The desert called; its tone silent. It asked me out, and so I went. One patch of dune looked like the rest; so, I couldn't tell which place was best to burn just like a slice of bread stuck in the slot, 'mid burning threads: those glowing wires, exuding heat that burn the head and burn the feet. And so, I marched across the sands in search of more temperate lands, but I never reached such a place and vanished there, without a trace.
Something shakes the high grass,
what it is I can't say.
I see flowers tremble,
near a part-line splay.
I hear dry stems rattle
to some darting moves.
But a creature's existence
still remains unproved.
Maybe it's delirium,
or a trick of the wind.
I catch no flash of fur
on which my claim to pin.
Even from the watchtower,
my grounds are circumstantial.
I can't give proof of life --
at least not that's substantial.
Do I look blurry to a fish,
as if a floating cloud?
Does it expect I’ll dart away
as silence rings aloud?
I love a little door to nowhere, with no apparent reason to be. Not under a sign or in the square, but in a privy wall or thick tree. Somewhere one would least expect a door. Somewhere that begs the question: "Where to?" A place for mean rogues, scamps and whores? A hideaway that offers no clue. It would probably just disappoint: to learn the sanctum's private intrigues. Not some tough, sleazy speakeasy joint, or bohemian savants' league. And so, I never, ever knock, but let the story form in my mind - a tale to titillate and shock, one that leaves no misanthrope behind.
The sign read: "Flee Market,"
and so, of course, I fled.
The hawkers called to me
as I sped like hot lead.
From what I was fleeing,
I have no idea.
But I found a cheap chair
down at the IKEA.
It seems there's no need for a sign that says: "No Outsiders, Inside!" Wherever you may draw the line, it can't sensibly be denied that the outsider who steps across - having crossed - is an insider. No need to consult the rules or boss Re: the "IN" side of the divider.
To find oneself within a crate - packed inside and labeled "Freight" seems like the worst that things can get, but then I peered out through the slit, and what a thing it was to see a croc's keen eye stare back at me. It had so many freakin' teeth, both on the top and underneath! I concluded the box 'tweren't so bad. To stay a while, I would be glad!
Of all the masters & all the slaves,
I find that mind fire burns in waves.
And sometimes the emotions derail
too quickly to lengthen the exhale.
Trees falling in the forest, unheard,
can still crush a nest of baby birds.
Turns out it's not the sound that matters,
but what the destruction leaves in tatters.
The phrase “Queen of Slaves” comes from a Percy Bysshe Shelley poem (Canto 4, No. 24)
flow on, Dark River; slip through the night. midnight's thick clouds block the moonlight. your voice drowned out by insect chirr. a Huck Finn raft drifts by at a blur: the rafters unseen; their secret stays hush... but for those red eyes in the underbrush.
I'm swimming in the lake -
miles from one and all,
feeling peace and calm - when
the monster comes to call.
What could drag me under?
I'll never, ever know.
Some will always wonder
what caused the undertow.
The lake is surface calm,
and should be at its depths,
but in its muck lie bones
of those pulled under breath.
Some will swim tomorrow,
and in the days to come.
Most will come and go,
and just feel blissful numb.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 