Kitten's Litter

enjoyed every line. what a raw picture you created.

of the blood
cuddled in puddles around a mother on her knees



How you been Kitten ?

 

Been busy with life. But want to get back with a vengeance.

 

I hide and sneak,
on the sly,
tongue tricks, back flips,
parkour through the grooves,
just an outline
in the moonlit city line
of my mind,
and I am good,
got calluses to prove
how well I move
between the walls and bones,
swinging on arteries.
I’ve got an escape plan,
but an exit door is just an exit wound
that has closed up too soon,
and when I fall down,
the whites of my eyes turn to wine
that stays in my hands,
put it in bottles or barrels,
lock up errors in basements,
let them age and ripen with time,
the fruits of my labor
are all in the hurt no one can outrun,
so instead of leaping through craters,
now I build bridges and ladders,
and I stopped fleeing the fleeting,
because the drop is not the fear,
it is the question
can I climb back up.

 

what else do you want?
you’ve got food, you’ve got water.
do you need company?
do you want to go outside?
there’s snow, wet sun, and the chill that bites your paws,
it forces action.
but i’ll stay here,
robed, disheveled,
with my gut sticking to my spine,
(I stole that line)
it’s all routine choices,
and you just can’t make up your mind.

 

I am stronger than these words,
worse than each verse, and more sincere,
I am flesh, blood, and bone,
wounds, liquor, and salt,
smug and meek,
sometimes a cannonade,
sometimes I’m just a rustle of leaves,
my lines waltz and preen their feathers,
while I lie in bed, in fever,
and under the weather.
but I can wink and glimmer across the bay,
like gatsby’s light,
I am a sign,
a yes and a no,
perhaps, pourquoi pas?
not right now, like a dare
or a ruse,
breaking all the grammar rules,
strings of syllables like streamers,
my bruises and blisters
are a costly spark,
promises confetti litter on new years,
red circles on dates
erased by the dark
thoughts like cocoa,
bon appetit, pardon the bitterness,
but
sometimes l make as much sense
as snow flakes falling from
the spinning blades
of a ceiling fan.

 

my great aunt’s husband was a pilot.
a soviet bombardier in the northern sea.
I never knew him, personally,
but I’ve met him through my father’s tales.
his influence was vast. extraordinary.
meshed with my father’s words and tricks.
his name reverberated through out childhood,
but only recently I gleaned puzzle pieces of his past.
he traded in his life for testing the hydrogen bomb. back in the ’50s.
got an early retirement, got medals, and a hefty pension (by those standards),
he also got a dose of radiation, a shady employment record, and kinship with the bottle,
to top it all off, he ended up
with a bullet in the head,
that’s what the telegram said,
but my father does not remember the ugly, and the painful,
he only talks of the kindness, lessons, hardened palms,
he only knows of all the difference,
and the significance
of an ordinary man.

 

When depleted,
I refuel on Fellini films,
chardonnay at dusk,
scratches behind cat ears,
matte textures of books about flaws,
theories of the mind,
abstract pictures of the space and stars,
pearls of lights flickering in the distance,
texts back and forth,
braids of branches against the graphite sky,
the warmth of an oversized sweater,
isolation and meditation in headphones,
the steady pulse of the soul
translated into rhythm and rhymes,
smoke spells and vibes,
steam rising from a tea mug,
the smell of sandalwood oil,
dozing off, head buried in pillows,
fingers dancing on strings,
fingers caressing the body of a guitar,
someday it will be a tender touch,
of the second half, the right one,
but for now,
falling in love with the talented ones,
glancing into the future well,
murky,
I am full of everything,
half a smile,
sister’s voice travels far,
away from the mundane.
details.
silent kitchen rituals with ghosts,
heart bleeds through the gauze,
no flat line here,
only spikes and spears,
memories of childhood crimes,
squinting, spitting sunflower seeds,
I filter out, air out
the dregs of the past,
tomorrow,
will be a different kind of dance.

 

amazing reflections. It's funny how as kids we see the world through that special lens...and it disappears later exposing things for what they are, leaving a trail of nostalgia. What a life your grandpa lived btw, but was it worth the pride ? of course not.

