Please no posting on this thread.

My poems are pretty random and/or disturbing but they are not any particular style. I like free verse as much as I like villanelles. Hands off my villanelles, by the way.

~Contents:
Catherine Robison
ReMorse
Junkman
Pantoum and Snakes

I'm sorry
Did I do something wrong?
All I remember is
Going out to buy a hat- I knew then
You weren't there and
The lipstick in the bathroom cabinet
Wasn't mine.
I found myself at the lake
With a vibrant and beautiful person. Her
Name is Vivian. She said she loved me
Maybe
Familiar? Yes
I saw you at the cafe on the Old
Lane together. You kissed her.
Maybe that's why I'm here
My hair not quite done up right-
From a bullet and a fall-
And even now as the world fades-
I try to forget that-
It might not be my fault that
I love you-

Am I the only one who knows that
after dark, dogs only bark in Morse code?
And if you don't write it down and pass it on,
someone may die?

Security here is two tin cans
tied to a chain,
my junkyard full of rusty dogs.
Broken hearts arrive shortly
after their cellphane
wrapping and glib instruction manuals.
Why they continue beating
bleeding postmortem gibberish
I never want to know.
I am the Junkman, and there is
Always something coming through here
Old girls, thirdhand godfathers,
lost keys, discarded cars with trunks
with bodies
This is my Junkyard, and I have
seen all Historians die of chronic deja-vu
While I gorge here on wisdom of ages
for which I am proud; But one day
I will burst-- for a little knowledge
is a dangerous thing and Ihave
millions of little knowledges insde
me, indigestible. I will cough
knowing and understanding to
all the races, and
as I forget, they shall
remember themselves--

we snakes will always shed our skin
when locusts dine on our waxpaper eyes
Look, love, for your lost and barren kin
Long sought in graves with maps of lies

When Locusts mob, love, close your eyes
Abrasive lines, sans music foam,
And sear the burning cloudy skies
Whisper, scratching, follow omens home

When ragged lines of rocky dunes alone
Stand gaurd of horizon forgotten ages long
Forget death, love, for waiting sands of home,
Immortal serpents hold the soundless songs.

leaf in the water
circles from the source will grow
old across the pond

note: true haikus should use pictures of nature to illustrate a general or wider idea. I may have been pretty darn close D<

Please don't ask me why
I go home every night and cry
Im not sure why i feel that
and it scares me

Life is a tangled tree
Dead branches and i can't see
Why you don't just cut it down
Or do you like it there

I like it when he calls me \I smile and count to three
And tell him i love him
Why doesnt he say it back

I think im a bit of a mess
So im shining you an SOS
Maybe you can hear. Can you read
My message in a bottle??

Lazy darkness spreads its wings
And crickets scrape the evening Taps
Night to all these comfort brings

To call the Moon its dirge to sing
A furred brown moth begins to flap
Till lazy darkness spreads its wings

At this the shadows which daily cling
To shapes will at the moorlands lap
But night to all these comfort brings.

Lunar maidens crowd and ring-
And tramp the grass, and moan and clap—
Startled, Darkness spreads its wings

When morning dew their green feet stings
And treach’rous rays their magic saps
Night can no longer comfort bring

Dark is for haunting; ghostly Kings
And all recalled but dreams or scraps
Of lazy Darkness’ smoldered wings
Night to some things comfort brings

<<This is a reply to the song "Skeleton Key", by Margot and the Nuclear So and Sos.>>

I did his wash, got him to eat;
I looked at him, but he looked down.
He looked away, he moved his seat;
When I asked why, he left town.
The flame was never even lit;
I guess the key just did not fit.

You said you’d let me know.

They said to think of it like this:
You’re free now, dance and live your bliss
Said I’ll always be just me,
A broken lock, a skeleton key.

First I see his shape, feline slender

Secondly I see his shirt, something dark

And important, which I can’t remember

Over it his jacket, old leather like soft bone

Thirdly I see his hair in black jay wings over

His face, and his mouth, which I see

Fifthly, with mysterious ridges

Sixthly, I see his hands- fluttering

Rice paper, lazy magic hands sometimes in sleeves.

Last are his eyes, which saw me first,

Holes in his face, deep in elusive.

His eyes, which turn silent at me.

Shamelessly
Catching wind in old
Anoraks,
Reaching ghostlike to
Eat arrogant birds,
Casting a
Red Cotton curse
On old
White
Sparrows

lonely fingers
tongue empty of sweet
nothings
wasted hands
blank lips
&
wet lashes

Though light are some
there can be darker Fae
Queen Mab,
with dark and glimmering
wings of shell
Each seven years that pass
they must pay
A tithe of kelpie maidens
fair to Hell.

It's only the memory-
fireflies' smudgy
blinks of light-only
fluorescent powder
makeup
as an
afterthought on
the inside of my
eyelids; pale
hallucinations
and Morse
code
flashes.

The beekeeper is a mysterious
thief, in draped nettery

He may check the trees blossoms,
or mark the bees dancing
work, but always he
moves onto the next, with
excited whirring noises

At home, too, he
never stops for long-
over dinner he hovers,
over wife,
children,
all the
clovers
of his life.

Perhaps
In the
Near future,
Kites will
Make
Electricity, cities will be built of
Toast,
And
Long nights will be lit by
Candles
And
Tea light sconces.

Controlled.
Naked truths are
Monitored by cold cells,
Fed to or insulated from
Our minds.

Windows
Made of two-way
Mirrors, sterile hospice-
In paper gowns, well adjusted
Robots

On the
Cusp, they said. A
Girl would be a matrix
to the eyes of the electrodes-
No more.

Only Problem: Intra
-Vaneous Perfection.
All is like Death, but with rounded
Edges.

First I see his shape, feline slender
Secondly I see his shirt, something
Dark and important, which I can't
Remember
Over it his jacket, old leather like
Soft bone.
Thirdly I see his hair in black jay wings
over his face, which I see,

And his mouth, fifthly, with
Mysterious ridges to explore
Sixthly, I see his hands, fluttering
Rice paper - lazy magic hands
sometimes in sleeves.
Last are his eyes, that saw me first.
Holes in his face, deep and elusive.
His eyes, which turn silent at me.

I am the wax growing malformed
at the base of the candle
gecko with no feet
leaky tank
empty cigarette lighter
infertile Mary
shapeless hair elastic
(they too hold their breath until they are broken-released--)
I am the