[x]

Reversed Singularity? but of time, i do digress
& my intentions have been writ
in sumerian, and dreamt; but

here to live obsolete:
swift swing, precarious pang
with my heart's guiltless intention
--fingernails scratch & fit

your name; tasting still
succulence, feeling still
tyranny of will, being still
drowned cortex-deep, hearing still

--the wisp of a faltered laughter
sheltered & swaying & playing

amongst the dead, the horned
honoured and torn, formed
long and forlorn'd--

oh time, my bittersweet demise
dying is no longer a sacred art
and is sincerity in its purest form
cloaked with fault & artless bourne

the hungry look...the hungry look,

the wolves
weaving through
and around
the gully of your throat like wraiths,

we can feel you rusting, lost one;

i know that drainpipes and fenders
begin to crackle after winter wet

and that there’s a touch of snow
in all of us,

but no one,
no one could hold you as tightly as you do,
your whole body, bloodless in this arrest,

and if you will not let your fetters show
i will show you
there’s a place for going, and you haven’t gone there yet;

where quantum particles, once in contact, can retain a connection
even when separated

where you
wander up to a stranger
with your shirt inside-out
and say &lsq

starspunobserving the romanticism
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.

you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
you watched
all my pick up lines
drop things.

we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
of starlight,

pretended
that two teens at the park
at midnight
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)

your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
in thoughtful
paths.

i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.

i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
stars

Whale Songs of the PacificListen, the girls swallowed by whales are the ones that grow up lucky.

Listen, no one will warn you about the little boys with the magpie eyes and the fists swinging splinters of glass. No one will warn you that their smiles are sweeter than their words are sweeter than their souls are sweeter than their intentions. No one will warn you of the sheer weight of the world.

Listen, sometimes girls are fragile. Sometimes girls are frothy. Sometimes girls let boys nuzzle "I love you"s into their necks and sometimes girls drink the wine of believing them.

Listen, sometimes the boys really are sweet, and little girls' tart puckered mouths can't ta

It starts with a flash-bang and a Majulahi.
June's hauled her here again and
she's tapping at my classroom window,
A gazillion tiny fingers rapping in succession
(When she said "invitation" I didn't realise she meant
soaking half the country, the spike in umbrella prices has
nothing to do with me)
What's worse than an impatient child
is one with the whole atmosphere as her battering ram
when she tries to say something the urgency brims over
and one million exclamation marks
is beginning to sound like static frazzling
out on the pavements

ii.
She is without choice: when Cloud mother tips her out
she must go, and go she will
caught in an obtuse cycle, fought over

sci-fi stories about the end of the world1.

the species invents prophecies
all of which contain terrors

ex;

a beleaguered sun collapses into itself

2.

It's not yet night when the committee interrupts the regularly scheduled programming
and describes the inertia as unforgivable.

Outside the grief, the cardboard:
Every time you teach a computer about distance
the terrorists win.

In every scenario: No colorado left,
and survivors leave messages
for the future.

Before the last people on Earth forgot how to speak,
he thought of that day.

The committee was right
to describe space as an absence.

3.

The more artistic
of the species' prophecies include fields

Some
prese

despondenti.

"are you sleepy today?"
"yes."
"but you were sleepy yesterday."
"i know."

ii.

she stirs her pomegranate green-tea until it turns from clear to purple
setting it on her bedside table and climbing back into bed again.
her fingers follow the bluer-than-usual constellation veins on her wrists and down
to the freckle on her forearm and then the scar on the inside of her elbow
crossing the tendon as if it were crux.
and then she remembered that God hasn't been with her lately.

iii.

today is long and sunny but when she steps outside the humidity creaks her bones
and her skin starts to inflame.
she assumes that if getting the mail

cosmic background radiationThey say that the big bang was not an actual "bang". It was really just static. Static, like the interference of radio waves. Of course, the universe did not happen instantaneously. The big bang took 760,000 years to happen. 760,000 years of static, and bang, the universe happened.

