Sunday, January 18, 2015

Untitled



I need time in my own head to feel grounded
So that I don't feel lost with all you others.
But I went under too long and came up empty handed.
If you thought the world was a deep dark ocean
take a good long look inside of yourself
and see if you still recognize the sound
of your own laughter.


--Neal Wagram

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Halloween Slight of Hand Trick

             Don't be sad pink cat I'm coming back out of the night but it's cold so
      I might not be the same in the morning
          but you liked that about me 
    because even though your eyes don't add up when you're speaking straight
             at me above the noise of your girlfriend's spazzy heart attack 
   as I nuzzle you with a slow dance the others think is 
                                                             because of the size of my
  but wasn't all that a long time ago when the silences promised
one more go around
  when all I wanted was to lie to you for no rewards

to the ones for whom the night-birds dance
                against the scarring mother of the moon
   who holds out my drugged meat in one pale hand
and with the other waves goodbye
            as the roads recede beyond the waterline and I'm glad my pockets are full of 
      stones I picked up beside my mothers gravesite that winter when I killed
    a rabbit for to see the eye-gleam fade out like a movie star 
in a bad ending

                  hoped for by the fans
      who all lined up when I was a kid in my too-big coat
which hid my shaking arms when 
you passed by with a dark look in your
dark eyes because even though
you were too young 
the woman in you knew that what I was feeling
was pure death


          is what I seek on Halloween when the deer-mother trembles
the fallen leaves and the night birds call to eachother then
fall silent when these hands I thought my own
tie clever knots around the old wood which tells me nightlastsbutforyouIdontexistexistexistsexistextexistexist 

--Elan Webster

Sunday, January 4, 2015

The Handle


You didn’t believe me until you finally did.
You didn’t deceive me until you could.
Wash away the dirt from these fingers-
they have been deep inside bloody spaces,
thinking all the while they held an ancient, sacred, primal chalice,
but coming away with a ragged Tampon River.
The shelter came again after the storm
as we all weathered it as best we could and soldiered on.
Nevermore haunted by nightmare visions
of silver cupped lattice workings.
Mountaintop chills at the peak of loneliness sometimes suffice;
better than death at times;
better than fake happiness.
With strained cheek muscles, she taught
lessons on how to stay smiling
even though the worst pain lies within.
Playing a clown without a mask,
the makeup, lip gloss ballerina
dances across the stage in wisps,
swirling once again to keep me hinged-
attached at the hip with wet tears,
weeping for release from this physical prison.
The Sex Monster got greedy with lust
and held on much longer than karma allowed.
Couldn’t stand on soapbox bullshit.
Couldn’t cope with grad school misfit.
Couldn’t deal with freak out social scenes.
Couldn’t handle her flying off the fucking handle.
Played that game already as a child;
sometimes we don’t have to press repeat,
so just move along to the vibration’s beat
and weave the web of synchronicity.
Soon enough you’ll find your Pagan Goddess Queen.
 
 
--Scott Thomas Outlar