[x]

O Dan Rot.Dan Rot, a man
of considerable comic timing
who came on rackety wings around the globe
in thirty days or so,
visiting once again with a night on his heels
copping feels on innocent ladies pillowed in bathtubs,

i.

i was black like night
and i was ringed in rainfall
i was so glorious

a spiraling psyche led me to one thing
and this town never could have contained me
a spinning science to my insanity

bends in the system and curves of the power lines
a beauty to plywood and splinter breaks that cannot be defined
bends in the path, a northward slide

strand you in a parking lot
i was vicious and viscous
and i was perfect

as i die

Fold Overi.

across the vaults estimated by every milky tone
the curious whirl in old friends gather a surface
wholly between each divide of behavioral light
cones bend to placate our amass combustion

that is

until her legs uncrossed absolving my repetitive
nature to forget what conditions a truth has also
to submerge and share in upholding closely
the uniqueness of love we each must extinguish

our self

to then

ii.

across
the vaults

estimated by every
milky tone

the curious
whirl in

old friends
gather

a surface
wholly

between each
divide

of behavioral
light

cones bend to
placate

our amass combustion
that is

unti

At The Old Folk's HomeThere is a chair beneath the cherry tree
velvet red upholstery peeling off the yellow foam.

There are no cherries left
and no one in the chair.

The two emptinesses commune to the sound of
the cicada reciting his mantra.

I would sit but look
the seat is wet with August rain

Even ThoughThere will be no caged fingers,
no tendons finely tuned to A from tension.

There will be no clenched teeth, gritting rosin,
to make the final singing note growl.

There will be unwinding bed-sheets,
hands slowly releasing the tuning pegs.

There will be slowly sliding scales
as the four limbs loosen past playing.

There will be a simple, quiet exit,
not to ovation, but to a hushed audience
who anticipate an encore,
even though it is uncertain.

petrichorNiobe weeps.

gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.

some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.

listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.

Niobe weeps.

to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blue
china bowl):


     afternoon's slit of sun slips
     between thick curtains
     & woos you to ripeness.

     it chooses you
     not for flecks of honey-russet
     held low in your seam of shadows,
     nor your symmetry & swell;
     but because

     you slink in shade, sink
     behind green pear & clementine

     & cannot hide
     from each spear of light
     that ricochets
     through--

even now
     nested warm
     against these lips

     even now:
     a tea-stain stone
     hugging close
     the trashbin floor.

Evangelos and that film from 1986Evangelos and that film from 1986

I am not a fish.
My mother is a fish.

You should know, my great-uncle Peter
From Hungary has a daughter
With whom I fell in love when once
I was there
That time I braided her ashen grey hair
In braids

Two

My mother's best friend only spoke Italian
He did taekwondo, jiujitsu
And played Santa every year

He was Portuguese

I want to enchant you with my secret code
Once again it has to be said:
There is no story

The hedgehog is sleeping in the garden, his father and
The squirrel:
Today they are wearing
Winter scarfs
Instead of ties
They will hold session until deep in the night

About money

Where are regrets kept?Perhaps in the hollow
space between
my clavicle
and scapula-

That's where your chin
rested all summer long

and that's where the tears
fell in September.

Ms. Foxrummaging through the night;
I find her buried in a handsome coat.
the darkness softens her
trash-strewn make up
to lay bags under her eyes.

I have always thought to chase
a beauty like that; blow my
hunting-horn like kisses
as I saddle up.
I would wear her around my arm and
discuss the big-game
and the beasts at bay
with boys that brandish
scorecards into the hundreds.

but,
she hid from the canines
lapping her neck with a head
buried in all fours.
I skinned her like a poacher
bearing my ivory smile
for her to unfurl
flushed and screaming
like a new born baby.
caught in my hooves the wrong way.

SuspendedSuspended

I like the palms of your hands-
dry and static. I like the palms
your mother planted in the front yard
when you were five. They grew more
quickly, but you grew healthier- less green.

Good thing we planned this
exodus into the Dead Sea.
Lucky we cannot help but to float.

Something from the sea, the land-
they were mockingbirds, weren’t they?

