reworking a poem that was a poem to be reworked

:for every one of your containers:

I’ll give you a reason for your retinas to turn around:
and notice the allusion-fueling-fire in Plato’s cave:
for every one of your stomachbutterflies: I’ll
  give you three buttons: and
:I won’t even ask you what the buttons are made out of:
because for every one of them: I’ll
give you: a coat: that I
wasn’t’ able to
wear: I’ll give you the sweater:
I liked but
 :only if you: take one of the boxes I made:
and push it: into the alley: where
I’m standing and
:::::just to show you that?: I’ll give you:
 the corner I loved
If: you give me the street you became.

....

What are you doing here and where is your time going and why haven't you done this faster and better and you have four weeks, which is not much time so hold tightly to the little lines on the face of the clock and quit taking so long because there are other people watching the progression around and around this dizzying array on the caffeine teacups of which you will vomit out 18 credits.

...........

the quiet has swallowed me
the loneliness has swelled
word-filled computer screens
a pale on my face
of chapped lips and caffeine-kept eyes
check facebook again
and shift to unshift a shadow
creeping infringe of quality.
everything is nothing but
a mess of mediocrity
that awaits a worthy word
or red pen reviewal all
of which could have admittedly
returned higher regard
if I had measured out my time in
neat little bows of
which untie a progressive acquisition
of mastering a better balance & key

Ben Marcus-illogical-inspired-writing.

                   
I’m sitting on your yard sale couch,
top teeth over my tongue.
It feels burnt from yesterday’s tea;
or perhaps, burn-ing-
like the sun’s solar energy supply-
a radiance burn-ing towards annihilation.
Sometimes science secludes me.
But indigo ribbons of rain say
that fragments of fragments of ghosts
decay into turquoise dissipation.
But I am not a nihilist.  

 

I stood on a glacier in the middle of July,
the slippery white snow reminded
me of your albatross scars.

 

I adopted a kitten with no mother.
Mostly,
we have a similar hair color.
And I called you up to
discuss postmodern discourse.
We decided to not be alone now.

 

We have curated a compilation of
Polaroid pictures that hold looks of love.
Milky images enshrining delicate eyes
and smiles as wide as the sea.
I show you the third one,
and you tell me
that my hair smelled of peaches that day.

 

That’s when I didn’t forget
about the sun’s
burning by some divisible process;
as we all snap
Polaroids and wear peach-scented hair.
But we’ll all look at each-other with
delicate eyes and wide-sea-smiles
and work to devise the divisible for sunrise.

 

 

 

 

midnight melancholia ------inspired by Van Goh's 'Starry Night'

under the same stars
under the same ground
in a town like this
that waves light whispers
in the night

 

with a little bright church
That tolls each sun’s descent

 

reminding me

of her descent
on that soft yellow dawn
life’s breath mists warm against the cold
proving
our carmine heart’s strong beat

 

 

until your petal palms paled  

from the cold blanching your breath

and fostering a dark chasm
catalyzing loss

 

under the same stars
under the same ground
in a town like this
that waves light whispers
in the night


I am lost Mary
lost under the same stars above
and the same ground below

carried by currents uncurrent

of melancholia.