City by LancelotPrice
the crazies flail without a beat
on burning city streets
homeless is not a number
it's a man who's not alive, but twitching
spirit is just an itch inside
and not an inspiration
who would want to breathe
when the only air is flames of cars and buildings
vintageWe have changed more than they will ever know or understand.vintage by LancelotPrice
We will escape, no matter how the locals try to keep us in their tiny little world.
We are in process. They have frozen on the vine.
Goodbye you sleeping, dreamless, sad blue grapes.
We will be the wine.
Tumbling.Like nothing you sit with your foxglimmer eyesTumbling. by MarcusAurelius21
Dressed down in soft Springs with fireworks tucked neatly behind your ears,
And he is falling, falling until there is nothing left but the broad sky
And the unseen lying in wait for him to paint some sweet expressionist piece
In redwine colors across the dark parched earth.
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.