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I Wish I Had FeetI wish I had feet,
With ten toes to wriggle,

I wish I had feet,
With two soles to tickle,

I wish I had feet,
To jump and to run,

I wish I had feet,
It would be such fun,

I wish I had feet,
And this I must wail,                                       

You see I have none,
For I am a snail.    
                     
Seas Left Unswum
What closet poets are we,
who in moments more sober of thought show a stony face,
but lying alone at night hearing the rain's mourning fancy ourselves martyrs for love,
and epic heroes of romance.
"My lady!
Leander am I, and would take the strait in stroke to be with you!
Orpheus am I, and would venture into Hades to bring you back!"
But count us amateur Leanders as unlikely to swim the sea as the sea is to dry for us.

And perhaps this is best-
for Leander drowned,
and Orpheus lost Eurydice again in the end,
and how much worse should the fate of us imposters be?
Instead let me be the realist romantic,
one who can admit that the s
No Soul But HersWhen morning comes, she will be ready
No soul but hers will hear a sound
Fragile ankles hold her steady
Fragile eyes comb moonlit ground

No soul but hers will hear the sound
Of fresh earth tear beneathe her feet
Fragile eyes comb moonlit ground
Drift from damp dew to dry retreat

When fresh earth tears beneathe her feet
She knows her footsteps won't be found
Drift from damp dew to dry retreat
No soul but hers knows where she's bound

She knows her footsteps won't be found
Fragile ankles hold her steady
No soul but hers knows where she's bound
When morning comes, she will be ready.
In the Absence of LoveThe sun seems to freeze over
Warm summer skies turn cold
You miss the warming sensation
Of love stories never told

In the absence of love

The bright blue skies turn to grey
Because of the truth you had to say
The clouds roll in and it starts to rain
Your broken heart is screaming pain

In the absence of love

A tear sparkles in your eye
That tear is let go and you start to cry
Curl up in your bed and wonder why

In the absence of love.
When the Sky CriedWhen the precious pedaled flower
Of your heart,
Withered and cracked
Like an old piece of art.

And the bright blue orbs
Of your eyes,
Darkened and shut
Like cloud covered skies.

The sorrow stricken heavens
That night they cried,
Raindrops and bolts
Formed a thunderous sigh.

And a deadly darkened veil
Covered our lives,
Sadness and pain
Thrown at us like knives.

Then out battered, broken lives
Tried to get back on track,
Memory and past
Like daemons threw us back.

Now false facades control
Our ‘very’ happy smiles,
Regret and blame
Feeling forever on trial.
My name is...? My name is Gabrielle.
Could you tell me, where is hell?
Is it all in the mind?
Is it something I can find?

My name is Gabrielle.
Why do I hear bells?
Are they all in my head?
Are they messages from the dead?

My name is Gabrielle.
It wasn't from heaven I fell.
I am no angel, can’t you tell?
Ouch! Who the hell am I?
And why do I hear bells?
vampire queenshe of the night
with eyes burning bright
haunted by daylight

take my breath away
the sky is turning grey

reborn from darkness
sharp needle teeth give a kiss

can't see clearly, everything is in a haze
light up my eyes, make them bright and ablaze.

queen of vampire
the sun has come up and i am on fire!
"Mares of the Night""Mares of the Night"

Underneath closed eyelids, not located too far,
resides a realm of imagination from unique to bizarre.
The sound of a snore, a very irritating quirk,
signifies the dreaming process at work.

Parallel reveries with phantasms amuck,
controlled by realizing what exists using luck.
Using your thoughts, recognizing reality;
the way of escape from your creative mentality.

A vision of the future, fueled by your hopes and goals;
bringing out everything from the depth of our souls.
Terrible anomalies can envelop the space,
clouding your judgement; slowing your pace.

Paralyzing fear in a world that's unreal;
awaking wi
Of Graceless AgingThe crown of age is hoary head; tis said
Yet I who've found my joy in Eros placed
Will kick against the loss of beauty's bed
To sigh and fawn ore' maidens fair of face

Benumbed of mind by vigor's final rout;
A mournful loss, this prize of native strength –
For kisses full on passion's youthful mouth
I'd pawn these restive days of season's length

What bitter potion, swallowed, choking by
Constricted throat; a grimly clenching maw
In weakness; deemed I once – to better die
Yet chose instead, my place in natural law

Oh shaken fist and railings; having done
Discord no more – content in evening's sun
timekeeper.My skin is see-through,
exposed to eyes
before and behind
that stare at my naked tendons.

