↑♥ Colpo di fulmine ♥'s blog

 

a buon intenditor poche parole...

so many thoughts passing through--sometimes so quickly, I feel as if my knees might shatter. in an odd sorts today... elusive, contemplative, a rushing from vine to forest floor, if you will.

have you ever felt as if you were not so in control of things? or perhaps think you are in control? I say that and mean, the flood of passion that actually pulls goosebumps from flesh. and it is not as much about control as it is resistance. I have no idea where it came from, but I have a strong resistance to many things. if I feel a closeness or the calm before a storm, I can quickly pull myself away before the debris begins to scatter. I can turn my head as if it never happened. I suppose I have some to thank for that--the few that have taught me about love and war. they may never know how they changed my course from summer to rain.

and I do not feel harsh or cold, but numb at times. and I do not hold regrets like a sadness in the palm... I hold nothing but my head. I keep it from lowering into whatever seems to be an oncoming wave of emotion. and sometimes I sabotage things unknowingly, just to feel grounded again--safe from what felt like flying. I do not do this on purpose, but I have seen it in action. I do this out of fear, I think. I feel more concrete when I am in control of as much as possible in my life. don't we all? "siccome la casa brucia... riscaldiamoci."

sometimes, and only sometimes, I get close--just enough to feel the flicker of an eyelash, only to turn away for a second and it is gone. I thought I was holding on tightly, but I lost it or it flew away without warning. now I stretch my arm out past my shoulder... the length? that is easy... just enough distance from ache. I will not allow myself to feel anything, but happiness now. I do not think I will ever allow anyone to get in so close again, that they may sever the only thread that holds my heart in place. I could be wrong.

"I'm wired to the world" -- goldfrapp.

seems the only people I keep near, are the ones that I know are the lifeline. the dozen or so close friends I could never do without. no matter how many days pass or what sort of moody mix I am in, my love for them remains the same, if not stronger. funny, I will send them notes out of the blue, just to tell them I care. even if it is a "Hope you are enjoying your day"... I do not ever want them to forget how I love them. and I try to treat everyone as kind as I possible can, no matter who they are. (I thank my mum for teaching me that, as other things, when I was a child.)

I feel good knowing that part of my heart is passionate and surrenders to what I call, "a constant wave of candied kisses".

 

 

Open in the afterglow, I push my
hands against your warm belly,

dress you in my voice, and send
you out into the night, scented
like the sea.

You will be the most brilliant guise
on the block, my distant boy, my

leisure love. And when you have
carried this fill long enough, spent

hours beneath red lights to bring
back metaphors for my poetry,

I will let you climb my thigh and lie
still, while I stroke your hair.


****************************

Written Beneath the Skin [quando siete assenti]

With the no one listening, you splinter
radiant in the hollow of my throat—
luna wings formerly stitched together,

now fragments of devotion worn on the tongue.
I am caged in stoned flesh.

My body trembles, everything moving against
everything, where existence is made up of
seconds— mostly, a part of you.

In my hand, rosary beads—
they knit in and out of the fingers
like disobédience, or the eagerness

that clings to my cotton dress
when I fall helplessly into a dream,

now and then, so intense,
I find myself holding my breath.

********************

Incessant

The sea, spun in blue—half in, half out,
it admits only salt, each grain, a syllable
spoken on tongue, thick in the throat.

How quickly one tires of this motion—
a swift trace of knuckle and groove,
countless years surpass, still the breeze
lures one here, simulating as a former lover.

Mettere paglia al fuoco, the stomach knots,
bends like sea-grass, this is part of the ocean,
a casualty of sorts, like a displeased woman
framed in photograph—

or a gull—
as common as tide entering the front defenseless.
This place will leach into the voice, breathe
through fingertip, searching for scars.

And nostalgia is the sand, this wind, kelp pushed
to shore, merged with a gift of fish scale,
fleeting ship and façade. Going continually
forward, never back.

