[x]

the hungry look...the hungry look,

the wolves
weaving through
and around
the gully of your throat like wraiths,

we can feel you rusting, lost one;

i know that drainpipes and fenders
begin to crackle after winter wet

and that there’s a touch of snow
in all of us,

but no one,
no one could hold you as tightly as you do,
your whole body, bloodless in this arrest,

and if you will not let your fetters show
i will show you
there’s a place for going, and you haven’t gone there yet;

where quantum particles, once in contact, can retain a connection
even when separated

where you
wander up to a stranger
with your shirt inside-out
and say &lsq

The art of blacking outHow I wish I could say strangers

crept inward, night by night,

stealing my medication and

rearranging my furniture.

But I know it's not true.

There are holes inside

my head. Oxidation.

No one unlocks this door

but me. I am just

forgetting.

starspunobserving the romanticism
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.

you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
you watched
all my pick up lines
drop things.

we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
of starlight,

pretended
that two teens at the park
at midnight
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)

your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
in thoughtful
paths.

i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.

i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
stars

The Best is Yet to Comeif we grow old
there will be a sigh
an attention to the change
as your muscles slacken underneath
your faded, favorite shirt
the one that's threadbare, "holy"
in a sense less than divine
I'll have washed it for
the thousandth time
our eyes will crinkle, wrinkle
in ways that start to match
and we'll hold hands and ask:
when did the nerves and veins
begin to let our hands get cold?
-if we grow old

rootslike drowned men who have lost their
clothes and faces, they lay suspended
facing the sun and grinning without
eyes through the ripples of the water.

those passing by wonder how they got here,
these homeless men without fingers or toes
long spindly stumps twisting into lost roots:

reaching to the east, to the south,
to the homes they have forgotten.

Davaothe equatorial sun
soft-etched on my skin,
there, del sur

islands away

the tan lines of shallow-bathing
in your eyes

there is so much time between

you
and
I

you spoil me, featherbreath
do i dare commit my memory
into dreams?

i laugh upon waking,
i did not realize--
i run when i go to you

ChromesthesiaI
I've for long known that beauty is not a sum, where units of measurements could consist of physical attributes, or of anything that could be perceived by bodily senses. The vivid, lush green of a finally quenched apprehension is just as graceful and lovely as the wrinkled and sunburnt blues of a distant memory's wall flowers. Beauty is a spectrum of vigour, the fluctuations of ideas, concepts, actions and thoughts, which become their own purposeless musical colours and flavours. No consensus creates allure, only a great, breathless leap into the disarray of affective venture may lead the consecrated energy to emerge.

II
I have seen the li

SaturdayWe slept on the floor when you drank.

– Like worried puppies
too small to reach the bed,
and sat with our backs to the wall
by the bathroom while you showered,
we hid car keys,
and telephones.

Peering over ledges,
I watched your listless eyes
wander to windows
thinking of your mother and marriage,
toes curled around the coffee table corner,
and we begged you to sleep.

Zach cleaned the sinks,
the rugs and the ashtrays,
capped the bottles and placed them
high on the shelves.
You woke to cartoons,
a headache, a fresh
pack of cigarettes. –

We never talked on Sunday mornings.

magnolia nights and ivory starsi.
i threw the stars out into the cosmos & used my fish hooks to hang the moon too; hide the sun from wanting eyes beneath the zaffre mountains (look how they sleep) painting the night (wisteria) with such grace.

ii.
for who could know the wonder growing a pair of antlers can bring for a small child. time to decorate [find what you can]: shattered compasses, gears [never do they turn], maybe glitter. look how pretty she is with her elegant horns- all isabelline white & with its specks of fallow & teeth splashed with honeydew [no makeup] & a compass too many to show her the many ways to make mistakes.

iii.
has anyone ever wondered how a but

Moving: A YaduWe keep a home
Of unknown hums
And lonely cats.
The sky cracks but
He lacks a raincoat.

Fueled by smoke and
Words he lands on
A branded street,
Knows the sweet rage
Of meeting too soon and late.

This town belongs
To a song man
And wrongful ghost.
He is most sure
The coast will fade their remnants.

IfWe can
draw lines and give them names
like elements
as they are discovered

Or etch into our skins
this soloecal desire
until it is impossible to tell
where words stop
and life begins.

