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Memory1.
I will take one flower a day.
I do not know their names
but they are brighter than anything

else I found under the sheets
of conifers. The clotted colours
sit dubious, dew collecting on stems

I hate to fracture. I love
the tenuous ease, an entire plant  
ascending from thin soil. An excavation

uncovers roots like fishbones
with their message, an infinitesimal
howl. In frantic pulse of tattoo they plea:

"Remembering is destroying"
But still,
I wallow.

2
One quiescent shriek  of warning before
the compulsion of alveolar
collapse [my lungs, my thorax,
undone and tightening]
    My breath is a bomb.

I am e
On a Rainy AfternoonLike outside patters, Chopin's rain
Drips steady with the flatted A
On sakura of orange peel

And washes down my sun-sweet meal:
A harvest from the girl who plays
A strain that wanes but comes again.
To Darwin, on Hearing of the 22 ChronometersDid the ticking drive you mad?
Twenty two clocks to tie you
to Greenwich, to the damp land,
to the paved streets and spires
and the blank glazed windows
of progress and age?  Did time
become fathoms deep, and the
dwindling abyss transform to
thoughts of deep, deep time?
The blind eyes of bottom dwellers,
the feelers of those that survived,
the wellings of primordial soup
perhaps flavoured your thoughts.

(you never saw them. We know
you never saw the elemental broth,
the creatures like to dinosaurs
in a Blackpool of phosphorescence.
But the mystery, perhaps. The thought
that things exist beyond your imagining.
The thought t
Nascent Death
Death borders upon our birth
Such a barren wasteland embraced
within the Empress' nurturing bassinet
She envelops me in the ice-clad evergreens
And ivy baby-blanket; snaring, strangling -
The veins that bind. She is life;
Mother nature, Queen of repose
and fair Demeter. My eye
fixates upon the hollow, never-ending
sunlight. Where time has become a dazed,
gentle creek. This bizarre entrapment
shrouds itself in serenity. Seemingly endless
as I traverse to Styx

                               &
Elysian AutumnThese are
ginkgo days;
and we,
autumnling,
Arcadian
asphodel,
blooming
away from
the sandals
of shepherds,
who trample;
myrtling victors
and wreathing
the walls of
sea-lucked caves,
Arachne-webbed
and dew-bedecked,
where
jewel-rosetted
nymphs make
play;

and is it because
you are not
quite as
gentle
as me
that I
fear and despair?
chastity chaos
but never was
one so
considerately
fair;

it's simple
to love when
you're watching
the world with
such grace
from a place
in the
grass by
a lake far
away.
four cylinder iconoclastephemeral sun shower
August eve
light green
and the enjoyable rhythm-
clutchshiftreleasegas
clutchshiftreleasegas
until my economy wonder
rolls to the power band in
fourth-
a smooth suburban run
past mixed-use
commercial
shaded side roads to
familial developments whence associations rule

heat dust bathe off forgotten lanes
pathing to the no longer
railway stops of
past sugar cane turpentine towns
cattle still rule to my south
but this four cylinder iconoclast
would suffer to be lost on
their single long roads

bop bobble downshift turn
bookended by tall city tall shadows
I hope hop through yellows
scrumbledumble rumbling
brick streets of oth
Dirge I- The Sun Said to ChicagoThe Sun said to Chicago,
     "Oh land of sad, sad stone-"
That is all I heard, as the radiance
Was devoured by the continuingcloud

The sun does not shine in Chicago.
I saw many faces here
Who would've been sad,
But they were empty instead.
I saw two silvery ghosts, deer,
Convene in an empty lot.
They conversed, in Silvan tongues,

         "Shall we leave then?"

       "Yes- the grass is losing here.
The trees are dead, the stones are
Slaves
           To the hands of the empty."

The city's metro wurms squirm;
They are infesting the ground.
 They scream, unlike the silent dying
Of Novum Eboracum, Screaming
They are
I Belong to The HurricaneI belong to the hurricane –
the screaming, untamed maelstrom that cleaves away puppet strings
and sharpens its teeth on misconceptions.

I belong to the harsh cold winter of an aching truth –
one that beats a drum like a heartbeat under the graveyards,
whispering things that our ancestors knew (but we have forgotten).

