teeter-dance

Rhythms

‘I can’t sleep until you’re next to me’
Setting Fires – The Search

I

Your last word, eyes on mine:
I draw strength from screams
and part the crowd between us.

At last, muscle-sore, still bound,
I walk out of this scene
of brazen guiltless crime,

feet invulnerable with the pride
coursing bliss has anchored
firmly within my body.

II

I know it takes mere seconds
for the spill to arrive
and blot out
what life had once
in store;

and just the same,
I have all my life
tried to write the song inside you,
to call you by your name
as angels might.

I find instead
on the late-night street,
silk illumination,
a distant siren, hidden laughter.
Storm fingers tug my hair.

III

I feel the great hand pass through
indifferent skies too fast,

leaving an aftermath
where gods are hosts
of unanswered questions,

and we dance teetering on edges
where there is no net.

IV

The world that announces itself
on signs by the roadside
has pain in little pinpricks
inscribed on its surface.

Comedy of Horrors,
the funniest way to get scared,
tickets available at the usual outlets.
Asleep with Aliens,

Youth in the Classical Era,
Here Lies, Escape!,
Medea, The Heart Wants.
A taxi tears around the corner.

Each notice invokes
brief respite from time,
a suspended state of senses only,
of movement and passion

while reality stands still –
a fingers’ stretch away
from final swoon, and welcome;
all-important and vicarious.

V

Uneasy remembrance
in a crowded auditorium –

a face I tried to shroud in time,
a skeleton hand of guilt,

shipwrecked feelings I
hoped would no longer be

visited upon me,
cut into ragged pieces

by night falling deeper
into puddles gleaming, powerful.

VI

I regret the never again of things,
the impossibility of sending
letters into the black sky,

vanishings, half-healed bruises
betray I have been all and nothing,
face held up and up to light,

still beyond the stretch of fingers,
and still of a mind
that is not entirely pure.

VII

Approaching nothingness drags its steps:
here comes a new stretch of End Days.
Walls pulverized bear down
on staring eyes surrendering
to mass annihilation
in lieu of a meteor blast.

VIII

A crowd of useless words,
misshapen pearls from my mouth:
how you were stained,

how the core of you was hurt
yet not enough
to make the breaking stop –

all the strength of great wings
rushes through the dawn chorus
into the rain.

i finally found a grass type that isn't fuckable

vileplume. vileplume is a teeter dancing asshole and im putting it under arrest. it will NEVER get fucked

keep in mind that i am also desperate and have been doing a fun teetering dance w abject poverty for the last few months. thats the background !!