This cannot be healthy.
How the hell did my mother manage
to sink here like a fish
after death? She claims to have exhaled
hard, but my lungs will not compress
enough; I cannot let go

enough. Let me tell you something-

We should grow gills,
individually,

The Ring BearerWinds of Spring creeping into open doors
that shrivel dandelions and tulips
and daffodils into collapsed balloons
on green jail bars ring against each other
in the groomsman's hurried breeze. He runs off
into the sunset through the neighborhood
of simple living and suburb golf carts.
The boy's tie is a broken propeller
flipping and flying—noosed for the gallows—
running through gardens from rings that aren't his.
The bride and groom are left, bewilderment
striking their glory days in estrangement.

city drowned cleanbirds fly bluer before a hurricane,
wings sharper, the bricks neater.
one train is always longer than the
other. i cried about it. the saturated
city, droplets of colour caught on
tape & rewinding, cups me in its
palms, i am a bug on its window,
imagining all of it underwater &
people clapping in a silent film,
the last dying bubbles curtsying
on their lips, for their marble town
the white skied & terrible atlantis.

The HologramsBefore Casper we were a quantum band,
an act that only happened when unobserved.
Our drummer maintained we'd split
the world, then took a full-time position
in PR. Auditioning his replacement
round our Crouch End front room,
with his white vest, buffed All-Stars
and holographic principle patter,
Casper shone. 'These,' he said,
nodding at his drumheads,
'are my event horizons;
it's where the beat really happens.'
To prove it, he worked up an almighty storm,
while we puffed on our cigarettes.
Short of a singer, Casper made a call.
Yume Shirakawa, he explained,
would beam in her performance. Jay,
sliding milk down his

On conversationsI
have upset the order
of things, birds
fall fast and featherflappingly from
shaken skies, and leaves
curl backwards into trees
which snap
from frost in summer, my heart
is a bell that rings until
glass shatters and frost falls
fearful on the ground and I
just do not know how
to tell you.

HeartmindWe lost electricity on the night you left me
and I spent the night curled up against the rain,
drinking in the slack of damp green winds
in our treasured driftwood home of mist.
I had to come to think of time
as a medium and my thoughts as
imperfect and cursive. It was a wrinkled medium,
a mediocrity of sunken breath: words condensing
into droplets that so contorted my teary lenses
that I couldn't tell that you were turning towards me

with a sound, the sound a book makes
when its leaves are rustled against the grain.
Tonight my body lingers on the edge of the ocean
like a gasp; New Jersey's throaty highways
bear my rosefelt thou

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Submitted: March 20, 2012
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It's not Rocket Science

by ~Botkin, Mar 20, 2012, 2:15:31 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

a poem for Jack Parsons

Lucifer took a hit, landed
face-down & flat-broke
back in the 40s
out on the West Coast
eyes the colour of Swarfega
teeth rotting, shoes worn through,
and dying for another high

too early for acid he takes
the mescaline trail
down into the Mojave
where the rattlesnakes are
locked in their kundalini and the
stillness flickers like god
across a lizard's eye

Lucifer hitched a ride
(another genius-bum)
over to Pasadena
to see Jack and the Rocket Boys
see what they can do
to put him back in heaven

too long in the desert
Jack's already on the last reel
stopped in a single frame,
trapped in the gate
the lamp thinks it's fission, emulsion
chars and blisters

Lucifer changed his name
to Phosphorus (same deal)
burned white, burned right out
end of the 60s

(Jack, one last jump cut:
Lunar 37° 18′ 0″ N, 171° 12′ 0″ W (37.3°, -171.2°):
on the dark side and for you
a crater yawns itself
into a busted mouth)

It's not Rocket Scienceby ~Botkin

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-04-25

It's not Rocket Science by ~Botkin ( Suggested by ~kisotchka and Featured by $wreckling )

love 1 1

joy 1 1

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~anapests-and-ink Dec 26, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I can't even put into words how deep and striking this is.

*chsehed41 Apr 25, 2012

Nicely bloody done! Put it to music, get Aerosmith to play it and you've got a #1 on your hands!

~breezybrutality Apr 25, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

So fast! I loved the journey.
Jack Parsons is now one of the most envied people alive haha

~Botkin Apr 25, 2012

Thank you all for your kind comments.

~hryllingur Apr 25, 2012

I love the way this reads. It's... it's just GOOD in the way that poetry is.

~FirstSarge Apr 25, 2012 Professional Writer

DAMN!

=TristanCody Apr 25, 2012 Student Writer

Unique and powerful. I loved your imagery and your use of not only language but of statistics and numbers.

This was very raw and fresh piece that brought a lot of light to my day and I thank you!

- Tristan Cody.

~LFBeta16 Apr 25, 2012 General Artist

o___o That's interesting.

$:iconfractaleyes:$

`FractalEyes Apr 25, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

"Freedom is a Two-Edged Sword"

*xlntwtch Apr 25, 2012 Writer

A fine piece. Congratulations on the DD. The imagery is used wonderfully, and the progression new and fresh. Thank you.

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