[x]

the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.

i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;

i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)

and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
elsewhere.
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leav

He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.

The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.

But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a

PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint

SurelyIt was raining
when we kissed for the first time,
for the last time.

Thin rivulets
sunk into the shrunken space
between our bodies
and divided us
like nothing could before,
like everything will
from now
until that never again
when we will
see each other once more,
no more.

Your eyes were
that bewitching shade
of dull brown blue
with all of the light darkness
whirling
in a placid pond
around a pupil
overflowing with vacancy,
and me
and my frowning smile.

The winter heat
fell like a rising tide
and,
for our every breath
was another death
so black and full of life --
embracing our boiled ice skin
as we drew apart,
came together and broke free

Condemnedbeneath the beaten earth they lay,
their dreams condemned to ashes,
and our restless bodies stretch,
for forgiveness, for direction –

survivors of the abyss,
amidst wide-eye, silent soldiers –
so many dead, so many maimed,

how many graves are we standing on, today?

Life, Death And A Pork Chop SandwichAll tangled up, hard to breathe
This steel cloud day that swirls
With heat and pounding hammers
I shake in my boots and cough up
Blood, rust and damaged flesh
Waiting for the second coming
Maybe next time around there'll be
Some chance for more than this

A twisted barbed wire halo
Wrapped tight around my skull
Blinding white light aura
Swarming with flies I'm flying
To pieces, thousands of shards
Cannot be brought back together
But I will remember the summer
Of my first Chevrolet in each bit

Gleaming bits of glass in the desert
Each reflecting a different moment
Still, now, enduring until the waves
Of a new ocean sweep them away
No pain

SisterSister

A sister is like a soul mate;
Someone who is always there
to guide me through fate.

A sister is,
a part of childhood that I cannot erase;
A sister like you,
is one that I would never replace
because you always know how to
put a smile on my face.

I know I can depend on you
to always be there for me;
This is one hundred percent guaranteed!

I've had great memories with you
in the past;
and I hope there are many more
to come,
in the future.

Puppet My tears fall,

like invisible

diamonds.

My heart beats,

like soundless

drums.

Unwanted,

because of the

strings attached.

Pretty little things called words and dustif you weren't a hypocrite,
you'd be wrapped in the sweetest
perfumes
(learning
how to engulf the ocean
with your lungs
and think of how to cup it
in your hands
despite
your broken prayers and
still be beautiful)

dance with the gypsies
'till noon
(a quake in
your hips like the thrust
of continents
and the faultlines
emanating from
your spine,
but still
so, so graceful)

sing with the nymphs
in tune
(your voice,
it's growing old,
raspy even.
your throat's burning dry
like a monsoon
faltering in a desert,

and tones
still octaves
powerful)

be nestled in a king's arms
soon
(oh, you precious
little thing.
how

Lost In ConfusionMy mind is spinning without a rest
emotions whirl and twirl around
A merry-go-round gaining speed
Until the world blurrs before my eyes
What's happening? What's going on?

The simplest thought slips away
Right from my mind, fading so fast
Trying to focus, I stare and stare
Until my eyes are heavy and unclear.
I don't understand, what is going on...

Emotions rise and fall again
Within the blink of an eye
I'm crying, laughing, and depressed
A rollercoaster ride that never ends
Am I losing my mind in this ?

I try to close my eyes and rest
But the world spins me around
I feel like I am failing this test
Voices and noisies echo in my min

A Night By the FireNo light,
The light sired by the night
All above whilst the day's delights
Now disappears from mortal sight.

Faded away is the sun's power,
Taking the stage now is night's sallow flower;
Now mortals may behold the stars and falling shower.

Set in a pit Nature's skyscraper ablaze
And revel in the emanating heat as you gaze,
Looking down on occasion when you hear a crack from the fire
And witness "fireflies" flying away from mother's blaze;
Dying shortly after but not lacking burning beauty do they desire!

I look out towards the teasing shore
And meditate as we sit upon her door,
Thinking on what my future has in store;
Who I am now and even

Why meI wanted sleep very badly
I tried my hardest to rest
I closed my eyes and laid there
But sleep didn’t come easy
I would doze off
And wake back up
Again
Why me? When I know I have to be up at 3 AM.

nightmarethe foxes are at your bedside and singing--
feversongs,
songs of boiling thoughts
and broken muscles.
their lullabyes.
they sneak so quiet, and
somehow,
you can't quite
dream
anymore.

DangerousMermaids; they seduce you then hold you under
Vampires; will kiss your lifeblood away
Mages, will turn your own mind against you
While trolls will hunt you down if you stay
Run through the woods, don’t stop for nothing
Monsters wait with jaws opened wide
Ignore that pretty elf, who’s probably plotting something dark
For she will torture you once she’s lured you inside
Orcs; will have a craving for your flesh
While dwarves are just prejudiced against your height
Dragons are very skilled when it comes to fire
While faeries will torment you throughout the night
So run little weakling, don’t stop now
The faery realm has go

Seaside HolidayI am content
to stay
a caterpillar

Who says
you have
to change?

