She was once a verse by Baudelaire
something about flowers
that were loyal to none
and I kissed her
when no one was watching.
She was a stanza by Byron
who stood on
the white cliffs of somewhere
and praised her eyebrows.
She is nothing like summer
or a lost continent;
her landscape
is too bold for that.
Her shoulders are not
a country
or a battle to be won.
I thought she was a poem -
Cynara,
or maybe an ode
or sonnet -
words teased and woven
that beat and bled
upon my humble pen,
not the flesh and blood
of thighs and hips
ripening beneath my gaze,
waiting to be written.
Wild flowers bloom where wild fires burned,
on ashes, as on light, did they dine,
but that has not turned their petals gray.
With spring, life and color have returned
to a field near a tall, blackened pine.
Wild flowers live where wild fires burned.
Ruin raged red, so strongly they yearned
for a sky free of deadly sun shine.
Petals wilt, but they never turned gray.
That fire's devastation was not earned,
the flora uprose, "This land is mine!"
Wild flowers boomed where wild flowers burned.
Dead grass in their mouths, earth ashes turned
from loathsome to a fare almost fine,
ashes can not turn their petals gray.
With strength t
The Ballad of Finsbury Wise by JupitersStorm, literature
Literature
The Ballad of Finsbury Wise
Finsbury Wise was born as a new century worked sweat into steam,
His infant cry rang out as he told the world 'Here I am!'
In a time of pistons and dreams, of Empires and schemes,
Finsbury Wise was born to become a beast of a man.
The tale of Finsbury Wise is a sad lament of our time,
So begins his life in Victorian hardship, strife, and alone,
He sees depression personified when he saw his mother cry,
In the empty whiskey bottles his father discarded like hope.
But he had a place to hide when this life was harsh at home,
In his mind was a playground he could always escape the pain,
The other boys ignored Finsbury Wise so he had to
i've scaled rock and road and starving
doubt
to worship You.
i brought my camera.
as in all Your former signs and symptoms,
i know there's nothing (here to witness);
light will fascinate Your candle tips,
rush through colour stains
to chase Your sun,
winds lay sonics in red clay flags,
Your standard set in sandstone,
the voices: all accounted for
by insanity or physics.
listen,
to our monotone,
the murmur of our tiny effort
to ascend Your house.
meanwhile,
down below
in the gi
1
late afternoon,
whispers moving the air
between us
2
the spiral dance
of a spider's dinner
3
cloudburst-
his clothes and mine
drip-dry in the tub
4
curbside run-off
graceful silouette
the flight of a crane
5
nude
awaiting the brush
clay pots
6
bathroom window
moonlight
voyeur
7
a date at the zoo...
he curls his lip up at me
8
stains from a daydream
black plums
9
I trod barefoot
on the path
to his sandals
10
ice age-
my feet against his
Her teeth are chipped and broken. She wears lipstick in a shade called "Pow!" a bright red to make up for her smile. In her mind, it works because no one ever asks questions. Between her jealous, button down guard dog and her own reputation the world tends to keep its distance.
An untouchable beauty with dark hair and wild eyes, she moves like a dancer and a jungle cat and is a casing for a spirit darkened by secrets, sometimes bright and energetic and randomly explosive.
She was not made for capture or confinement.
He lives with her in a claus