*My neighbor has wild red hair. He likes to step outside in his panties. He wears the fruit of the loom type. Hmm... sort of an odd duck, really. I often wonder what his story is. Well, not that often. ;)

*The perfect man: the heart of Pablo Neruda, the hands of Cornoyer, the laughter of Johnny Knoxville, and the ability to bring me to my knees.

*Within my Grandmum’s closet lies an abandoned box. Its edges tattered from yearly hands that would open it eagerly, displaying stacks of old photographs – some of places she had traveled, some of us children, the rest various faces that have long since faded into bits of gray.

They’ve curved and fanned of their own accord, matured well-pocketed with laughter and season. I can make out my Grandmum in one of the photos – she’s holding an toddler with a broad smile and tiny ringlets… I identify the features at once and smile to myself. (I was such a blissful child).

The expressions on our faces lodge themselves to my chest - I recall the day she first pulled it from the box; she called me into the dusty old room that was overwhelming in the scent of lavender. She sat me beside the container and whispered to me, “Hush, my love, I want to show you my favorite granddaughter.”

She held that same photograph in her elderly fingers, kissed me on the forehead, and began to share other photos and stories. My Grandmum held a soft accent and a few strands of hair from her eyes as she told me of family values and the significance of love. We were close and if I were older, I might of known what she meant.

I cannot remember what happened next, but I do recall going with my mum to place flora beside stone at the age of seven – my mother somber, clutching my hand tightly, she prayed quietly for over an hour . And as I sit in that same spot, clutching rosary beads my mum had given me, I begin to weep - the snapshot, uncomfortable and cumbersome by my side.

 

 

an Autumn image from the lens of my camera... for you. I wanted to wish you a wonderful weekend, and I wanted to say that I appreciate you, love your friendship, and your warm hearts. xo Cher

[only when I sleep]

connect  unknowing                           dis-
         connect a september hesitation
a slow turning inept         lazily it sits
       on the swing
    in the mouth    an inclination      a bandage
on the tongue    a clause
in the eloquent          a choke in the valve   
                     
                       [forgive me]

a cease of the lung – days on the edge of silk,
  a cheek to press in the sun  ( I say yes
             yes
                      yes
I am op/en  yes   /what I mean is/ kiss me   kiss me

day slows along the lines of hands / you me /
      along the miles
                  of distance          too much
and fragments of clouds  bur st

in the spine       a speck of lavender crouched
beside the gate  / you me /  it feels
         like feathers  (to describe more  would be
   heartbreak     this is our day

I taste the rain in your throat   & this is
my secret   my blossom
                            my chestcave in the sea
         times when I know wakefulness
           with the coming of you
    a silver sun    a boy  with brown eyes
                  arms stretched  timid

yes  I say   kiss me  [kiss me]   Christ
          your scent in  my hair          of course
    what else is there to

do   because this is connect  or  dis  
connect  orreconnect      &   all
         the things you say    a bit of madness
within a softened image
                             your language

days filtered         photographs
       we feel the lens
the pulse  
                              an aching in the grass   
it runs free from fingertips  smoothing
your belly  scratching your tender back   
awkward  and unsure
          as the camera in your hands
    our hands
               in our dreams
& I adore
           & I adore                 we(deeply)adore   

    not needing anything but this

 

 

*nothing really, just some poetry with a different presentation. *in this poem, I used no punctuation--just let the breaks see the reader through. and sometimes I will stretch a word. I will say ex.......cites (ignore the dots and place a tab there) to have the reader feel the emotion. in experimental poetry, sentences scatter, you will see odd punctuation (or none at all), and other things like brackets. those are there to say something "in silence" like... I need you here with me to calm the [lonely] nights. or you will see things that are with a strike, but that word stays and the new word comes after. like note to a (boy) man (imagine "boy" with a strike) and as well as the / you me /, as a kind of parenthesis, emphasizing the concept of love or connection in the middle of the sentence. the reader must follow and use his/her imagination when seeing line breaks, odd brackets, and such. :) enjoy.

I hope everyone smiled! :) :) :)