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on 'the Father'mr parker lined up
his children with an ax,
lined up twelve small
disciples of hard work
and the Depression,
twelve small chickens
hollering with tremors,
twelve disciples hungry
for the Fruits of the
Father

previously to this,
he severed many of
mrs parker's tendons and sculpted
her face with a frying pan.
she bled on the floor and
crawled somewhere, the lioness
in her made the unseen more
powerful than science

and far more previous to this,
mr parker sent mrs parker to my
great grandmother's childhood home
with a basket of vegetables and pork
and bread. my great grandmother says
that whenever her family couldn't eat
Lady DepressionI am getting fat and complacent.
I sup on the riches of your labour and
spit the bones back in your face.

You are not worthy of anything.

You are a fly buzzing in my ear,
neither here nor there.

I can fell you with one slap,
end you with one loud clap
of my hands together and you fall,
like a marionette puppet whose
strings have been cut.

Pitiful thing.
You are easily killed.

I think I'll play with you a little more.
A woman is missing.A woman is missing.
My sweater is knit too loose and the wind blows through.
The leaves are done changing and are waiting to fall.
I think of them collaged against my morning-damp windshield;
they will mostly be red. My wipers will push them off;
I will forget about them. But inbetween these thoughts
my brain hums. A woman is missing and I cannot forget.

Two weeks ago the leaves were mostly green and yellow.
Two weeks ago a woman went missing.
I didn't know her but she went missing and today
I am standing at a wall covered with candles and
I am rolling her name over my tongue and I am thinking.
I am thinking and praying, bu
Our Meaning and PurposeI

All of death is death. Life,
too, is like death.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.

II

I was confused
so I asked God: What should I do?

Move your body and have emotions. The birds were dancing.

Could you be more specific?

But now God was busy arguing with Moses.

III

All of life is life. Death,
too, is like life.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.

IV

Tomorrow is the sound
of a question falling
on a bed of questions.

Today I hold out
your name, God,
in the public square.

Yesterday reason, the slayer
of song, wended its way
into our will.

V

All of light is linking. Dreams,
too, would se
comfort, crawfish boils, and port vincentand you and me, we got the whole of
Saturday, you and me, we got car grease
streaked straight up to our grins and

let's high five when you triumph over
mom's sneaky nose, her teasing and coy and
i wanna be that kind of wife to a man

like you. i wanna be the kind of woman worth
changing with, sacrificing for, going crazy
over as the years collect in bank rolls of nickels.

i've been called a menagerie of names by
the older, the wiser, the wrinkled; they
call me pretty girl, sweetheart, dollface,

sugarplum as i stir splenda into their
brewed coffees, but they ain't got nothin'

on your horse master hands, the ones that could
The HeistShelley lined up the shot. She regulated her breathing and made sure her footing was solid. She ignored the sounds and other distractions around her. It was just her and her lucky 5-iron.

She pictured the shot and took it. The ankle-biter was torn free of Hugo's pant leg and flew squealing in fury through the air. Even though it was dark, Shelley shaded her eyes and squinted, watching until the little beast was gone.

"Jesus Christ, Shelley!" Hugo screamed. "Did you have to take that long?" He was already crouched down and inspecting his leg for damage.

"Yes," Shelley said simply. She twirled her 5-iron and propped it casually on her should
31:12N, 121:30Emy Dear i just noticed
my balcony is shaped
like wings

and the wind is billowing
the moon up, up to-night
in her dusty purple garb

and i think
no Dear i do not want
to leave here: where men

build bridges over oceans
and live inside of mountains
like river dragons

where the sun shines
not at all at noon but gleams
like an orange at sundown

where the moon walks home
surefooted to where my neck
cannot crane
In summer we all burnThe summer is coming,
I hear the beach roaring from here,
can see shirts hung over shoulders,
sunglasses, arms round waists,
can feel the earth's purrs,
breaking hibernation,
pollens tossed up at us in fanfare.

Ants are walking over me
because we're sharing a tree together.
Back to back, we're trying to
make our winter's pallour a warmer shade.
Is it some sort of personal sign
when you let your shoe-tongues fill with tan bark,
when it's driven you mad your whole life?
Or when you eat ice-cream in public (the sticky
fingers a mere afterthought)?

