the nonsensical musings of a clueless twenty something

The Poetical

Tight Rope

This is a tumble, fight, war worn path of well

travelled and spontaneously flooded gaps of land that

were barren.  We’re a wreck, abandoned and smoldering,

a breath, a draft from a faulty patch ignites.

We’re here without knowing. Time swallows

trips along, makes the incandescence familiar.

I want to cauterize, fold in, mend up and heal.

We are indulgent and oblique, without direction.

Jagged, sharp, but we found the edge of balance,

if you stay still we won’t fall. Fingertips and cliffside,

I wouldn’t mind if we were to.


The sting of

cracked lips

hot breath and stubble

the firm conviction

of greeting

Moving fingers

over stationary facets

separating each

from its mate

This mornings

twenty-minute effort

at straight lines

crumples in the corner

A latent desire

to be undone

fabric to fabric

skin to skin


I want a colloquy on

mediums and temperatures

on vivid blanches

to the tune of  Tchaikovsky

in a coffee house

with stodgy, thick-rimmed

eye wear 

and pseudo-elitists

I want a tête-à-tête

over bitter coffee

a biting piquant  

on the oval of 

pressed lips

and the process

of reduction


Give me words
that flit and flutter
and fall
under my tongue
and write me

yet believable
as an inept
deliverer of
the unspoken

Fine tips of fingers
fumble with
the need for 
crisp and fine

The smell of
new or old
money well


These hands have held
and been held,
wrung by the
brushed by the lips
of the forged idealist
and folded
neatly in prayer

These arms have
cradled new life
wrapped the waists
of cured relationships,
been crossed to
shield, have carried
their weight. 

This chest has
heaved, sustained
the fleck of blues and
broken vessels,
carried fleeting
donned with wings

These legs have
pressed on,
endured, wrapped
the body of another
have shaken
have been

These eyes have
seen the press
of life, these ears
have muted the
heavy sighs, and
this body has
racked with
true, and genuine
This body has
carried, bent and
broke beneath
the pressure
the torrent of
time, and has


I’m tired, the kind where
sleep doesn’t come when
you need it to,
when you want it to.
when your ready for it to fall
on your lashes, but
instead your head lies
heavy in wait.
tired of the over-emphasized
need to bring
all of the things you can’t
ever take with you
home, to this place
we call ours
when really its just a
storage space of
material in waiting
to be moved or
or thrown away
I’m tired of blinking
back the tears when
really, I’d like no offers
of condolence
or support
just someone to
soothe and hold
down the insecurities
and lack of direction or
purpose and
put me to


Fingers laced, raised brow

Inpsired with flushed tones of

Neverending reds and flawless flesh

Entangled and entranced in

Seductive lashes

Sultry glances and quiet breath

Expectedly, I fold


You lay languid, hair brushing

my exposed middle, the one

pressing against my spine.

Your lips trace, indolent on

my unfastened skin and from

here the creamy white is

boundless. Exhale, your

breath finds the curve of

my hip and the rise of a

breast, the falling tide of

blood combusting in their

vessels. Fingers collide in

curls of indulgence and I

realize there were parts of

me missing.

2 thoughts on “The Poetical

  1. Linda Chaston on said:

    So nice to read your brilliant poetry again — I love how you’ve attached this as a separate piece to your blog. I need to do that . . . hmmmmm.

    Love, love, love!

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