EDIT
I mean great aunts husband (im retarted for mistaking this sorry)

Go kitten, it's your birthday, Go kitten, gonna write like it's yo birthday.

 

It's true that I didn't read most of them, but they are really great. Congrats!

 

I asked,
why do you need that much space
for two people?
to get away
from each other?
increase confines of the jail cell?
to carve out a safe corner in your head,
to stew in the cauldron
of a self-created hell?
just slab another new,
fresh layer of paint,
to cover up expanding cracks,
but they’re still there, they don’t go away,
and stitches are meant to fade,
so how will this extension
mend
patchwork of self-betrayals, denials and wrongs.
it won’t.
and the welts and scars
that you think I can’t see,
shout louder,
then all the space that’s crowding
the ties between you and me.
everything that you buy,
all the time you eat up,
stares back at night
with all the emptiness
that metastasized.
but in the morning,
are you existing?
or merely fulfilling a role, assigned,
minus the troubles and feelings,
and the turmoil of being
flawed and alive.

 

I miss being a kid with you,
I miss making you laugh.

now all we know of each other
is what we eavesdrop,
savor these
second-hand accounts.
last I heard,
you liked hand-made medallions,
and I liked to let the wind
guide my palm,
as we rolled through the towns,
ridding into the sunset, like bandits,
you still like to slay tequila shots
and I like the crisp air
in my lungs,
and the night sky drowning
in my eyes,
as my mind drowns in merlot,
I'd want you to know
this about me
and I'd want to
learn
more of you,
of me,
wouldn't it be nice to live
without a safety seal,
or an expiration date?
but here were are,
on this trajectory,
passing by,
somewhere on the periphery.

 

I offer no solutions or condolences,
although I could,
instead I turn for the signs
from the universe,
I can translate pixels into
fireworks
with words,
for attention.
I can ring alarm,
forebode the end,
but the end will come
either way,
then what good
will
all this armor serve?
give it up.
throw away the daggers
and the firearms,
the only threat here
is the anticipation of the worst.
and imagination
embellishes but it also embalms,
and memories
just want something to preserve,
in the bell jars.

well, I want none of that.

 

I just want to sleep,
be unconscious for a couple of hours,
overwrite recordings of the day,
but my floor and walls bounce
with a steady beat
of neighbors’ techno,
at an ungodly, arbitrary hour.
and when that stops,
my brain shoots me to-do messages
in a bullet form,
and I just want to shoot the messenger.
and the thoughts are crisp and sharp,
too much in focus, too zoomed in
on everything that could go wrong.
and even when I use my tricks,
zero in on the mechanics of my breathing,
then it’s the silence or the pillow case
that scratch my ears,
and the darkness
is too vast,
unbearable,
behind closed lids.
and if I feel like I am slightly slipping,
losing the grip on images
and story lines,
then my awareness,
pipes up with cheer,
which only serves to wake me up.
and so I toss and turn and spin,
in a mess of blankets,
in a washer cycle,
jumbled, tangled, giving up,
with all the numerous false starts.
and all I think about is how
I’m going to be so damn tired
when I finally get up.

 

cool

 

KittenX!

 

8 years and running!!!

 

Parked the car in an empty lot,
sitting in the backseat,
we toasted to trespassing,
to free-wheeling,
to loopholes in the absurd laws,
and the liquid in blue plastic cups
only fueled the crackling fire
of cracking up at every inane thought.

 

tonight is ominous
without a cause,
it’s just that my inner voice
is cautious and cloaked,
gut sense, heart race,
who’s going to win?
and what have I got to lose?

I’m not omniscient,
I can’t read minds,
living in between the miles and
the written lines,
in the grey of morning light
mounting unknown is all I know,
and the taut strings in my voice
will betray
my pretense sense of confidence.

 

there is a reckless truth
in the urgency of youth.

and there are no straight arrows,
only different cover ups,
well fuck a front, let’s be open-eyed and
on good terms with our own lies,
live out these days as if they were our last.

 

and there are no straight arrows,
only different cover ups,

You are never in shortage of great, great ways to capture...I was expecting arrow tips as the punch, but the 2nd line blew away my expectations, different covers ups only added to the whole. raw. impressive