These trees though, they're not changing.
I can't help thinking they
Origin of the SistersIn the land of Tavos stands a hill, and set into its side is the door to a secret prison.  Only this door stands between the physical realm and its destruction, for the prison was constructed not to contain men but an ancient evil.  Its name is Hunger, and it cannot be held by mere bars or chains.

It was the Flame, the great Flame that burns behind the sky and lights every star, that cast Hunger to the ground and locked it away from the rest of the world.  But this was not enough; he knew that the evil being was not without allies in this world or any other, for many lusted after its power.  Therefore
The HologramsBefore Casper we were a quantum band,
an act that only happened when unobserved.
Our drummer maintained we'd split
the world, then took a full-time position
in PR. Auditioning his replacement
round our Crouch End front room,
with his white vest, buffed All-Stars
and holographic principle patter,
Casper shone. 'These,' he said,
nodding at his drumheads,
'are my event horizons;
it's where the beat really happens.'
To prove it, he worked up an almighty storm,
while we puffed on our cigarettes.
Short of a singer, Casper made a call.
Yume Shirakawa, he explained,
would beam in her performance. Jay,
sliding milk down his
HubrisThe world is not a skeleton. It does not ache bone-deep with our atrocities, nor is it fragile and ready for the breaking. It knows nothing so human, except perhaps to forgive our pride. Let me explain:

Young, I am a bright star with small, pudgy hands for guiltless flower-crushing. Before even that, I am a wispy squall for food, unused to knowing anything but myself, and warmth, and hunger.

The concept of a hero is a natural progression from understanding speech. I am Me. I am the one all the stories talk about, born special, to whom both innocence and wisdom are possible. I am so great a part of my own self that I do not know it can be de
The WeekendI show up unannounced, like clockwork, and when you let me in, the act of opening the door flows smoothly into the act of pulling me against you. This is our weekend. We won't leave this room for another forty-eight hours.

You pull me over to the couch and ask about my week, and we trade stories of minor frustrations and negligible disappointments. The sun sets in a glory of flame, and our weekend officially begins.

Usually these things are unplanned—just a shapeless succession of quiet moments—but you've planned something this time. You have a horror movie. Popcorn for you. Crunchy fruit-shaped candy for me. "You know me too well
leavetakingi.
the world is brighter where
dregs of strangers' revels remain --
i keep this half-light for my own.

ii.
i'll stay until the wind sighs a scotch-and-smoke
cliché, til the Muscadet's slipped from the lip
of my wayward
hello.(i know you're there before you do.)
iii.
your night is told in
patchouli-pulse wanders; mine,
in whorls of liqueur-breath. come
close and i'll find the warp
through the weft, the trails telling tales
in synaesthesia --
Platinum Blonde's been 'round and gone.

 iv.
(-- closer, find syllables strewn
 in an exhale's wake; stolen from my throat-
 ful of careless farewells, spin and sway
You Slept Through The Alarm Again - Little AubadeIf, perhaps, you had turned at that moment
and your hair had caught in your fingers,
the straw being fed into the spindle, struck
by the high, thin light of first waking, the whorl
of a single line descendent from the sun, born
watery from the gap below one velveteen curtain,
all of it staining over gold and dusty and slow,
the edge of your mouth might have met the edge
of my mouth, narrow gaps both without attention
opening—if, perhaps you had turned again,
your hand could have met the curve of my neck,
your canvas rough fingers tying knots of my hair
and I would have sighed, thick spreading in your ear
like the light it
The Phillipians to St. PaulWhen light flooded your eyelids
& permanently blinded you
that was Jesus'

love, covering your skin
like the palm of a hand.

It was then you found you were as zealous
in persecuting trash

& the gods we make of our stomachs
as ever you were
in persecuting Christians

with the brand. How they
recoiled from you when you
began effusing to them

in fires & gibberish tongues! For the light
that filled you was eruptive

& though
you speak of your own life

as if it could be a drink offering,
you are a fire work

& we are attending the fuse.
Browse More Like This

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Never fast enough
I stretch my hand to the infinintly
rainbow sky, poised to watch colors
change so slow that I can't see or so fast
that I don't notice.

Splayed fingers create ribbons in
the air, the wind cutting my too hot
skin into strips of silk, material for
a wind sock.

