WritingRaw Poetry

We all could know everything in time

About time

She spent time every day

For four weeks on Roman numerals

Clepsydras & Moon phases & Wrist watches

Michael Plunkett

Who never learned the alphabet

Dozed all day in the back row

In the shape of an hourglass

He would smile all the time

Keep big kids from teasing little ones

Point to the ceiling fan and giggle

All that year tiny pieces of the sundial

Began to sprout their weeds in my skull

Here Coffin

Here Earth

Here Ashes

That year

I kept calling

My favorite dogs

Their nicknames

And they listened

Like the kind dumb animals

They were

Their fur Soft as blue shadow

Breath Sour & hot in violet twilight

Those hounds Those beautiful disobedient curs

Who never believed me about the highway

About my neighbors' poisons & rifles

After today

All gone

All five

Transported to the kingdom of maggot

Where Yesterday lives

Its mouth stuffed with brown fur

Slices of Sex In Memory

Woven

Into a laurel wreath

Spliced

Into a noose

Of cobras

Threaded

Into the silence

Within

A sheet of water on ice

Slipped

Under a fingerprint

As a thorn

From a rose

A stolen blue rose

Heart

Of wild duck

In the shape of an arrow

I love to chew you Hot Grilled

Brown

Fragrant

Gristle-thick

Rice-woven

Wheat-threaded

Gift of my bow & a thick white cloud

Against the blue sky

Of my teeth &

The frozen lake

Of my cracked teeth

Protect me from my lies

Call the Plumber

This sky is starting

To leak light

The pornographic actress

Is modeling shadows at the football stadium

Chanting

I am the real goddess Venus

I grovel at the speed of light

My lecture on gravity

Will get you into any medical school

Let's see

The tattoos I want for Christmas

The Speed of Light on my right palm

The Law of Gravity on this thumb

The Seven Flavors of Prism in my left palm

Relax Heart

Put your hand firmly on the hand rail

Smile in silence

Your shadow

Forms a melodic X-Ray

Falling on the piccolo of the ribs

On the flute lifting

Through white vertebrae

The pink blossom

Of the brain

Remember your endless fear of heights

Roller coasters

Bell towers

Even the piddly bridges

Across the muddy Missouri River

You had your first hint

Of this species of vertigo

In your mother's tight red womb

Listening to her heart beat

Teach you all the syllables

You would ever hear on this earth

Curiosity

is four too early

or too late

to go traipsing around on rooftops

against the cold night air -

icy winds lifting the distressed cries of curious cats

towards a starless sky, across derelict alleyways and barren lots as the cries seem nearer, farther,

but still

moved only by the airs.

PPA

let's stay up all night and scratch away at our past

and talk about things that could have been

while your head swims

my mind races

and we wake your neighbors with our oddities

parked in the middle of the street at six am

laughing at our promises -

swearing by our pinkies again

Fruit

i know why you fear me

and grow a spiny carapace

and live so far away

because you know

that i know

you are delicious

but we have trucks and machetes and commerce

and all you have are a few spikes

fool

i laugh at you

i devour -

your blood drips from my chin.

Everybody Wants To Get Down Like That

it's ok

behind closed doors

we can walk the way we want

and strut our stuff to sounds they'd scoff at

and lift our voices higher than they're supposed to go

they won't crack

they're made to sing this loud.

You Want To Know What A Family Is

this is a family

misery, disappointment, grief

they live together and drag each other down

they split apart and dig into each other and throw guilt like javelins

they hate themselves and drive their hatred into their kin

and let resentment build behind steel walls like a futile dam holding black fire

until it melts or cracks or explodes and drowns the whole fucking lot of them.

and their corpses float alone until they wash ashore, or sink, or are eaten by insects

who, ironically, bring pieces home for the children.

Creeper

i found you today

under warm crystal glow

that shadows my face

but lights my eyes

my eyes

that see you

in bed, in your new dress, in the forest all alone staring deadly, through me,

and i look at your eyes

and whisper your song,

"I'm coming for you. I'm coming for your smile and your body and your mind.

I'm coming to break you down. I'm coming to destroy your life. I will emerge from nothing and become

everything and take it all away and leave you ruined."

poor girl

run. run as fast as you can.

a demon hunts you.

XOXO

i should be sleeping this off

but instead of colors and shapes -

shadows - deep blue and grey sneaking around outside

dreams alive in melody

rhythm dancing beneath my legs

numb from walking a journey alone

refusing return

though,

i could never leave,

escaping three minutes at a time.

From A to B

somewhere in the lull between one and two is a grey beach

where self-esteem takes a nosedive and

realizes a much smaller person than you've made yourself out to be.

afterwards - the excitement of a desperate man lashing out at any woman he can find

takes solace in isolation, knowing the further he goes the less likely he'll be to happiness.

so he sits on his ass and sinks into the wet sand

digging his toes into regret and writing names over hearts

that fade under wave after wave of guilt

and the beach, as always, is left unscarred.