I belong to the hurricane –
yeah, that's the one – the same storm that broke my back and scratched at my eyes.
It flayed open my chest and showed me my own diamond bones.

I belong to angels with battle-torn wings and voices raw from howling!
I belong to war –
and to the air that sings a dirg
immortaland i used to lie beneath the winter's still morning,
watching the cornflower-blue gently bleed through cloud.
there's something that glistens in your eye, so subtle
but i don't want another lover, don't let me take your hand.

and i used to need you always, my lover, oh butterfly
flutter by me so softly, like silken stolen kisses
we used to hold hands by midnight candlelight but now,
i wish you would not return, for i will not survive you.

there is something secret and untouched in your story
something that stones will turn their heads to listen for;
you were the beauty ground up into dust, darling-wilde,
and i don't want you to be
YouI want to write you.
I want to scoop up all that you are: a lovely, bubbling, primitive, raw being,
and lay you in the margins of my paper.
I want to scrawl you with idiosyncrasies and lies and flaws;
I want to weave you a beautiful tapestry of imperfections to choose from,
because that is what makes characters come to life.

I want to know every aspect of you.
I want to know every lover's name and trace every scar,
and I want to know your stories.
I want to erase the beginnings and write only the ends,
because you have forgotten to tell me who you are,
and I want to know what happens next.
I want to etch you into my mind, darling
A Petal Fired By MoonlightA petal fired by moonlight’s glow,
Pure white, translucent as a pearl,
Discarded on a portmanteau,
With velvet in its curl.

A poet’s hand upon the sill,
With ink about the fingertips,
With blood upon the ragged frill
And ice about his lips.

A knife upon the dusty floor
Lies scattered in a pile of scraps,
Of gems discarded, ancient lore,
While on the window taps

A raven of unnatural gloss,
In iridescent cerulean,
Come to remind him of his loss
And stare at him and preen.

A carmine trail begins to stain
The woodwork on the floor,
And seeps into the weathered grain
And trickles toward the door.

A moon upon a sea of
i saw god leaving the shoreLast night I dreamed of blue-grey shores
Of miserable black rocks 
that pushed back a tide that crawled with the dull wind 
And how I moved so quickly, 
Towards the salty edge of the earth;
She told me to run, 
To kick back the sand as hard as I could 
until something appeared.
And I suddenly saw haunting, stone walls
Gleaming in their symmetry
Made of pale, sturdy nostalgia 
with deja vu dripping down
Slipping like liquid mercury 
I ran towards it eagerly, and chased my own reflection - 
But whenever I caught a glimpse of myself 
The drops would dribble and scatter away.
She told me to run further 
And my heart ached and my spine arched
against the stinging, salty wind
Yet before I knew it, the ocean floor moved 
And I ran down shores 
at every turn-
each perpendicular to the previous one.
Everywhere, identical blackened stone barriers
They are all the same, she said
Their crashing waves make the
MapsRed and blue and green and black veins stretch
across pages, spider-webbing out across expanses,
across golden fields, green pastures,
and evergreen blanketed hillsides
that reach towards mountain tops.
The cardinal nor the rose can claim us.
We are more free than these boundaries insist upon,
free to break through their dashed lines;
it's all just an illusion, like so much else
between destinations and dreams.

We speak of wants and desires so freely
until we submit to being folded into creases,
never neatly, and always with a struggle
to open up and expand beyond outstretched arms.
Our seams will never touch like this, never
Artist, Take Up--Oh beautiful artist, take up your
  Dark materials and sketch
The skies,
        Hold this moment and that
Tight; Caress the grass and the
         Trees with your pencil,
    Let your pen sing love songs to
 The curves of this face,
The soft textures of hair and fur and shirt and skin-
Oh artist, take up
        The lonely calling, yours and
The child who waches in her own world,
That painting that lies on the wall...
       As a lover, woo:
 The world, our playmate and nursemaid,
     Loves to be flattered. She will
 Stand still for you for years and years,
Mountains holdingh patiently for
            Many por
forgetforget love.

      the ways of being       the molecular lightning

      the sheerness of the universe.

the hand-prints
       left everywhere.
  

forget love--

    the pure stunts of the body   
   somewhere above the invisible stunts of ourselves.

forget winter

   & everywhere else love is possible.

        its weightlessness

       its cloudy material
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More from *Crafedo-Esquire

Lurid NerveWe stay for thunder.
That lurid nerve in clamor
Sang across god, hellbent.

