Ripened Rainbows

If it's tangible, it's worthless...

Peace is mocked by the quiet

When we stitch kisses upon a “Shush”

And sell fertile minds 

Once fermenting under tongues

To an undisclosed repose 

And suppose

We will sleep to the weep of lullabies 

While yawns devour our dreams

Under wan moonbeams

And time flies by with plumes soaked 

In the afterglow 

Of a madman’s promise

How long until rainbows ripen

And we cease plucking smiles

From thorns and thistles?

For I remember a gray man’s beard 

Dribbling wisdom into my soil 

And in due season whiskey willows wilted into words

On my skin that inked:

“Happiness never bleeds from seeds caught 

In our fingertips

Neither does a winter rose satisfy 

A warm nose”

Yet we perch ourselves in the thickest brambles

Eating the foliage of bruised fruit

Wondering if “this time” 

The taste will differ

I wish to stay as they 

--eating wormwood on polished china

With overgrown silverware--

But the burn of whiskied wisdom 

Drowns my tongue

And I find that my feet don’t curve 

Around the branches

As they should

A drunken stumble to the rest

And a truth they throw to the birds

But I unstitch my mouth

Find the words 

And dribble the revelation 

To the nation as it stands: 

That rainbows have never been formed

By man’s hands

Author's Note

Growing a bit tired of the prevailing attitudes around me. Everyone believes themselves to be wise... but whose wisdom have you acquired?
I'll leave the interpretation of every inked word up to you.

Reviews

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

the images and subtle plot points didn't miss their mark~you let fly arrows like a modern day oracle in latex dreams sipping cream from the surface of the clouds of thought matter of men~ my personal third eye sucked it up and emnroidered a fable~ my mind works through the poetic platter much like one tastes wine~ the bouqet~the sip~the swirl~ the only difference is I do not spit I swallow~ =)~

on a less scandalous interpretable note what I spy with my cyclopean lollipop eye is this delicate girl and it is the delicacy which makes her powerful~ she is ambling around a thousand ash tables seating a thousand men made of shiny refuse you'd find in comglomerate minotaur dumpsters~she has sparrow legs and footsies~she is serving them something amber~something not quite as quaint as her demure eyelashes of onyx~ and as she turns what we find is a beautiful circlet of a dark hole in the side of her left temple~but it's alright because it's not a wound but Orion cleansing pandora's feet~ of course it is drwan in star patterns and sun flares~ and it's these sun flares dripping liquid down the side of her cheeks and filling all the cups she is to deliver to these hard men made of shiny refuse~ the question is~as always~who will be the first to drink~ oh what you do to me PsychedelicProphetess crunching illusions down the sidewalk~leaving fragments of dreams to be found in each and every stilleto print left behind. . . .

[.]

your textured words caress the mind..filling it with images unimaginable..and no wisdom is not acquired..it is known

[Bard Constantine]

I could feel a bit of malice underneath the words, contempt lying under tints of rosy colors. A searing perspective of the underside of human nature, pleasurable as always...

[themoor]

I like this, like a song I enjoyed being sung, I could go back and try to decipher every line, but the thing is, I liked the song and they way it was sung, and the little univeral message at the end, enjoyed it.