Dream and laugh like a river.
Sing around the throat
of a fire.
Shout at the moon, because
she is your sentinel.
When you cry the river will
carry your tears away,
from the current of memory.
In anger I hurl my fists and
fury at the mountain.
He watches me through the
history of my words,
and accepts the challenge.
PhilosopherPoet
a verbose bird
typewriters outside my window
like a bell ringer who downloaded
too much cocaine
my cement legs
bolted-to-the-bed
refuse to muscle up the courage
to deal with this imbecile
instead my mind
fondles the delicious trigger
of a 12 gauge shotgun
because no pussy pistol
will justify this moment
“but wait…” says the brain
maybe marinade the base of
the tree with gasoline and happiness
the flicker of flame and
stench of smoke
will help him finish his argument
and muffle voices in my head
“let’s go for convenience”
retorts the devil in my dreams
breadcrumbs in a shopping bag
and the cheerful glisten
of a baseball bat
to bring an end to the
symphony this asshole started
PhilosopherPoet
she drifts like water
through the house
her hands are curious mice
they scurry from cellphone
dip into the soft throat
of her handbag
she sleeps
engaged in the ochre arms of the duvet
she sighs and moans as the slow waves
of memory wash through the events in her eyes
her whispers walk away from her
growing in gravity
she rests in the gentle
arms of my sweatshirt
the blue cotton calms her
caresses the narrow slope of her back
she lies against me – i can feel the
clock in her heart
her smile spills onto my neck
her fingers grow like roots
into the shadows of my chest
last night we spilled out of the taxi, like a
giddy glass of wine painting the pavement
under the eyes of street lights,
we gossiped like goblins, the
pulse of midnight pulling us home
like the slow notes of a song
that says “we can dance forever”
he bought her breakfast today
he juggled cups & coffee beans
and watched the silver arm of the
plunger seep down into the present
4 hours later she sleeps in his bed
he watches her and annotates an image
vibrating in his head
“she is my goddess today.”
this is only the first chapter – he thinks
stories empty out of every breath
he will remember…
the rhythm of her voice
the patterns she sketches
in a fluid finger
he folds her arms around him
like the lips of a newspaper
her heart continues to beat
and drums down into her dreams
PhilosopherPoet
In the last few weeks I’ve decided to give my blog more visual content such as videos and art. I love writing, although, it’s always handy to get a different source of inspiration for writers and artists alike. 😉
This morning after my morning thrust of coffee ignited my synapses, I flipped open my laptop and flicked through a swarm of tweets. An image caught my attention. Not just caught it, but engrossed me. My artistic brain started tripping…and time slowed down. I admit I’m a natural romantic and have a weakness for the fantasy world. A severe one. Mould those two together and…the inner artist starts to swoon.
We should all learn to dream a little. Put down the cellphone and let your creative mind slowly seduce you. Go have a look at these images below. If you want to learn more about this artist, go check out her Deviant Art account here: http://lanatustich.deviantart.com/ 😀
PhilosopherPoet
the city that never sleeps
in all of us
we have memories that
vibrate through a loom of synapses
there’s blood pumping with
a fury the conscious will never bury
the people that never dream
can they calm the voices of commotion
the throat of ocean
swirling inside their psyche
can you walk through a storm
and still listen to the rain?
PhilosopherPoet
two warm bodies pulse
into the black night
two brains
shimmer in between veins
of streetlamps
tonight he straddles
the fuel tank
underneath its engine
gurgles and mutters
like an actor
lost in monologue
they pour onto the freeway
four eyes pump and ignite
with ecstasy
the road stretches
like a careful corpuscle
headlights and cabins of steel
shuttle past them
her arms are woven into him
he feels stronger when he rides – she says
they share a heart
they share the air
crawling through the arteries of their egos
and slowly it will coagulate
into the depths of their minds
when it’s over the purr of a heart
continues through chapters
of slumber
two chests rise and fall to
the rhythm of dreams
By Kalen Bloodstone (Click on the image to go to Kalen’s DeviantArt profile!)
PhilosopherPoet
Here’s a great poem from an interesting poet I stumbled across on WritersCafe . I was so moved I thought I had to share it with the outside world. Sarah also has a collection titled “The Other Side of Up”
by Sarah S. Williams
My eyelids were twitching. Not in the way when someone tells a lie. While I attempted to sleep the other night it felt like they were clicking along like a typewriter, recording the dreams. It was odd. I had something similar happen to me some years back. I’d listen to music almost constantly through out the day. At night in an attempt to calm my mind down, I would imagine a giant iPod in my head. I’d give this massive click wheel a spin, and whatever artist it landed on…I’d start playing through one of their songs in my head. I use to test myself to measure the accuracy. Perhaps there was a band I would be afraid of? Nope. Never a hesitation.
The other night I had clicking eyelids. I need to learn to manage information in smaller chunks. The eyelid culprit was Twitter. I’ve had a blog for a while, and explore other nooks and nuances on the web, but never this type of…uh…what do you call it? Micro-blogging I guess.
140 characters to say as much as you want, whenever you want, as often as you want. It’s endless, and because it’s all text-based any number of Internet URLs, pictures, YouTube videos, and so forth can be shared. Yes it’s my foot in the door of social networking, since I’ve been on a diet or sorts. (A while ago I cut all contact to social networks.) It gave me time to look and see how I promote myself.
Why the sudden revelation with twitter? I heard about this service in the early 2000s. I shrugged it off and thought, well it’s just like having a dedicated Facebook status site, right? Maybe, but I find comfort in the fact you have a certain amount of anonymity. You can post a tweet (140 characters to say something profound), and that’s it. There is no ‘like’ button. Hooray! You won’t find lazy urchins pressing one button to say you did a reasonable job, and then bugger off.
Maybe it’s because I write incessantly that this has grabbed me. However, I always like to find a meaning behind my online ramblings. Today I’ll leave you this pearl of wisdom. Set aside time for social networking. You won’t want to get the same twitching eyelid syndrome, it’s not fun. Plus, it scares the ghosts away.
PhilosopherPoet
tonight i watch the man with the baton
rinse his thoughts in the wind.
he scuttles back and forth
like pinocchio pinned to
a coat hanger
his brain is riddled with the
thick worms of LSD
he ducks and weaves through
angry stars who
navigate his narration
it is midnight he snorts
twirls skips collides
between the cars
buttoned down
to the tarmac
i am drunk he is high
i laugh out amid my
necklace of friends
because tonight is about
the company of lunatics
and the naked foibles they fill
right up until the alarm clock
the next morning that drums
like a siren into your head
it watches the mixture of memories
and nocturnal music
crawl into my bones
The World of a Crazed Writer 