Gold in Fifty

Miss Taken

Goodbye is not allways. Patching jeans with some careless seams; stuffing pockets—too full with fruit of unions loom. Sometimes she spins bicycles, creating needs for the fork into the gold rung worn path perpetually tread. Pared fruits, parting kisses, jarred honey drips for dipping the long road’s broken token bread; wrapped and kercheifed—rod to tow. Rage thumb-wars with heaven s(p)ent apple seeds fo(u)r (or more(or less)) eyes.

Be low.

dear god, (or science if the word offends you)

i know you remember me, the one you breathe this life into. i write to say that i’m not mad you keep secrets regarding your palm, face and intention. i don’t judge your brutish animale force or softer subordinal ways. rather, embracing your need to exist which brings forward all kings and queens, all of us; facets of inspired reflections. dying to be

truly, ourself

apropos.

honelix:pilarelizabethv:

A perfect cup of coffee, an equally apropos mug;
Push their scent up swirling towards an infinite form
Of horizon, these lines we make up with eyes,
Make sense of all these angles, perspectives
Pulsing and crossing, swing like Tarzan
On ropes of binding
Particles from see
To shining sea.

Not Looking to Imaginary Figments.

You with that 1” thick (not Armani) elastic statement, taught and squeezing hold of eyes. You, with the downward punching picket sign BANG!-BOOM!!-PLAZOW!!! when she finally leaves Quack’s table; the one who saves lives. You, the one I thought into existence. Yet, I am the one that is always wrong.

Prim Rose Laced.

The warm blanket, a feeling that wasn’t too often. Jackson overwrote her as a mistake; failing to realize that friendship: forbears, with the ability to cause growth. Jackson points his finger from his fast little car, turns his face. Rose could do nothing for him, she sits in silence choosing to be—or not to be, his friend.

Violet Rain.

honelix:

She wasn’t one to cheat on a lover. When that time came the act was replaced by difficult conversation, which ended in puddles of love even deeper, or a new friend. Her path wasn’t paved in fame nor fortune; infamous among mice and men. Violet didn’t mind, her path was precisely: hers.

Lalot.

Lalot was last seen tossing foot-shaped cobblestones into the oceans’ bed of sand. She appeared to be constructing a foot path. The legend reads that we all must build a doorway for the secret lover, a way to find each other at the end. Tracks fall off into caves and valleys, ring circles, crossing themselves again. Her tracks weave a net, to catch her falling star. The unknown one, destined to be more, than friend.

Keep tossing.

The Milk Bank.

Reality strikes, struck, striking
like palms electrocuting
executions of cheek.

The days air buzz—denser than our world.
Threatening to asphyxiate, but never here.
Where dreams be,
come,
master,
pieces.

Pooled reflections of what we are, beyond
sweet milk of deception. At the ebbing banks of day
unveil,
and become.

painting.

Mycenae wades in a warm pool of honeyed milk and rose. Weeping willows lap  whirling upon the steaming surface’s aroma. Sweep and swish of tree wind dancers; she prances with, feet of milken mirrorose, toes of emerald. Skin tainted by the iced caress of dawn—all watercolor shades of gold.