My bones glint
with the colour and sheen of brass,
the commoner's gold;
my skeleton is on display,
imprisoned beneath fake glass.

When I was born,
deep valleys were carved in my
gunmetal shell, notching forests
of leaves and grass-governed fields
in spirals - lacing ribs
with twitching wheels, cut from steel.

Lines were tattooed upon my face
or sliced with needles -
I never could tell between red ink
or blood, as it bubbled up
through cream,

but then my fluttering quartz heart
was often still, no typewriter clicks
nor hummingbird wings for a pulse.

reply to Cyranos: it did not post, feb 1 2009constancy, loyalty, finely defined?
false relentlessness of a lost mind?
fugue states of two who cannot quit?
dual fixed fixations must we admit?
or, is this but a continuance of
smitten, witless quixotic love?

treasured memories of our Dulcinea,
echoes devine her unceasing mantra,
reverberates brightly within each psyche,
time untouched, undimmed, even slightly.

not only thee and me, my friend -
"semper fi" is she... amen... amen.

llp - dA - oct2012
Agonising GamesThe push and pull - a dangerous game,
An agony, a sharp embrace,
The terrifying pas de deux,
A blanching of a lover's face.

With moments smiles transform to frowns,
And there is no one there to blame,
Just mistakes carved on broken flesh,
Infernos bred from candle flame.

And whilst the caring doesn't cease,
The centres that awoke do scream,
And batter, bruise and wound the soul,
Splitting, slicing, bursting seams.

The push and pull - a dangerous game,
An agony, a sharp embrace,
The terrifying pas de deux,
A blanching of a lover's face.
WreckedWe  s t  r   e    t     c     h     in the unsustainable wreck
Of buttered time, folded and molded and rounded
Into balls of breaking antiquity--

Our souls were poured into crystal cups
Of liquid spontaneity
Gathered from a cradle of trees after the rain:

I shan't try to explain (shall not, will not, can not)
Because you are a leach in my brain
And you siphon the brightest parts of me
And chew them up and spit them out
And die die die die die die die die die die die
die die die die die die die die die di
e street shuffledaylight whitens the scars of the hasty
reenactment, the perfunctory funk
of traincar graffiti crews hunkered over
backalley dumpsters making the news
humdrum the creation never undone, the hard-
won that stays because it stays unseen,
becomes routine, becomes
the sheen of art school dreams
still visible beneath the filth of city streets,
a fantasy decaying in its frame
& heedless with age under the superficial
rage of the blindly worked & blindly paid,
systematic slaves to factories where they make
but don't create, where graffiti is the only
god left to praise, where capitalists' fingers weighed
down with rings snap, start t
if only this - IIfirst, the haiku -

pure precognitive
in essense of knowing thee
ere my learning me

~ ~ ~

or:

the precognition
of learning you
to save what lives
inside of me.

abides,
a sterile plant,
dying, drying,
not to begin
a blossoming -
too scant
of fertile nourishment.

anew from you,
sweet liquid to waft
on gentle finger-tip,
taken encouragement,

a drop to draught,
daring to sip.

sudden, now
supple in limb,
comes astonishment.

dormant, hidden
for time and time,
soul long sole,
a centered heart,
now taking to flower,

if quiet wishes
in clumsy diction,
could prove the power...

to be prediction.

llp - sep2009 - dA
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More from ~bd5000

Love's New CostumeBehind the cash drawer in this small comic book store sits Love with red and green hair.

Radiant in the splendor of sunlit shop windows.

Tattoos on bare freckled arms ( I notice ) as she rings up "Clumsy" by Jeffrey Brown.

"That's a great book."

"Yeah, it caught my eye and, 'clumsy', ... I think I'm supposed to buy it."

She winks at me from under her black frame glasses.

( I could melt right now )

I manage to talk about the book for one minute, while spell bound by her eyes.

My friends, hang at the door, nodding to me, so I have to go.

