Poetry Blog Post New Entry


Posted by Cutter on August 12, 2017 at 1:00 AM

Drifting through the spaces between,

I travel by alleyways, game trails, train tracks

through overgrown valleys, dripping in grape vines,

barking dogs, the relentless hum of human life

mere yards away.


My skull, is a bone jar filled with madness,

roaring ghosts, quiet poems, restless tongues.

my dreams have dragged themselves into the world,

making my visage ripple, shift, glimmering,

as it absorbs the light.


My hands are magician busy, eight armed,

like some forgotten Hindu god of storms of shaman,

I hold up chalices, vertebrae, plump, leech fat grapes,

dandelion golden serpents, calm, hypnotic,

swaying as I dance.


I drop seeds in the hollows made by my naked feet,

ancient trees, that will burrow down, cracking the foundations,

dig deep to find the veins of cold water, tasting of stone,

running like blood through the core of us all,

pulling us toward the moon.


A broken soul made of ten thousand masks,

ten million stories, all marked by subtle, dark variations,

tracing the origins of your bones, your lust, your skin,

marked by sigils that must be tasted

if they are to be read, at all.


I leave fires behind me, struck sparks, flint and steel,

into fridge drawings, love letters, tarot cards, predicting grief,

the flames unbound, left to spread, or die as they must,

called or quelled by the life force around them,

or the resignation.


Dressed in rags, in leaves, in skins, naked as the truth,

my skin painted, scarred, blemished, divine in its imperfection,

mottled as if made of all races, my colors restless,

shifting with my dreams, my songs, my laughter,

giving me wings when I dream.


My drumming hands, whisper, then scream for divinity,

calling down into those thrumming, humming, pulsing root paths,

surging up to stroke your core, your hara, the deep heat,

inside you that keeps threatening to die out,

I call on it to burn…


Sing me your soul song, dance for me unadorned,

come to the edge paths, the narrow passages, open your windows,

when the clouds are black to the west, bid me in with tea,

talk and the crying, aching beautiful story of you,

and the reckless geometry of my soul,

will become still,

for a moment…





CM 2017


Categories: POET'S OPEN BLOG, Cutter

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