CONFESSION ZERO

I traded in my pen and paper for a new keyboard and left behind all my cadence and metaphor... My fingers gliding along her backspace and tab savoring, staying longer on her improper nouns than on her damp and present tense verbs. She yearns to feel my tap tapping fingers and my rhythm of enter, control and escape. She pulls me in with her forward tab and insert keys as I move victoriously across her caps lock and F8. O! If only the world had such a traversable face. © 2009 by mark prime

Of this moment what is it that you want? Her gallant nakedness clutching at flowers and shaking herself upright again. Her margins and chest filled with grand laughter at the things she’s most ready to do. Her eyes reading wonderfully tall and magnificent letters dispatched from all points of her reach. Her lips coursing a voyage over freedom with a blazing hope, shaking the limbs of all dread-filled faces. Her émigré colors moving together, loving, holding one another in luscious, tender whispers. To witness her thighs draped over our ready shoulders as we seek out her yielding flesh. The winged creature with her supple neck bent down, smiling upon her just desserts. Her rebellious shape hovering over the people’s hunger, steadying herself for eager tongues. That she rise up now, and with her flesh, wet and yearning, touch upon those most in need. Her long and loving hands opening up to us in freedom, lifting our sleepy faces to the sun. © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman...

I cannot teach you violence, as I do not myself believe in it. I can only teach you not to bow your heads before any one, even at the cost of your life. __Mahatma Gandhi To the hardened freedom on the crown of winter where coldness flourishes, they've come again. Bloody faced women in their nightclothes, humming such lovely howls as they rock their children to sleep, listening for footsteps on the porch, torment... come… stumbling home. Women brushing their hair as if it were love, daubing makeup to dilute the venom they can’t escape. Tears, useless, even their children’s smiles carry them to frowning. Thoughts of shattering themselves down upon the night of fear, bloody faced women brought to an end, drained, fingers gliding over the cold barrel. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman Twit it!