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Davaothe equatorial sun
soft-etched on my skin,
there, del sur

islands away

the tan lines of shallow-bathing
in your eyes

there is so much time between

you
and
I

you spoil me, featherbreath
do i dare commit my memory
into dreams?

i laugh upon waking,
i did not realize--
i run when i go to you
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
sea featherin the breaking of the morning we tore apart our ivory shells
     our blood-red hearts are saturated in spume & sea spells
with the ache from the brine gathering around you
your ankles slippery, your mouth
moving liquid through
mine
   i had never seen a more beautiful shoreline

gunmetal breaths
on shivering, silver shores

you were ebbing to my flowing
you were coming; i was going

i wrote in the sand that i was yours

on the coast i could feel
salt on my tongue - dew from the
ocean in my lungs
& i was your pearl
latched from the inside to keep everyone out
speaking in rhymes, & cotton tides

         this is when you pull my body fro
Five Seasons (Alternate)   There was this moment, early last May, when I could have glanced up from the book I was reading at the breakfast table.
    I could look out my window and see you standing on my lawn, this waif in a windbreaker grinning at a daydream you're probably too old for. I could bring you an umbrella. I could invite you in for coffee, and we could lose the whole day debating questionable Scrabble plays. We could take to the streets after dark and try to find an all-night diner that will feed us both for less than fifteen dollars. I could fall in love with you.
    But I don't.
...spring
    You go home with nothing but a story about how springtime leaves you feeling lonely. Your roommate blows off a dinner date to take you out for drinks. You send a Chardonnay up to the stage between sets and the singer takes you home.
    The new girl at work works up the nerve to ask me out.
    I don't have a reason to say no.
    Your
Escape VelocityF = G(m1m2)/r2

Black – true black – is the absence of light. Darkness is defined by what it is not, by the lack of something else. When we say a black hole, we truly mean that; black. Blacker than black. An absence of not only light, but of time, distance, anything.

The night was scary when I was little. I hated the dark, but couldn’t bear to sleep so long as the light was on, any light, burning on the other side of my eyelids. I used to have nightmares about dark things in dark corners, shadowy figures with shadowy fingers trailing along my spine. I always woke up cold and fumbling frantically for the lamp, but the aura o
The art of blacking outHow I wish I could say strangers

crept inward, night by night,

stealing my medication and

rearranging my furniture.

But I know it's not true.

There are holes inside

my head. Oxidation.

No one unlocks this door

but me. I am just

forgetting.
Hubris.today
we're younger
than we're ever gonna
be.

i. and we finally did it,
drove to the mountains
watched meteors
and let the mattress
grow damp
under our love
under the stars

ii. there are things to
be reconciled

iii. my eyes sting like
chlorine, but from
crying,

I finally disappointed
them;
the highest order of shame

iv. but you cannot put
people into pockets;
good, bad
don't mix
with them

v. and I cannot choose
who I love

vi. your lenses are straight,
elite and proud
mine, open and accumulating
filth

vii. maybe
I should run away more often,
we never talk like this

viii. and you have to realise
that I live in
the thirteen words of prisonsometimes
if we were lucky
the sun would rise before we went to bed
and i recalled how it was only ever
the people who had it the worst who used to say
'one day there will be sunlight'
like one of those six word stories.
one day there would be sunlight.
and i remember how it was only ever the people
who were serving their life sentences
who i would ask 'what's it like to never see the sun'
and they would only ever  answer
'it's enough just to know it's there'
and i always wanted to take out one word
seven was too long; but i didnt want to take out
the meaning.
and it was odd because i wondered
what hope these people had.
but as it so turned
bitter hug of mortalityso you sit there,
your awkward little hands folding awkward little birds,
as if you could inhale your own paper wings.
so you sit there,
and you think
about you watching the people and the people
not watching you.
and i whisper darling,
darling the only thing you're good for
is reading walt whitman out loud
to your used-to-be-white walls
until your throat chips, and your eyes dust over.
and you just shift your weight
and shake your head
like something
buzzed in your ear.
SaturdayWe slept on the floor when you drank.

– Like worried puppies
too small to reach the bed,
and sat with our backs to the wall
by the bathroom while you showered,
we hid car keys,
and telephones.

Peering over ledges,
I watched your listless eyes
wander to windows
thinking of your mother and marriage,
toes curled around the coffee table corner,
and we begged you to sleep.