Invisible creatures, devils or angels, only
God knows which, whisper cryptic words in my ear about the barrier of life, flight
and death.

I try to understand what they mean
and for some reason wind up running as
fast as I can until my mucsels burn, taking the rest of my flesh with it.

Only my skeleton is left, running on
clattering bones, the wind whistling
through m
Ferry TailsA little sail boat lacking a sail
putters by my window, snaring my
attention before it's snatched away
again by a flying draft horse.

The iguanas are jamming on their
mad saxophones because they're
space men, baby!

I've been accused of stealing the
wheels from a Las Vegas Cadillac,
and my only excuse is that I don't
have sea colored eyes.

Seagulls rise up from the kelp nets
And driftwood, moaning at being
disturbed by the thundering fairy.

A ventriloquist I one knew lost
her axe murderer dummy, so
she grabbed a clam shell, named
it Bob, and took it to the circus.

Glow-in-the-dark bangles beg to
be cradled in a scrunch

Featured in Groups

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×

Regulars

:iconcrimson-regret:

Jon and Carol came in as they do
every day
she clutching a bit of cloth to
her face and being unable
to give me an honest look and
Jon being overly enthusiastic about
his coming meal
(I am a goddess because I
bring them food.)

They met each
other outside the bathroom,
gazed across the table with a fifty
year old expression
and the only emotion I have
ever heard in Carol's
ancient, cracking voice
is when she calls him baby

Repeatedly I wonder, if or when
I give up my mind
to age and black eyes,
will we do this? Drink tea
with too much sugar
and have a waitress that will
be overly concerned if we
don't show our wrinkled mugs?

I prepared bags of fruit for
smoothies and watched her
spill beans and rice all
over the checkered floor-
he told her to tell us
about the mess that was made
in a vaguely apologetic
tone. She instead
asked for more vegetables
and said the
Malawisaurus
fucked it all up.

Jon told me
I'm his favorite because
I smile like a porn star or
born star- his uncertainty
of either and the likelihood
of both made me stand
curious
and jut out my good
hip at my boss to ask
"should I be offended?"

I have never called anyone baby,
because it always reminded me of
a squirming squalling soiled infant
until now.
I want you to taste the
word on my lips.

Let's meet outside the bathroom
when we're old and I'm a retired teacher-
you'll show young women articles you
like in National Geographic
and I'll see
no one but you.

Jon and Carol left, but
before they went she took other
people's dishes to the
bus tubs and he waited in
the car for her to stumble in
with her hair
flying like crows,
away from him and back
again, as she always does.

5,412

83 36 207
:iconcrimson-regret:

Regularsby ~crimson-regret

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This sucks, but I'm still drunk and eating cheese in bed.
©2011-2013 ~crimson-regret
Category: Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

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Submitted on
December 8, 2011
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Daily Deviation

Given 2011-12-15
Regulars by *crimson-regret Suggester Writes: Part slice of life, part end of life, part love story. All brilliant ( Suggested by *neonxaos and Featured by ^Beccalicious )
:iconmichael-macdonald:
~Michael-MacDonald Dec 17, 2011  Hobbyist Photographer
Cool :D.
Reply
:iconcrimson-regret:
~crimson-regret Dec 17, 2011
:)
Reply
:iconneonxaos:
*neonxaos Dec 16, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Congratulations, babe. I am so damn proud of you.
Reply
:iconcrimson-regret:
~crimson-regret Dec 17, 2011
Thank you so damn much, love. From the bottom of my mad old lady heart.
Reply
:iconlit-twitter:
*Lit-Twitter Dec 16, 2011
Chirp, congrats on the DD. A day belated, but it's been twittered. :)
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:iconcrimson-regret:
~crimson-regret Dec 17, 2011
Much obliged! :D I'm grateful!
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:iconeuxiom:
~Euxiom Dec 15, 2011
That was awesome. :D
Reply
:iconcrimson-regret:
~crimson-regret Dec 17, 2011
Thank you! I'm glad you like it.
Reply
:iconeuxiom:
~Euxiom Dec 17, 2011
Welcome :nod:
Reply
:iconleyghan:
*leyghan Dec 15, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
This is a wonderful piece. Like a story within a story. I loved every line. :+fav:
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