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May 24, 2012
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What I'm Left With

:iconcrafedo-esquire:

Plucking along the curves of the sunburst electric guitar
Becomes the skip of so many grass clipping sighs
On the walk back home from her house
All those apple cores rolling back and forth across books in my bag.
The steel guitar strings now filthy with song
Like the black tatters of my favorite sweatshirt
We used to take turns wearing week after week
Until every seam threatened to unravel.
And when they finally did I sealed the shreds away
In a box with duct tape that sits now in the closet, always
Shut even though I'm sure there's still a strand of her blonde hair
Wrapped somewhere in those black folds.
It resonates on the top shelf like the high e string
On which I now play a tune called "Missed Opportunity"
Composed as I stared at the sequoia cone on my desk.
The one whose spines are shaped like so many cyclonic leaves
That glow yellow and purple in the fading light
Reminding me of watching "The Fountain" time and again wondering
If when my time comes I'll fear it
Or plunge headfirst into death with a laugh and a smile like Papa did.
The same kind of smile that accompanies a tune pristinely, perfectly played
So that one must close their eyes to better hear the strings make their ending trail.
An ending trail like ashes being whisked away by wind over a grey sea,
A thin film still clinging to the hand that threw them.
A thin film that was wiped clean with the hotel starchy washcloth
Now draped over my chair drying and smudged brown
with Papa's string bean garden arms that he hugged me with
After I played him a song on my sunburst electric guitar
For the very first time.
:iconcrafedo-esquire:
Some condensed histories of objects that I share my bedroom with.

Also, I think it should be noted that this piece is undergoing heavy revisions. However, I've noticed that a lot of people seem to really enjoy this version so I will likely keep it up regardless of whatever other versions I create.

April 9, 2012

*Edit: WOAH Daily Lit Deviation out of nowhere! Seriously, thank you guys, that really truly means a lot to me. Go riabh míle maith agaibh!
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:iconsigma-echo-seven:
~Sigma-Echo-Seven Sep 13, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I wish I could write poetry with such effortless accuracy as this. Well done. :)
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:iconcrafedo-esquire:
*Crafedo-Esquire Sep 13, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you kindly, sir! I truly appreciate that. Many thanks for faving as well ;)
Reply
:iconliliwrites:
`LiliWrites Sep 11, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Fantastic! My dad plays guitar, so poetry that connects it to other things always resonates with me. Very well done. :+fav:
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:iconcrafedo-esquire:
*Crafedo-Esquire Sep 11, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you very much! I'm glad to hear that it resonated with you. One thing I've learned to be consistent in my life is that music has a knack for adhering itself to memories in an often profound way.
Reply
:iconxlntwtch:
*xlntwtch Sep 10, 2012   Writer
:iconcongratssignplz: ...on the DLD Pick of the Day!
This piece "rushes headfirst" into readers' hearts, with the accompaniment of "sunburst electric guitar." Thank you. :+fav:
Reply
:iconcrafedo-esquire:
*Crafedo-Esquire Sep 11, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Why thank you! I truly appreciate it :) It's great to hear that it has the emotional impact I was hoping for.
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:iconxlntwtch:
*xlntwtch Sep 11, 2012   Writer
You're very welcome. :heart:
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:icondailylitdeviations:
=DailyLitDeviations Sep 10, 2012
Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DailyLitDeviations and has been selected as our "Pick of the Day". It is featured in a news article here: [link] and on our main page.

Keep writing and keep creating.
Reply
:iconcrafedo-esquire:
*Crafedo-Esquire Sep 10, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Oh my goodness, what an honor! You have my gratitude and endless appreciation. Thank you! :w00t:
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:iconladyofgaerdon:
=LadyofGaerdon Jun 14, 2012  Professional Writer
:wave: Hi! You've been featured by The Favorites Project at #LITplease!
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