Zach cleaned the sinks,
the rugs and the ashtrays,
capped the bottles and placed them
high on the shelves.
You woke to cartoons,
a headache, a fresh
pack of cigarettes. –

We never talked on Sunday mornings.
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
My Husband Tried To Make Love To Memy husband
tried to make love to me
.

he was topaz, he was
grim, he was the chalk
and smoky fire
of fear and gnawed-at
angels
-
he was the bright face of fruit.
he was horrible and strange. he stared,
licked and rolled me in his palms
like a cigarette, wordlessly

dragged me from my grassy bed
by the bones in my legs and
pinned me down in that darkly
smiling, jagged place where

he put his hands on me and dragged
the crushed moans from my chest
made me yell
like a dog

and oh how frightened
and trembling
and in awe i was of his caverns,
his black and rolling eyes

how his pomegranates bled
and stung

and trickled, bitt
I, BULBOUS: Page 1IT was a dark and stormy night.

Or rather: it is, at present, a dark and stormy night.

You open I, BULBOUS to page 1 and already, on page 1 of I, BULBOUS, you find yourself trapped in some sort of lair and, resisting your best readerly instincts to put the book down and do something better with your time, you keep reading, eyes scrolling across the page and down the paragraph, rolling like a twin pair of pinballs along the predetermined course of some great textual Rube Goldberg machine whose denouement, though as yet unimaginable to you, is - or so you imagine - crushingly unimpressive, and still you read, and the further you read, the low
A Name You Can Trust   Indignant? Disgruntled? Need an attorney who won't back down (no matter how many mafia hit men are on your trail)? Need to sue the smirk off that jerk who dared to diagnose you with anger issues? Tired of “justice” getting in the way of the benefits that you deserve? If you want passionate, aggressive, and ruthlessly persistent legal representation, it’s time you called Winier Trust, an attorney who will stop at nothing (nothing!) to insure you win your case.

           Winier Trust is more than just an attorney; he's your personal advocate. Trust works beside you not only as a legal representative, but as a close and c
tiger sharksYou take what you can get. You always find a way to make do. Your mother taught you that. Your mother drank wine through a straw. When you were fifteen, you watched her take down your father's hunting rifle from above the fireplace and shoot your dog, your best friend, that had got run over by your neighbour's truck and had to be put down. When you were fifteen your mother held you as you cried about your dog, your best friend, that had got run over by your neighbour's truck and had to be put down. She didn't say a word as you did but when you were fifteen, you caught her weeping in the middle of the night to your father, who apologized that
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More from =tetrarchangel

FragMENTALised
It was not a breakdown,
Nor a falling apart. This
Was an act
A hammer falling, onto
Someone who was not an anvil

Nor a sword

[And schizo came from shattered,
To divide or split,
Hence the confusion
For this mind shattered coherently
Nietzsche claimed that there was a community of souls within a single body]

Yet dissociated not merely from each other,
These shadows scared of
The passage of one behind them,
Ever elusive to themselves,
But dissociated also from the body,
Taking on pseudo-carnal form,
Spreading like dark rivulets
In the cold rain.

Rainwater,
Whose analogy for uncontrolled electricity
Is firm, finds the
Pa
Tournesol Plus Caesium
The impossible disaster
That twisted up the widest roads,
Those roads that regenerated
Beyond belief,
Cracked the containment.

And from concrete spheres comes
A lingering death. All death
Seems to linger, this intimacy
Over all the earth
You are closer now, to us. And further. Always
You go in one direction
But the world
Means you're never headed anywhere.

And Fukushima plants its sunflowers,
Those pied seeds
That, honeyed, we would eat,
But that was then, and this is now,
The fault made, the line transgressed,
The tournesol that rises,
To shine like the sun that bears its name,
Filled with every form of radiation.

Eme
Of The Lovelorn
The consequence of
Going to the old
Cattle market,
Cornmarket,
Was a new degree of Lovelorn.

Any true emotion is more physical
Than mental,
A grip within,
Wresting control and leading
To every
Unwilled place.

HE would have had a field day with me and with this.

The mathematics have not been
Done
But who gives
For that?
It's a matter of intuition
It was a place of love and it was a place of lorn. Loss.
Aching loss,
And that wasn't the principal memory,
Which had been overwhelmed [See Above]
Well,
The change, that so oft-desired change, [See Above]
Came down,
Like a hole.

