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The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.
Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home
the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.

i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;

i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)

and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
elsewhere.
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leav
Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.

The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.

But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a
PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint
WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.

I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze

like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.

Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;

safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.
Dry Spell   I am immobilized by time.
by the idea that it is somehow slipping,
  fleeting,
        evaporating
              through the cracks of
      my fingers and high

             above my head.
  I am terrified by the incessant notion
that no combination of thoughts,
    words,
         silences,
              or actions
   could possibly satiate it.

I realize only now that it can never be filled:
     all which is tossed into it is swallowed in haste
              or stretched
                       so far
           that it dissolves into non-being.
 I find that I am caught within its furrows
much like the words it devo
with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.
Condemnedbeneath the beaten earth they lay,
their dreams condemned to ashes,
and our restless bodies stretch,
for forgiveness, for direction –

survivors of the abyss,
amidst wide-eye, silent soldiers –
so many dead, so many maimed,

how many graves are we standing on, today?
Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.
SisterSister

A sister is like a soul mate;
Someone who is always there
to guide me through fate.

A sister is,
a part of childhood that I cannot erase;
A sister like you,
is one that I would never replace
because you always know how to
put a smile on my face.

I know I can depend on you
to always be there for me;
This is one hundred percent guaranteed!

I've had great memories with you
in the past;
and I hope there are many more
to come,
in the future.
Life, Death And A Pork Chop SandwichAll tangled up, hard to breathe
This steel cloud day that swirls
With heat and pounding hammers
I shake in my boots and cough up
Blood, rust and damaged flesh
Waiting for the second coming
Maybe next time around there'll be
Some chance for more than this

A twisted barbed wire halo
Wrapped tight around my skull
Blinding white light aura
Swarming with flies I'm flying
To pieces, thousands of shards
Cannot be brought back together
But I will remember the summer
Of my first Chevrolet in each bit

Gleaming bits of glass in the desert
Each reflecting a different moment
Still, now, enduring until the waves
Of a new ocean sweep them away
No pain
A Night By the FireNo light,
The light sired by the night
All above whilst the day's delights
Now disappears from mortal sight.

Faded away is the sun's power,
Taking the stage now is night's sallow flower;
Now mortals may behold the stars and falling shower.

Set in a pit Nature's skyscraper ablaze
And revel in the emanating heat as you gaze,
Looking down on occasion when you hear a crack from the fire
And witness "fireflies" flying away from mother's blaze;
Dying shortly after but not lacking burning beauty do they desire!

I look out towards the teasing shore
And meditate as we sit upon her door,
Thinking on what my future has in store;
Who I am now and even
Pretty little things called words and dustif you weren't a hypocrite,
you'd be wrapped in the sweetest
perfumes
(learning
how to engulf the ocean
with your lungs
and think of how to cup it
in your hands
despite
your broken prayers and
still be beautiful)

dance with the gypsies
'till noon
(a quake in
your hips like the thrust
of continents
and the faultlines
emanating from
your spine,
but still
so, so graceful)

sing with the nymphs
in tune
(your voice,
it's growing old,
raspy even.
your throat's burning dry
like a monsoon
faltering in a desert,

and tones
still octaves
powerful)

be nestled in a king's arms
soon  
(oh, you precious
little thing.
how
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More from ~cellar-d0or

a dark divideA dark divide
Of childhood lies
A mystery, and a thief
Should my early life so seem
I say that dream, was nothing but
a wild and a waking thought
Of beings that have not been
Which my spirit has not seen
But at least they were there for me
Had I let them pass me by
With my dreaming eyes
They just might, have left me, on that street
Oh, how time is so comforting
Let none of earth inherit, these words
this vision of my spirit, is just a curse
Those thoughts, I thought, I would control
As a spell upon her mortal soul
For that bright hope at last
The time come, and has already passed
And my worldly rest has gone to none
With a
the sunday brunch specialSunday brunch with the ghost of a friend
I know it's not much but, who's to say pictures can't carry conversation?
And I feel far away, with every empty page
Waiting for the scrapbook to end

The house is so empty it stands
Where the sky meets the ground, it's a fortified land
Protects me from stick and stone, and trespassing men
But in this storm it's blown away with the wind

Just repair my heart with a suture and scalpel
And by morning I'll not know where I've been

In a dream I was sinking into sand
On the coast of some far away island, near the Pacific Rim
When a hand reached out and said you must take what you give
I laid down
pulled underBattery in toy contains mercury, dispose of properly. Do not look directly into the light.
But the blind cannot be fazed by the sight of a summer sunrise
And a heart made from paper, is easily punctured with the pen
Pull me under, let me be the clutter, beneath your bed

The scaling thunder plays a symphony for me tonight
For this time, I think she might be one for me, I swear she is right
Casting myself in with the lure, feeling her breath in my head
She's pulled me under, and no other will bring me back up again

What's become of me, my body, my life, when did I loose the power, to see with my own eyes
She is what I want, the only on
i'll bury youOn a road heading north, near the alum creek reservoir
There lives a girl unlike most, with a fondness for old ghosts
She brings them back from the dead, with just the things in her head
But I'm not sure why, or what she's really looking for

Is it the emptiness you feel, when you're bored?
Or the motionless thoughts, you keep your mind on top of
when the rain begins to pour?

And I feel like a musical, and oh so pitiful
like a toxic dump, or a dollar store
my life's such a fucking wreck, and my throat is sore
Soon I'll be laying in a ditch, near the lake erie shore
But don't worry, darling
you don't have to see me like this
anymor
truth, like a t.v. screenWell I think it's something wonderful, I'm held in disbelief
How existence is so comical, like a pedophile priest
Writing songs, they're more biographical, than you could ever dream
I guess I'm so hysterical, more so than any bible or belief

Makes me feel so empty, like a ship, hit by a whale beginning to sink
Like the words, to the songs, that sirens sing
Or the corners of the room, where the shadows always seem to sleep

where all despot thoughts collect, in a sea of foamy green
and slowly leak into the landscape of reality
so i'll begin to wrap myself in these funeral sheets, because the truth is like staring at a t.v. screen
li
just another bad dreamMore of less it's a question of reality
What means more to you yourself loathing or me
But I want you to know I still am waiting to see

A smile break your face, a line of poetry
That can express the things, that I only think
When I leave your room, through the shrubbery
That lines your home, it's so unsettling

My darling stay awhile, we can have a drink
Pour the whiskey slow, I think I've spread a leak
Because my heart feels torn, I feel so weak
You could just put your hands on me, and I would be surly fall to sleep

No one has ever been that way
To make it feel so real, to not have to change

Well, mornings come and I'm looking ch

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November 5, 2003
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elizabeth essex

:iconcellar-d0or:

elizabeth how you taught me these lessons
to which i would aptly listen
and how you would always have questions
but i never would chance it
for so long i've tried to encode you a message
oh, how i have been so tempted
but now when i recite this passage
these secrets i must tell then

this casket now you've buried me in
beneath this stone, with rose and emotion
but my heart still beats, though underneath it
and when i die, i'll still be but a reflection, in her eyes
way in the farest heavens
:iconcellar-d0or:
a poem i wrote last week.
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