I get myself together and actually go out. I go to see the New York Philharmonic perform the works of John Cage at Lincoln Center. I walk out during the second movement of 4'33". There's a very small difference between life and death. I walk home, my chin pulled down against my neck. I hum a constant note, providing myself with my own tinnitus.

I focus on this no

Radioactive Snowflakes Oh boy, boy, boy
For the last shall be,
and that arctic disposition will melt away in time
written on a hearth rug, read it and then
turn the dial back and tune into Goodbye FM

"Oh boy, boy, boy
Goldilocks should have been clad in HazMat,
bear in mind the Gouda enacts the rat trap"

For the last shall be,
when fractals free fall from the sky
thickening icycle eyes, cementing prisms with time
...and I
measured it all in half-life

Oh boy, boy boy
That arctic disposition will melt away in

Sharing Communion Amongst Creation -DFC Day 30I.
The sun stretches her caressing hands.
Balancing on the horizon, it seems.
Last rays of day scatter across the lands.

As through a glacier, the light gleams
Over meadows and memories past,
Dripping off cardinal's wings into azure streams.

Galloping alongside stallions unsurpassed,
Golden beams falling with prancing leaves
And slipping into cracks of canyons vast.

Shadow wraps around illumination like sleeves.
Billows as smoldering incense in sacred art.
The day has left, has hastened like ghosts and thieves.

Shade stands resolute and rampart.
Rapt with the veiled, vanquished moon.
Hidden in devious clouds, the waves devoid o

SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.

You were still birdsong then, and thunderstorms, and your bodyheat melted the frost claws that held him tight. You held onto him as his November deepened. When he howled, you howled with him, and the wind played with your voices and pressed the softness of your lungs against your cageribs—and then against each other's.

November became solstice, and

Harvest MoonThree a.m. moonlight
across lazy dust motes; a
tree scrapes the window.
Your arm weighs on my hip like
whispered promises of love.

preludesi.
blue rose into the city backdrop
like balloons, a million for the
morning sun prelude.

ii.
i've not slept a dream
but i have cried a salty face
and letters spilled like beans
into my moleskine,
almost as virgin as i once was
with few stories between my covers.

iii.
the kettle's belly boils
like my head upon a pillow.

iv.
i am guilty for rarely finishing my tea
even when i use the small mugs;
pour, rinse, repeat.

v.
perhaps today i will play dead.

vi.
perched behind my blinds
it dawns on me that i am surrounded
by walled neighbours, strangers,
they're just preludes to lovers
the way i am always
prelude to the one.

it's your call, starlingmy sister is going to be a cyborg
and i hope she stays gentle. i heard
that cochlear implants

can sometimes become commanders
the same way that learning commands
formative love. i hope she

stays humble and continues
to make my tinctures in the endearing
way she does,

dissolutions gentle
enough to flood underground tunnels
with flute-song.

she takes my wrist by force
and she decrees that all knowledge
happens in a snow-felled wood

at sunset. it's like the natural life
inside her yearns still
for that brackish obliteration,

and maybe when she's a cyborg
it will detach itself from its carbon
sequestration and fly out to its avalon,

and,

relearning i. stardust scatters with the
direction of my pupils –
maybe secretly i am an
astrology teacher, waiting
for a sign to wink
happily at me.

ii. excuse the rambling
nature of forgotten question
marks, but tell me:
would you like to be the
object of handwritten clichés
would you like to whisper
secrets in my palm
and would you
like to be the possibility

iii. air brushes against my
skin like the torn petals
of a flower still standing.
[ hold your head up high, honey,
and tell tomorrow to wait just
a while,

iv. so you can figure out
the difference between
patience and having all the

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More from ~ClioStorm

haiku2a stream passes by
my window, lifts its neck to
kiss the pockmarked sky.

d'ArcI could almost hear the flames
in the sunrise that morning,
when we led her out to die.
Her hair was shorn and her body
starved of life. I saw in her
my daughter. But this woman
was a traitor, and on the
other side, a saint. She
did not weep. I am an
honest man. My father
was a butcher, meat-stained
and hurried. A little man,
but his skill with a knife -
oh! you have not seen such cuts!
They brought in a lamb,
bleating and blind, slit its throat
in one straight line and
left me to mop the blood.
I could not look.