Untitled

there's a stale warm breeze

doing it's absolute worst -

hardly moving me out of my daze.

my mother is passed out on a couch

with an empty bottle of pills next to her,

sweat beading face and shoulders

breathing rapidly, worried.

I wonder if I robbed her of her youth,

if I caused her descent

to become estranged -

memories clotted to the clouds

fogging my vision. steaming the windows.

and the stale warm breeze remains helpless.

Living It Up

but I still can't forget

the way your hair fell around your face

soft curls around fair skin

and the way your lips curved into a smile

to say my name.

it still echoes in my mind

still holds all of your love, and wonder,

look up to me and say my name

believe in me

say my name

and watch me fail

because your echoes are burdened

with your hope for my future.

I Trip on My Poems

In the night when poems

are born, I search for the hidden words,

secrets stretch inside my metaphors.

Even near my tender moments

when the images blossom into rain flowers

I trip on stems cut my way loose to nowhere.

I go there to see what I can find.

Bird Lady

They call her old maid Misty, as in fog, she misses the sun.

She runs a small pet store, more for the injured and lame,

alone and half the light bulbs have burnt out.

In the backroom everything smells of dust and feathers.

The cockatoo is cuddly and named Brenda, but has bad toiletry manners.

The macaw is well hidden, and fetches a high price on the open market, called Ginger.

Misty is surrounded by wired bird cages,

jungle noises in unfamiliar places,

and sleeps on a portable cot.

When parrots or parakeets shout shrills in the night,

her eyes squint and flash out in the dark but no one sees it.

Squinting is a lonely habit.

Misty works alone and is getting old.

On a wall, near her cot, hangs a picture-

but is it Jesus, or St. Jude Thaddaeus

carrying the image of Jesus in his hand or close to his chest,

difficult to tell darkness dimmed at night.

Misty sometimes sleepwalks at night from small room to the other-

she bumps, sometimes trips and falls, her warfarin guarantees bruises.

Misty tosses conjectures: "I'm I odd, old school, or just crazy?"

Her world is eye droppers, bird feeders, poop in cages, porcelain knickknacks.

Love left Misty's life years ago, when World War II ended and so did her marriage.

As she ages everything is measure in milliliters, everything seems short and small-

medications in small dosages day by day.

Early in morning a young homeless boy knocks on the store front window

desperate for a job, he lies about credentials.

Misty desperate for help asks for no references.

Today is dim, raining outside, and old maid Misty still misses the sun.

South Chicago Night and Day

sugar rats, street walkers, pick-pockets, pimps,

insects, Lake Michigan perch,

neon signs blinking half the bulbs

burned out.

In the warmth of morning sun, lips grinning,

sidewalks folding open,

the big city drifts, and sailboats

lean against the Lake Michigan sand.

Thoughtful

First updraft

late September

at the door

almost asleep

remembering

what I forgot at the store

my ex-girlfriend

shows up

on my doorstep

with no place to stay-

my birthday.

Page Content |

Thorns and Roses

by Stephanie M. Wytovich

Fuck the thirst, let me thrive.

I want to bleed you, drink you, feel you

Taste your flesh as it melts into mine,

And smell your sweat as beads trickle through my cleavage

You make me experience things I've never felt,

Things I've never imagined, never seen,

As your tainted ecstasy seeps through your skin

And slowly cums into mine

I want to feel your shoulder blade ram into my collar bone

Threaten to break me and rip me apart

Grab my throat and kiss my eyelashes while you

Singe the compass of my movement and melt into the core of me

Melt into those depleted memories

And leave your mark upon my sensuous recollections

Desires of our past encounters

Where you killed me slowly

Blinding me with those dark eyes

Taunting me with your hollowness

Inviting me in to be somewhat whole for the first time in my life

I try not to succumb to you

To be brave and not lie down to your shadowy browns

But I'm powerless

Powerless against those eyes that have killed me since the first time I looked in them

Powerless in your grasp

Your eyes

Your opinion of me

I would lie down to you on a bed of thorns

While you caress the crevasses in between my thighs

Jagged reminders of my passion cutting into my skin

While wetness collects below and droplets of liquid run over your fingertips

Finish me while I scream

Or complete me while I moan

Either way, your juices fuel me

And keep me running until further notice

When I lie down for you again,

Hopefully this time in a bed of roses

Breath

by Stephanie M. Wytovich

Death is in your breath

A stench staining my skin

An acrid bitterness

That pulls at my nose hairs

And singes their roots

It's a rotted perfume

Slithering from your

Corpse like tongue

That wraps itself in a blanket

Around my arms as

Your decaying teeth

Leave fang-like

Bite marks on my flesh

Its import burns

As it runs through my blood

Feeling like a syringe filled with

Fatality's own concoction has been

Released into my body tissues

And is running rapid within my cells

Bereavement is in your gasp

Squeezing the air from my lungs

Suffocating me with sorrow

Choking me with grief

As the light leaves my eyes

Submitting me to a painful darkness

Making me succumb

Leaving me with death

Death on my own breath

Shriveled

Compared to more ripe fruits,

you can only taste the rind of me--

skin so thick, broken finger nails

in failed attempts to peel

and pull away

to get to the sweet stuff,

to let the juices drip from your chin

like a child without manners.

