Wednesday, February 11, 2009


In the crabbed hand
of the madhouse
she scrabbles, faster, faster.

Swollen tides of words
spill down the stem of her pen
and course over the paper.

Turgid black tulips,
dusty stamen,
scattered pollen,
seed nodules
breezy lisp
of ink-filled word -
imbeded by hands
dripping blood rubies -
each a skeleton of regret,
an inheritance.

Words and rubies
spin a crucible of mind.
Feather quills
dipped in chain link,
locked inside the savage,
ripping night.

Only the scratch
of straightjacket lines
paints release,
but the keys
are on the other side of the door.


Blogger Chris Never said...

And I for one, am very grateful for those swollen tides of words you produce so prolifically, you keep me company in the darkness of creative desire, it is a lonely place for many I think.

1:31 PM  
Blogger burning moon said...

I know it is for me. I'm grateful for your company there. There are not many I can talk to or relate to on that level.
It's something I treasure - having someone whose creative energy is so close to my own. I feel very lucky.

2:17 PM  
Blogger Chris Never said...

It is indeed

something to treasure kid


1:14 PM  

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