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Under a Witches SkyAnd lo there he said: "I am darkness rising"
— ‘an apparition bleeding into a dreaming sky
Distilled in the timbre of windswept voices,
black feathers enchant earth in fevered-song
Magick ebbs & shimmers thru earthen veins,
seething like a migration of hungry wolves
Silvery eyes peer, drinking the ether of souls;
watching the spirit world fold into the mists
And where Shadows and Witches conjure,
— myriad talons beshrew Winter’s prayer

For eons I hath wandered in forgotten lore  
— a sleep walker thru ash & fire, hunting ..
Beneath Moon solemn and drifting,
I covet thy ghostly figure velvet, undressing
Pools of
The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.
Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home
SpeakeasyI can feel you like a phantom,
sensation without touch,
like breath in winter
or a misty mountain morning
that stays with me
until the stars fall in evening.

Your eyes contain the secrets
your lips would dare to betray,
but your body tells the story
and I am trying
to read between the lines
of your paperback smiles.

A grazing touch, a covert glance,
the memories remain
as skin grows warm and red
beneath lying fingertips
that claim incidental contact
a thousand times a day.

Of course,
it's not the kind of thing we say
when we are speaking
without talking and feeling
without touching
and thinking without knowing...

       all of the things
Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.
We Can't Be Together.Every kiss you plant on my lips,
Takes a little bit of my soul away.

You're stealing the passion,
You're invading my heart,
And killing what emotion I've left untouched.
Stop this.
I can't love you.

I've tried to before,
Oh my god,
Have I tried.

Tried to unlock the doors to myself,
Tried to open up,
And let you in.
But as soon as I took one look,
Negativity took it's opportunity,
And struck the hot iron I'd been molding.

Every word you mutter
My knees falter under
You're killing me

You're my kryptonite  
I'm your paradise
But in this odd peace that seems to be approaching
I can't find happiness.

We aren't meant to be together
But this
Poet as PainterThe world
Your dusty palette,
The pen
Your muddied paintbrush:

Dip into
The impossible
Colour
Of imagination

And stain
The pristine slate
With an
Image distilled.
WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.

I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze

like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.

Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;

safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.
with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.
Dry Spell   I am immobilized by time.
by the idea that it is somehow slipping,
  fleeting,
        evaporating
              through the cracks of
      my fingers and high

             above my head.
  I am terrified by the incessant notion
that no combination of thoughts,
    words,
         silences,
              or actions
   could possibly satiate it.

I realize only now that it can never be filled:
     all which is tossed into it is swallowed in haste
              or stretched
                       so far
           that it dissolves into non-being.
 I find that I am caught within its furrows
much like the words it devo
BoyfriendI thought you were good.

You WERE good.

You played with my hair.

You held me when I cried.

You were a gentleman.

You made me laugh.

You kissed me.

You loved me.

I loved you.

It was then that I learned the truth.

The dirty, rotten, stinking truth.

About you!

You cheated.

You played with her hair.

You kissed her.

You loved her.

You made her laugh.

I saw you – don’t you dare deny it.

I saw you giving her that love.

That same love you gave me.

I break up with you.

You don’t even seem to care.

Did you ever love me at all?

Or was it only ever her?

Much later, you’ll realize what a mistake you made.

I
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.

The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.

But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a
PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint
You Don't Know ItYou don't know it, but you kept me sane
I nearly went over the edge
With a knife in one hand and a gun in the other
But you grabbed me
Pulled me back on my own two feet
Emptied my hands
And when you realized that I couldn't stand on my own
You hugged me
Like a mother would do for her child
Like a friend would do for, dare I say, another friend

You don't know it, but when you saved me
I felt free
I felt wanted
I felt needed
I felt, dare I say, loved