I imagine you'd find me bruised,

discarded in a basket,

the one to spoil the bunch,

forever feigning the very fruitiness of me

for I am not farm fresh.

I stretch metaphor and skin far beyond

their means,

never the first pick of the morning,

left out over night to let dry

and shrink to a shriveled nothing,

so not even Jesus will call for me

to wet his whistle.

I want to teach you how to eat fruit,

to let juices explode in your mouth,

fibers caught between your teeth,

to hard to pick with dirty nails.

You'll learn to appreciate citrus

as it cracks and burns your lips.

Rainy Nights on the Jersey Shore

I was a taxicab in photographs

with summer in my exhaust.

Yellowed,

posed inches above

grey boards,

arms spread, reaching

to touch the tip of Ferris wheel.

Faded,

he's pressing a bottle to his lips,

wet t-shirt, thinning hair--

our skin, salted,

ready for poaching.

What was to come:

sandalled feet through endless rain.

We didn't use umbrellas then

and we probably never will.

Figs

I wrote you a letter from a bathtub

and dressed my skin in

honey and figs.

Tell me who retires the player piano

and press those fingers

onto my keys!

This raw flesh,

abandoned, stained,

some say it's carmine

and call me 'immigrant.'

Touch your fingers to your toes

and I'll show you mine

in measures to teach you how

to love a child and how

to please a woman.

I'll be sure to soon find you

sticky with defeat.

Portrait of the Artist as the

Wench She's Always Been

Of all things I fear apologies

are never becoming,

so you won't get one.

Nights spent soaking my insides

hoping to never sound dry

are all too frequent.

I'd strip myself of you and your misfortune,

prefer to bathe in my own,

cut memories out of flesh you were too modest to break,

and to be broken in, I probably never will be.

To say the least,

(and I never do)

you were practice.

In leaving you, I met several other me's,

taught myself to never think twice,

do first, write about it later.

Engorged myself in constant digression,

the bane of my poetry and of you,

a subtle train wreck to collapse on the parlor floor,

but again, I digress--

If I'd stuck around,

you'd resent me more than you do now.

As ripe as I never was,

you'd know only bitter,

pruned,

heart like a pit,

sagging under the weight of my support,

ready to drop,

to be covered in the maggots I've been calling friends,

And still I'd never muster up the apology,

despite the comfort you might find in it.

Seasoned

If I could be,

I'd be a summer to see you

belly-down, bloated in

the salted sea---

To coast over foam,

to relish in the metaphor of currents

and waves,

send children to wade

in your filth,

confuse your fingernails

for shells collecting

in the sand to make

a trinket of clawing,

the invisible struggle.

Singed

Nothing ever comes from second guessing,

or so they say,

perhaps you told me once,

but I never listen.

Given the opportunity,

I'd walk away from good tips

like a buck-eighty,

not smoking in bed---

I like the smell of singed hair

and library books.

I breathe them in and nothing

is released.

I talk when not talked to,

I watch infomercials,

six easy payments of blank pages

on the left-hand side of notebooks,

because I'm wasteful,

and sometimes I can look past

scribbles, make them into something

someone will wish they said on

a January night.

I know peace as more than a

hand gesture or an unattainable

idea;

I sleep well at night

and it is this that keeps

you awake.

Silvery Birchy

She is not all she seems

She is barking.

Silvery; birchy.

Parchment in reams is what

will become of her pulp.

Benches and beams

will be born of her

beckoning boughs.

She is not all she seems.

She is band saw meat

bought now.

Ambitious Fish

The tickly, prickly Stickleback

disappointed at his obvious lack of 'land based skills'

said: 'Hey, watch Me!'

to the fly and the flea on the window sill.

He splished and he splashed and he flicked his tail

causing a stir that unbalanced the pail

he was swimming in. NOW he's dry-side bound

and the fly and the flea -

They are drowned, poor things.

Spirited Inspiration

Perhaps the ghost of William

painted perfect miniature stage-plays

on the inside of my eyelids

while I slept, perchance to dream.

Rule Break Haiku

My slick art floats on puddles.

Oil painting for ponds.

My sick art is non P.C.

Scorchio!