What's so great
about being
a butterfly?

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More from ~Khrishna

the unfinished gentleman.Words have a weight all their own.
Pushing the stones around with my tongue
i excavate speach, uncovering artifacts.
i found everything within an alabaster jar.
the dried wine the scrap of linen, the halting
compliment.
I seek the eternal engine
not just the combustion of the heart.
Looking forward to midnight
and to dusk at the crossroads writing
names with a stick in the dust an infinity
of names in the dust and nothing lifts my blood
but moving from word to word to word.

The view from the Dawn Chateauwe are going.

Because there are rain drenched waistcoats left idle on oak pegs down in the city.
Ancient avenues the finger of god drew, long and lonely and frozen as the
veins of frost flowers.

we are going.

Past the scarlet Ibis with it's neck craned up wailing in the rain.
Past the dawn spires that struggle to pierce the smoke from the stacks and the towers.
Beyond the white Heron bleeding in the brush, crumbled like an old hand, and the Finch flocks
scattering like dice.

we are going.

Walking away from the battered walls where besieged minds suffocate in smog.
The ancient stones the color of red wine and fading hay

The HoleThere is nothing here.

Lips that utter everybody's words won't get you here.
Unseen arms scratch useless eyelids here.
The uniform of flesh drowns down here,
where darkness dissolves color
conviludes stone moss and universe.

There is nothing here.

nothing to worry about offending nature.
nothing ever lived that had a nature.
unforgiven feet fall everywhere on earth and that
is nature.

Down here there is no voice.
no hole to fall through
no black empty soil to grow solitude or
weariness more and more and more.

Down here in perfect
dark.. ..we grow by less and less and less.

every song.the last time i cracked my head on the coffe table
i was penniless and heartsick and my father stitched my broken bone himself.
the last time i was on a plane
i wore sunglasses,
i looked out the window,
i looked back.
the last time i kissed someone i was under star
s and piss ass drunk just like the last time
i watched Coffee and Cigarettes.

so now i'm putting myself under finger.
i'm smelling spiced amaretto'
i'm licking my cirarette
i'm living in a hole the size of my head
dancing in the kitchen.
not sleeping red eyed not eating looking at faces in the clouds.

in paintings an angel is a beautiful man with a halo and wi

serenadeI hear the coughing at four or five in the morning
when i ease through the black crack in the doorway to your room.
your skinny throat grumbling agian like a steeple crashing into your lungs.

Sometimes i feel my hands are sewn behind my back my darling.
Sometimes i see you trembling, glistening with crystals, like a closed fist too
tight for me to squeeze through.
Sometimes i feel your skin like an empty emberless furnace, cold and hard
and when i saw an ant creeping up the bone on your shoulder in the dark

to crush it

i pressed my skin to your skin
and i held and i held and i held.

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[x]

a dead boys poem

by ~Khrishna, Oct 3, 2004, 6:54:01 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

We are become
stitch doctors.
Magnificent (opera)tors
of the vast
magnolia.
Picking
pinch-
squeezing
old wounds
until we spill
just enough blood
to call it art.
Then
quickly we grab the gauze and dab the cut dry again
embarrassed
eyes
apologizing
for the dirty mess we didn't mean to make,
while passion and lust go wilting
into a dirty corner.

I WANT YOU TO
SPILL ME.
SLIT MY WRISTS!!!
GO ON. SLASH ME LIKE A SMILE.

let that good blood flow full,
red as the swollen moon in
November’s sky.
And as I fall
drowsily
into that one
big
dark,
if you want to
hit me
if you want to
kiss me, but

Remember

the words that died
in my black eyes,
the words I thought
but never said,
those were
my poem.

a dead boys poemby ~Khrishna

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

the best art
is the stuff your too afraid to show.
dig?

~Barely-Legal Jun 30, 2005

the words I thought
but never said,
those were
my poem.

<--- Never, ever in my entire life, have I read a poem with such a strong and emotive, yet incredibly simple and obvious, ending.
I take my hat off to you Sir.
[Grr ... there is no emoticon tipping his hat!! Sorry, but this will have to do:]

Anyway, moving on. I don't know what to say [really]. It's so open and vague, yet so direct and to the point I can't make sense of it. Which is what makes it wonderful, of course. Most poetry I read, or see, is never this short or brief with one-word lines, but I appreciate them in this instance as they seem to make the longer lines more poetic and beautiful.

And, yesh, the best art is the stuff you're too afraid to show. I dig that. But I'm uber-ly glad you chose to show this piece off. I love it without knowing why. It's so random in some parts, but then so metaphorical and delicate in others ...

...

!! The

's are invading!!

~mycheaptrick Nov 28, 2004

To be a poet, to reach people,
would be grand. Rich.

And as of yet, you are the richest man I know. Ugh,
I always seem to clutter these boxes
with empty words
and feelings.

You have my empty words and feelings.