molting

Dressed in black,
black and grey–
A winter coat
I've yet to shed.

It bundles me
and hides my face,
a semi-molt of smoke.

While all around
the colors bloom
like watercolours seeping–

Pools of violet,
chartreuse, vermillion,
a peacock's splendor
permeates the world.

The queens of spring
dance their arabesque,
and couple with the flora
to masquerade the town.

They taste the luscious fruits
that slip into their hands
and sing a song of ecstasy,
exotic, wild, and blithe.

All the while I'm dressed in black,
black and grey–
A winter coat,
the ash of what once was.

dried

parchment paper once filled my room —
with silk and vinyl crack.
The Stranger and the jabberwock
pert on their dusty perch.

afternoons spent
like specks of sunlight
pouring from my mind.

from nib to ink
to ink to page.

alas, the art has died,
the pen has dried,
the letter laid to rest.

you never wrote me anyway.

desolation row

Oh, Dylan. How could anyone compare?
I want to live in your songs and be your red-headed vixen.


Oh.

Anything Goes

I realize that the last post (my first attempt at poetry) was the first post since I started this blog that didn't have a title involving a song or album. How sad...

habits

"I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid."

---------------------------------------------

Frightened Rabbit
writing in the afternoon.
The rest-cure wouldn't work on me.

We discussed the wolves
and the way our minds work:
The Sleep of Reason should be filled with you.
I will not write you today.

It's hand-to-mouth, hand-to-mouth,
cigarettes would fare better.
stop the sleep, drink the coffee down.
write. write. write.
think. think. listen. think.
I will not write you today.
I will not write you today.

I will not write you today.