Cinquain: Night (Revised)

Tonight
I will not dream
of lying in your arms
or mounting your climactic height.
Good night.

Thank you to Dhyan for prompting me to revise this.

Any Questions?

This is your creativity
on drugs.
Any questions?

Why yes, I’ve got a lot of fucking questions,
Mister Psyche Pill Prescriber!

I asked you to make me happy.
I asked you to help me get out of bed.
I did not ask you to evacuate the muses from my head.

Side-effects may vary.

Well then exactly which effects are primary, Sir?

Because it seems to me
it’s the very same lack
of synaptic connections fueling my fire
that also releases my rain.

Maybe I need this pain.

Like a sharpened blade needs a pulsing vein?

Exactly.
Individually impotent
but together, functionally insane.

This is your bullshit
excreted from my brain.
Any questions?

Cinquain: Night

So I came across this blog with a game/writing prompt: Write a classic cinquain, which is based on a syllable count:

• Line One: 2 syllables
• Line Two: 4 syllables
• Line Three: 6 syllables
• Line Four: 8 syllables
• Line Five: 2 syllables

Here is mine! I shall call it…

Night

Tonight
I will not dream
of lying in your arms
or whispering, you make this right.
Good night.

Happy Birthday

That day,
they finally cut me from the womb,
two weeks overdue,
barely breathing,
umbilical marks around my neck.

And I wonder,
what if I had not survived?
And I wonder,
should I be more grateful to be alive?
Or is it no surprise
that I would one day reach out to death again?

The dotted lines
that should cross only once
in three-dimensional space and time,
have followed me into parallel universes
where dimensions multiply.

So each day I live,
each new year I survive,
I feel the life in my breath
but on the heels of my death
that has always been desperately waiting.

And on this day,
I wonder which it is I’m celebrating.

Elemental Intercourse

In the union of
Air & Water,
Land is transcended
and Essence can breathe.

My love,
give in to the tide
and come make waves with me.

Rendezvous
with no strings attached,
between realms that react
but were born to be free.

My love,
release your turbulence
and coalesce with me.

No other element
brings me to life
like the liquid that hydrates
the air with the sea.

My love,
no other elements
combine like you and me.

Anchored in the Wind

Hoping with despair,
a dreamer in the air
flying on penguin wings
to a tropical paradise hell.

An ironic
iconic
demonic angel
who fell
from the bottom
to the top
in a non-stop friction
of harmonious contradiction
inconsistently arranged.

She is anchored in the wind.
She is the paradox of change.

Trapped in Reflection

I search within myself
and find
the implosion of infinity
the intangible divinity
whose hand contrived my own
from the sediment of the stars.

I look up at the sky
and my eyes bleed
with war-torn tears of desolation.
And my heart aches
with a desperate yearning to be as one.
And my mind swirls
with a restless torrent of inquisition.

And I keep on searching
fully knowing
I will end where I began
no matter which radius I follow
from the center of this sphere.

I am trapped
in the illusion of
a carnal two-way mirror.

Glass Half Overflowing

Beyond positive or negative,
my worldview is
purely passion,
constantly overflowing
in every direction
and soaking through my skin,
flowing right back in
to a heart of glass,
one that you may break
but will always be
enigmatically
halfway overflowing.

A Penny for Saint Peter

Corroded copper
soaking for centuries
in the spout of God’s Square.

Sacrosanct wishing dump
of a filthy faith
tossed into despair.

The harbor for hopes
and unclean dreams
of all the Church’s holy brethren.

Close your eyes.
Confess your sins.
Negotiate your way to Heaven.

Honey in the Desert

How many times have I mistaken
physical attraction
(a mere chemical reaction)
for this ever elusive thing called love?

And yet it’s more than just the physical.

It’s a covert connection,
a spiritual convection,
of words
and souls
and pheromones.

Unspoken but palpable,
like tension in the air
or a symphony’s despair.

Maybe it’s not love
but something is there,
free-falling
through the depths of my heart
like a desert abyss.

How many times
have I hallucinated this?

A mirage
of the sweet honey bee’s final sting.

And I wonder
when will I taste
the real thing?