The crowd howled and bayed
and tossed like the ocean,
a press of filthy bodes.
I shut my ears. I did my

keroseneHe takes her hand and leads her into the dust behind the woods. The sky is alive with the scent of kerosene and backstreet fires in old tin cans. The bushes are smoke-rusted and thin enough that they are almost imaginary. She breathes. The last shots of sunset burst outwards, blazing a final trail across the horizon, and night settles round her.

blackbirdi hear her first in the hollow beneath the rain tree. she is echoing there, weeping like the tide - a rise and a fall, a rise and a fall.

the tree is an emergency. it oozes disbelief and self-pity.

i see she has a knife. as she weeps, she is carving words into the tree around the tears it sheds. words and blackbirds, weeping words.

i press my face against the bloated trunk. this is my tree; this is mine.

baked goodsmy god is in my eyes,
bypassing truth for
tranquility. an egg
cracks and showers,
opening my world.

it is the simple moments
when the world does not
even pause for breath
but we do and we stare
at the spinning. here
is the answer:

you came. you went.
there was nothing more to it.

curve'every night
we return to sleep
in the foetal position'
he said. imagine,
i thought, night
passing like
a brief cloud
across the earth,
ever-circling,
and everyone
curling back to
womb-form.
she had
carpal tunnel
syndrome but
it was unimportant.
what was important
was that every night
her wrists turned in
like mine and
my scars and
her translucency
are all irrelevant.
these are veins:
they are blue.
so is a river
but it cannot
outrun time.

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tree, fiddler crab

by ~ClioStorm, Dec 6, 2012, 1:25:18 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

It took days to hollow out the soft parts
of the trunk, dig out the tree-flesh and sap,
polish the raw wood so that when he sat,
there would be no splinters. He carved his name
into the side, like a blessing, a declaration
of good fortune, and stowed his forest inside.

tree, fiddler crabby ~ClioStorm

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2012-2013 ~ClioStorm

i don't know what this is

it may be part of a larger whole

or maybe it is just a small whole thing

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-12-30

~ClioStorm creates a beautiful image with simple language in tree, fiddler crab. ( Suggested by *0hgravity and Featured by ^neurotype )

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~gummyrabbit Dec 31, 2012 Student Traditional Artist

I like your description in the artist's comment part.

Reply

~ClioStorm Jan 4, 2013 Student Writer

haha thank you

Reply

~anapests-and-ink Dec 31, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I keep coming back to this, trying to find the right words to say, but I'm still speechless.

Reply

Mood: Love

~pakuuna Dec 30, 2012 Student Traditional Artist

This is a beautiful poem, truly breathtaking! And the title sounds like a line from the TV show Supernatural

Reply

~ClioStorm Jan 4, 2013 Student Writer

Oh gosh, I was hoping no-one would notice... Yeah, I stole the title straight out of Supernatural. It was supposed to be a place-holder but then it just kind of stuck... I think it suits the poem, though. Thank you!

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~MickeyFebruary Dec 30, 2012 Student Writer

As part of a whole or a whole itself, I think it is great either way. The imagery and feeling this small poem transfers is beautiful.

Reply

~ClioStorm Jan 4, 2013 Student Writer

thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it.

Reply

~Karinta Dec 30, 2012 Student General Artist

It seems like a small whole thing to me. A flawless thing.

Reply

~ClioStorm Jan 4, 2013 Student Writer

thank you

Reply

~Karinta Jan 4, 2013 Student General Artist

Aw, you're welcome.

Reply