All I can say is, "Have a good night,"  as she sweetly waves , " To you, too."

And I sleep on a vi
The Bloodspatters
   little red dots
   on white tile
brings the fear
   crawling on
       all fours
in an effort to be
   deathly silent
for if he hears
   the frail flower
     will not go
       unplucked
Benford Mumsonthe shower drain
clogged. again

of all the ratty little things
about this
ratty little apartment
that was the thing
which drove
Benford Mumson
the battiest

the hair in the drain
the webs on the wall

then comes the
shutting down
the closing out
of it all
The Bite of LustYour Alpine slopes
I'd like to traverse
with quicksilver kisses
to delight
and ignite

My crystalline hopes
my thoughts perverse
with feminine hisses
in the night
when lust bites
The BitchI've got too many problems
for you to diagnose
I've got too much medicine
I might overdose
I've got some condition
makes me stuck in repetition
That's when I get that itch
that's when I go to the Bitch!

I've got Evil inclinations
I've got the Devil on the side
I've got no luck for the Angels
when two forces collide
I've got no hope for resolution
I remain disillusioned
That's when I make my pitch
to make it past the Bitch!

< guitar solo >

I've got a lesson to be learned
I've got pages to be burned
I've got a finger with a twitch
and the trigger is the Bitch!

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August 16, 2009
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[x]

Emily Dickinson,Serial Killer

:iconbd5000:

Because you could not stop for Death
I made sure he stopped for thee
The carnage held within ourselves
the immorality

I slowly drove the knife, grim taste
my victim put away
my killer's labor a pleasure too
stole his virility

I passed the fool whose children preyed
on him, wrestling for his ring
I slashed them, red haze of pain
I slashed, watched red blood run

I paused before a man who screamed
a wailing most profound
though it was scarcely audible
'neath his burial mound

Since put in penitentiary, I beseech
for mercy, as draws close the day
I realize I shall lose my head
with the executioner's glee






edit 1/23/10
copywrite 2009
-dave skowronek
:iconbd5000:
This is a horror/black comedy version of a famous Emily Dickinson poem. She didn't title her poems . It is # 712
[link] to read the original.

I love her poetry and this came out of a debate w/ my bro about Ms. Dickinson's work. We started talking about how she seemed obsessed w/ Death. Jokes started flowing. Eric said close to the 1st line then I thought about those Jane Austin/ zombie horror mash-ups that are hot right now and a lightbulb went off. I tried as best I could to stay within the parameters of the classic and beautiful original. With my humble skill set this is my attempt. Comments very welcome.

edited and updated 1/23/10
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:iconsedahliah:
~SedahLiah Oct 21, 2009   Writer
Your hard work is evident, this is a wonderful adaptation. There's an acerbic edge here that works very well. Bravo. :clap:
Reply
:iconbd5000:
~bd5000 Oct 22, 2009
Hey thanks! You just made me smile after a rough day at work. Thanks for the fave, as well.
Reply
:iconsedahliah:
~SedahLiah Oct 31, 2009   Writer
No problem. :thumbsup:
Reply
:iconhisbeautifulletdown:
~HisBeautifulLetdown Sep 1, 2009
Twisted and awesome
Reply
:iconbd5000:
~bd5000 Sep 1, 2009
Thanks!
Reply
:iconbluesilveruu:
!BlueSilverUU Aug 30, 2009
It's good to see people reading the classics and learning from them. Very cool!
Reply
:iconbd5000:
~bd5000 Aug 31, 2009
Thank you. I have a tendency to be sponge- I absorb everything. It's a habit I picked up from being a musician. I'm into classic music and films, as well. You can always learn from a classic! Thanks for the feedback,also.
Reply
:iconcitysilence:
~citysilence Aug 20, 2009
Ahaha, this is sooo her style.

Emily Dickinson was the first poet I ever encountered... in recent times I'd nigh forgotten. Thanks very much for the refresher.

I think you've nailed it, I really do. This is exactly her style.
Reply
:iconbd5000:
~bd5000 Aug 20, 2009
Thank you for the high compliment! Seems like I did all right on this one.:) (I'm blushing)
Reply
:iconcitysilence:
~citysilence Aug 20, 2009
Blush is cool, haha :)
Reply
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