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Open Poetry #46

Struggling Intelect

CrazyHorse
Junior Member

since 2008-08-23

Posts 31
New-Brunswick, Canada

0 posted 2010-03-01 12:44 PM

Fantasy:
Well, the tumbling of pale horses
Through the pockets of Wild Blue
Mark the failing of the numbers
Pumping hooves counting

Two and Two,
as the whispered constellations strewn
Before my lover's brow
Careens with force determined by
The shuffling of the

Ground;
Frozen three-fold deep 'neath a sheath of ice
The wheels keep turning still
The body's burnt, but one eye is wider than
The other and it's just as

Well.
For the time has come for a killer Sun
To heave its gaze towards a little heat,
In his shack with Christ, who keeps his Father's Difference
In a pocket just above his

Knee,
His eyes are lame from winter's Holy sun kiss,
Having shot Seasons one through three;
As for the fourth, its glacial pleeted palm print
Lost its life to

Memory.
The bones of what's been left unsaid are born
From time's sweet loathsome company,
Void of frame or lame devotion and
Lacking senses one two and

Three:
The first is sripped of unison,
I've known it long 'fore I first felt.
It comes from taking something and knowing
You've never placed a palm upon its

Pelt.
Since then my mirror's been my own portal
To my Future's nearest past,
The lines are strange; the color's normal
But the reflection is still

Intact:
"It's like Knowledge swinging axes through it,
Bees bending knees along a tree
Extracting pollen and other songs determined;
Honey coated, too thick for a dreamer's

Dream"
Though the sequence has been milked enough
(Too much, even, for personal taste)
Senses two and three have just been adressed
By leaving the rest in Fate's overflowing

Plate.
Youth's shell won't ever shave off clean
And splinters gather in the Heart.
Bullshit ends when the tongue descends,
And bullshit starts when bullshit

Starts.
I don't care for a woman caricaturizing
Herself; I hate it more when it's done to me
So give me your pad and pencil, darlin'
Here's a sketch culled from

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