This was
Supposed to have been
An a
Novaturient
[I adopted this word
So I owe it everything
Because it'll outlast me
Only if, like a child, I tend to it]

[Truth is, novaturient
Is just what I am. Desiring change,
Desiring alteration.
Changing my alter ego. Changing
The fact I still have an ego at all.]

The revolutionary spirit
Shall not go in circles
Ascension possible,
Transcension desirable,
Novaturience
Is the very spirit
That permits
Liberation.

SUPERNOVA
That
Is what
Is truly desired,
Or else to live
In Andromeda,
Where the novae, those
Overconsuming, past-it stars
Are overwhelmed by their partner:
Cataclysm, new nuclear,
A supernova, then,
Tearing up th
Aphotic
Lightlessness is
The necessary state.
Let the equatorial state be blessed,
Rise sun and shine,
For the set demi-day,
Then
Let night be dark,
Lightlessness is the desired way.

The blind pianist is considered the most blessed.

It is as if
Externally
War has increasingly raged,
Encroached ever more closely
The Blitz element of Blitzkrieg
Coming down upon a single, oppressed life
Painting the windows with blackout paint,
Keeping the invaders out.

Make
This
Place
Aphotic, for
A dark heart comes from a not dark enough surrounding. Order
Is the balance
Stripped of any symbolism – there
Is no inherent goodness in a p
This Onslaught
The relentless barrage is rain
Steel rain, hopeless rain,
The walls withstand it but not
Without constant ache. A fortress
Can hurt.

We lurk still deeper. Keep-
Ing to the keep. Shaken,
Not lost,
Tired of the siege. Tired of the constant onslaught.

The battering we take.

The bruises to our homes, the nights
Lost to the same battles. The war
Has barely stepped outside
The designation of a single, endless battle. One
We never win. We have yet
To have a breakout from this place.

There's no refuge but this
Constant, rainstruck, stony grey
Inside. And inside
Is something we appreciate,
Though we also start to wish
For an

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February 1, 2011
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:icontetrarchangel:
UPDATE:
Thanks to the amazing ^NicSwaner for the Daily Deviation. My first ever one - and this poem was written in the sort of manic rush it describes, after I'd come home from watching The Social Network and had Sorkinian quick talking in my head.

The Explosion Coil
An entry in The Hyper Poem
The true version is here [link]
The ReadMe, so you can know how it works! [link]
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Daily Deviation

Given 2013-03-19
The Explosion Coil by =tetrarchangel is one entry in an amazing display of hypertext poetry, a form of interactive literature in which the reader is led through the writing by choosing when to proceed to the next poem by clicking the links embedded in each phrase of the poem. In this Hyper Poem, every phrase connects to the beginning of a poem, and each poem contains a moral. ( Featured by ^NicSwaner )

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:iconpanicrusnik09:
Mood: Love ~PaniCrusnik09 Mar 23, 2013
Very eloquent, marvelously accurate, you've perfectly captured the Muse.
Reply
:icontetrarchangel:
=tetrarchangel Apr 22, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you. It was a huge undertaking, the complete Hyper Poem, but I was very happy with it.
Reply
:iconfarsh-nuke:
~farsh-nuke Mar 22, 2013  Student Writer
I'm not really a fan of poetry, even if I do give it a go from time to time, so I can't judge this poem fairly or academically but the power and emotion your choice of words creates is very evident, something very much prescriptive of pace and delivery. I see it and feel it like lazy Saturday afternoons riding down Knaphill on my bike, the lyrics to don't stop me now buzzing through my head, feeling me with a frantic gleeful energy, nowadays only matched by hearing the Doctor Who theme tune. You're a good instinctual writer, it'd be interesting to what you're like at prose.
Reply
:icontetrarchangel:
=tetrarchangel Apr 14, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Well, there's a ton in the gallery.
Reply
:iconl-inque:
*L-Inque Mar 19, 2013
Genius! This'll keep me busy for a couple of hours. Congrats on the reward for your hard work.:)
Reply
:icontetrarchangel:
=tetrarchangel Apr 22, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Hope you got on really well with it.
Reply
:iconl-inque:
Mood: Joy *L-Inque Apr 23, 2013
I did.
Reply
:icontetrarchangel:
=tetrarchangel Apr 24, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Super.
Reply
:iconarchelyxs:
*archelyxs Mar 19, 2013
Congrats! :heart:
Reply
:icontetrarchangel:
=tetrarchangel Mar 20, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you - how many DDs have you had now, anyway? It's a few, isn't it?
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