You don't know it, but when you showed me kindness
I fell in love
In love with your kindness
That same sweet kindness you saved me with
It felt like I found a new home
One that I could be, dare
Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.
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More from *LancelotPrice

sideburnsSideburns  
You ought to trim them

Differently on each side

That way  
your schizophrenia shows

People need a warning
lightning bugsWe left the place where I'd grown up  
when I was still fifteen  
I'd played in summer  
through day till night  
and just beyond  
when lightning bugs  
revealed their light  
Blink and move  
and reappear  
somewhere else  

Like magic  

Soon the summers  
of my old place  
came no more
I'd abandoned them  
and childhood  

Not by choice  

We moved far south  
when father needed work  
and there was none where we had lived  

Afterwards  
I remember  
seeing lightning bugs  
when we had settled in this new place  
in the first summer  
and one time only  

I never saw them again  

Home had left me
such stuffIt is such dust  
as dreams are made of  
Put into a paper bag  
Add hot water  
and let it lie

and soon you will have tea  
Drink it slowly  
make it last an hour or two

Imagine your self  
once again  
Safe in your one true home

Whatever that may be
leftMy windows glimmer starlight  
I dream awake adventures  
Compass roses  
unknown in all the fine dimensions  
Anchors left behind  
along with earth  
and all else dreary
Last One On Earth, Turn out The LightsViolet grass, coffee moon, death-scented air
The wind above moves stars
but down below is still
The world is damp and treeless, lacking humans
but you and I and a thousand corpses
And snakes.
Oh the snakes
crawling through a grass minefield
Step carefully
To whatever lies on the other side of night

I howl at the moon
wretchedly

waiting for my mind to snap
I've begunI've begun to think of I

less than I once did

The beginning

the very start

of growing up

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January 11, 2012
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I am brain

:iconlancelotprice:

I am brain  

The rest  
is transport
:iconlancelotprice:
--- I believe that Sherlock said this also.
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:iconagnes-arelia:
~Agnes-Arelia Feb 6, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Concise and true. I have a great deal of respect for both of those things.
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:iconlancelotprice:
*LancelotPrice Feb 6, 2012
I love cars. :D
Reply
:iconagnes-arelia:
~Agnes-Arelia Feb 6, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Haha! They do come in handy, I must agree. :XD:
Reply
:iconemmasloane:
~EmmaSloane Jan 25, 2012   Writer
Minimalism becomes you, Lance.
Reply
:iconlancelotprice:
*LancelotPrice Jan 25, 2012
:D Thanks, Emma.
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:iconexistencewesummonyou:
~ExistenceWeSummonYou Jan 16, 2012
I'm reading this cool book right now, "Reclaiming Cognition," about how thought is embodied, about how learning and thought necessitates movement and interaction with the world... the boundaries between the brain and the rest of the body, between the body and the world can get pretty fuzzy. Sorry! Kinda random. This thought provoking poem just provoked that thought.
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:iconlancelotprice:
*LancelotPrice Jan 17, 2012
I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think the world, every thing in it, would be better off with less thought since most thought seems to be centered on things that don't even exist, while those very thoughts are used in determining the course of behaviour. This cannot be other than destructive due to inaccurate responses to reality.
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:iconexistencewesummonyou:
~ExistenceWeSummonYou Jan 18, 2012
"things that don't even exist" - well, I can relate to your frustration, but at the same time: everyone has their own way of deciding what is real and what isn't - I can't really be sure mine is in every way definitively better than everyone else's.
Reply
:iconlancelotprice:
*LancelotPrice Jan 19, 2012
I'm sure that mine is better than some because it's less destructive and pain-causing. Which is usually a good thing for humans and other beings.
Reply
:iconexistencewesummonyou:
~ExistenceWeSummonYou Jan 19, 2012
I think that's an excellent measure of truth. Very pragmatic. But how far are you willing to take it? If sociologists determined that some unscientific superstition, say belief in the after life, on average made people more happy, and its converse, the belief that death is just death, often caused people to be depressed - then would you promote this unscientific belief? The specific example isn't important, I'm just curious how far one might take the idea that a belief system being less pain-causing makes it superior.
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