Thursday, July 28, 2011

Girl in the Tower

Sauntering like a tank through the forest
The eyes of a melanistic jaguar

Upon the tower that she built herself into
Waiting for a magnificent hero
a riding prince  on a white horse, that assuredly gallops the paths of the forest
proud and beautiful and strong and compassionate and just and righteous and pure and glorious and virtuous and well-spoken and  handsome and tall and noble and wealthy and magnificent in every way.
Who rides into the depths of the jungle to save the princess
To rescue her from…

What exactly?

take her from her own tower,
carry her back to his castle, where she may reside without lifting a finger
bring her a sense of purpose in telling the maidens what to do
feel complete.
Within a sense of comfort and finished product
an understanding of words
words that symbolize finalization
words that mean more than they do

in a jungle teeming with variety and life and something so far away
from the alabaster tiles
that pave that castle
where the shimmering eyes of the forest swell
the river under the incessant rain rises
and the trees here remember how the buttress’ formed
the liana drink it like palm wine and orchids that vomit their vibrant sexuality

because nothing is quite like the original,

the hand-picked stones that comprise that tower
unearthed from some frost-bitten quarry
carried, by hand, one at a time
one heartfelt line of dialogue woven of yarn
used as mortar
galvanized in mistrust

and the tower grew, and grew
when the scaffolding fell away
the excess timber had been burned
and birds fled

a standing structure
from the shade of great trees
the forest creatures looked on in confusion
where previously unimaginable
stone and yarn built a monument
to the concepts of unobtainable

it’s eyes shutting softly,  masking the hurt
become  invisible in the crepuscular world
where a monument dwarfed everything with its ideals of man

a monument forgotten by its creator
an abandoned  object of vandalism
waiting for a prince to liberate the girl inside

while respirating forest said nothing of the fungi that dissolved his bones
said nothing of the sickness that he suffered from the bite

of a single


the melanistic jaguar watched his white armor become soiled
as convulsions took hold
brought on by the ensuing fever
and prince or not, ended his life tenderly with more than a kiss to the neck

looked upon the tower unable to tell its secular inhabitant what happened
follies are no place for great cats
where imitation is only as good as its core
and could not even travel the beaten paths of thick jungle
(…not that the prince was carrying a ladder or anything)

sorrow could not reincarnate
what human weaknesses became overlooked

within ambiguous desires
the jungle recovers slowly
where it was razed around the base of the tower

eventually the liana will engulf it
the ferns will take up residence within its decaying mortar
and it’s one nude resident

will leave.

The only way to truly have anything is to be a part of it;
not simply to reside within it
behind fortified walls

waiting for better.

In the reflection of the rising and falling river
The melanistic jaguar’s eyes fade…
from a color of innocence
To a shade of experience
Lapping up cool clear water with its large tongue

Forgetting the past
Crayfish saunter under the surface
As they eat the same algae
that thickly coats their shells

while everything waits for the liana to overrun the tower
a matter of time
becomes the currency
the Ficus scheme to place one of their own  upon the precipice
the monument will become internalized.
A standing futuristic tower coated in vegetation

there is only one law of the jungle:



Removing this shard

not that it hurts anymore.

The missing lens
To a spyglass that searches for land
Against backdrops of barren seas

Played cautious, coy, and close

How can I tell you are my species?
The perception of your depths I lost
I left them someplace,
someplace that fears
as the photo album that lives
in the back corner
of the floor
of the basement
in my mind.

how I wish they burn collaborative effects
as they team up one by one in my mind,
that I don’t ever bring up

subconscious puns  
where being haunted became comedy at some point
and the ghosts in me never hesitate
to spread wings and draw blood

I wish I could
left with only the running ink

words that nothing can relate, re-tell, or rephrase

when I met our end on some barren road
with nothing to chase but your smell

lowering our eyes and wanting nothing
one foot in front of the other, one day at a time

abdicated what was once soft tissue
 and became callous with infection

that we call
survival .

Thursday, July 21, 2011

simple torture

As we talked of rape
Of injustice, hate, power and dominance
While coming home from a class on the subject, where tears had been shed by different individuals for days in a  row
to find the flowers of one of my Stanhopea had been eaten by a snail.
And I climbed that tree
And traced the silver trail to where that little creature had been sleeping
And found the snail
And pulled its shell off
Threw a fistful of ammonium nitrate all over it’s fleshy naked body

To reap revenge for what it had done to my flowers
And all flowers, everywhere.

it had little effect beyond the torture of a simple organism
That did not realize it had trespassed upon anything

And I realized that my most prized flower was avenged, through torture
 As my mind was warped around torments of a different variety, and the drawn suffering of humans  

As the snail desiccated under caustic salts and the burning sun
The stanhopea bloomed, but never to its full glory

As we felt the hurt of all the women in the world, and our powerlessness to help any of them
 Pronounced as a powerlessness to control the wickedness that lived within ourselves

And the snail sat there dying in the sun, I felt the power that the attacker must have felt
Redirected upon the manifestation of my subconscious

And realized the twisted, convoluted, evil
Lurking within the depths of man

Realizing that I cannot do anything but react.
powerless that I could not heal the injured but could only punish

simple torture inverted as a snake eating it’s tail


With each passing second
become more and more withdrawn
drift to where your people grow wild
wherever that may be
stop talking
stop moving
just breathe.

And if we could eat up the sun, that would be fine
As connection and disconnection become juxtaposed
Whisper the name of lovers, fly the banner of others, let the wind do all the work

Forget with me
A sculpted echo that remembers nothing

we are ephemera.