I would

Find a common rhythm that includes
you in my arms, my hands
and lungs and thoughts
tracing the outline of you
entangled with me
colliding like two lost particles
locked in a shared gravity
drifting through the vacuum
of space.

I could.

Exhale, and
remember
sentence structure.

Why I Don'tWe are too permanent
for the transience of poetry,
each brief line speeding on toward
the next at breakneck speed.
And I have never been one for writing
epics, you know that.

sci-fi stories about the end of the world1.

the species invents prophecies
all of which contain terrors

ex;

a beleaguered sun collapses into itself

2.

It's not yet night when the committee interrupts the regularly scheduled programming
and describes the inertia as unforgivable.

Outside the grief, the cardboard:
Every time you teach a computer about distance
the terrorists win.

In every scenario: No colorado left,
and survivors leave messages
for the future.

Before the last people on Earth forgot how to speak,
he thought of that day.

The committee was right
to describe space as an absence.

3.

The more artistic
of the species' prophecies include fields

Some
prese

mutethings have been easier
without words &
we pretend neither of us care;

we stutter
splutter
laughing and choking
on puns &

when you bend me over nouns
i scream

louder
growl
more fluent.

the words are there waiting to be spoken

me . you . love

my dear, we've been mute
for so long

speak to me.

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resedai remember
i wanted to live in reseda
at that time the words to songs
flew over my head and only the
music itself
caught in my arms and remained
until one time the radio told me
something i really heard
i found out he lived in reseda
he played a guitar and he sang
and he lived in reseda
once i discovered that reseda
was a little place of hollywood
and i was scared that i'd never
be famous enough to go across that
freeway and tell him how badly
i wanted to live in reseda.
and the craziest thing was when i
found out he really came
from florida so far away
one night on a bus i was surrounded
by my company, all sleeping
and

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[x]

the thirteen words of prison

by ~Furresoto, Feb 21, 2013, 6:49:31 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

sometimes
if we were lucky
the sun would rise before we went to bed
and i recalled how it was only ever
the people who had it the worst who used to say
'one day there will be sunlight'
like one of those six word stories.
one day there would be sunlight.
and i remember how it was only ever the people
who were serving their life sentences
who i would ask 'what's it like to never see the sun'
and they would only ever answer
'it's enough just to know it's there'
and i always wanted to take out one word
seven was too long; but i didnt want to take out
the meaning.
and it was odd because i wondered
what hope these people had.
but as it so turned out
the most hopeful of them all
were the ones whose hope was on the inside
and whose stories were thirteen words long
like some strange unlucky number
"one day there will be sunlight"...
but as it so turned out
"...it's enough just to know it's there."

the thirteen words of prisonby ~Furresoto

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

idk.

Daily Deviation

Given 2013-03-18

the thirteen words of prison by ~Furresoto is an endearing poem made powerful by its parting thoughts. ( Suggested by ~Emmi-Kat and Featured by ^NicSwaner )

love 3 3

~~joy 0 0~~

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~Anna-95 Mar 20, 2013 Hobbyist Digital Artist

oh, this was nice to read. i feel kind of sad, but kind of happy reading this.

~Furresoto Mar 21, 2013 Traditional Artist

I'm very glad you liked it, thank you for reading. (:

~FeatherlynneXWarrior Mar 18, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

"It's enough just to know it's there." Simply beautiful and mystifyingly honest. Gorgeous piece.

~Furresoto Mar 21, 2013 Traditional Artist

Wow...thank you so much! (: Thank you for taking the time to read it.

~FeatherlynneXWarrior Mar 21, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

The title intrigued me, so I read it

Great job! Keep it up!

*PhantomGoth Mar 18, 2013

I really like this! It's dark and mysterious... Yet honest

~Furresoto Mar 21, 2013 Traditional Artist

Thank you! (:

*PhantomGoth Mar 22, 2013

Oh of course!!

*aprilwednesday Mar 18, 2013 Writer

^{this is such a beautifully poignant and original poem. the whole premise is really interesting - i love the way you brought in six word stories and then twisted the concept of them, and the repetition of the six words is very effective. congrats on the DD, you really deserve it!}

~Furresoto Mar 21, 2013 Traditional Artist

Haha I love six word stories. ^^ Thank you very much!

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