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|
all and everyall the sandall and every by deinktvis
on all the beaches
in one grain;
from each galaxy
in one spark;
all the truths
from every wise man
in one breath;
Tuning Fork.interlocked marble hands knead in the dust bowlTuning Fork. by claytonwoolery
the value of one dull penny wasted on the rich
living forever in eternal fame's vocabulary quiz.
do words parse onlooking readers as a currency?
sacrosanct purchase of withering opinion with sand dollars
left atop mantles dissembled by chiseling clocks ticking out tears
to fertilize mortal constructs on construction paper
cutouts of objectively groomed oscilating bonsai
vibrating the liquid of the inner ear, a rare glimmer
when grasswhistle wind kisses undecayed leaf
our aging seasonwinter comes in wavesour aging season by YouInventedMe
warmth enough to leave you weak
softly slips away
moon riselet us bathe in themoon rise by deinktvis
geysers of enceladus,
where steam melts to snow.
does life ride this molten cusp,
lit by the night side's ring-glow?
One More Day Of A False Spring, It Would SeemOne More Day Of A False Spring, It Would Seem by thetaoofchaos
Last night, as I withdrew
from the plastic souvenir, ("freedom, wasted light!")
I realized the orphan had run off again
and I wondered where I would find him (this time)
if I should debate another sunrise.
It's not even love's opposite:
I need your porcelain jewelry
gleaming from the half maw
dancing in your dahlia
and the honeycomb of endings which haven't come, yet.
in the church of the blind the one-eyed are saintsthe multiverse before me spreads.in the church of the blind the one-eyed are saints by deinktvis
on this vast strand of cosmic threads
my soul now stands in joy and dread.
lost and found in goddess' hands;
on this vast strand my soul now stands.
by ignorance i am struck dumb.
i, insensate (deaf, blind and numb),
must contemplate; the myst'ries plumb.
as is and is not variegate
i, insensate, must contemplate.
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.