Floating


 

Her world is a private
dream
a myriad complex thing
juxtaposed within
pains that run deep
like a slice with
a wicked knife
into the fruit
of a well worn life
that drips it juices
onto the floor
where others tread
its sticky mess.

Yet she floats.
Always she floats,
above and apart
she floats.
Wrapped in a delightful
viscous vicious
violent delicate
sustaining way.

She floats.
And I,  can simply only
wonder when, she will
ask me to join her.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

Down at the Crossroads


 

I’m down at the Crossroads, but the Devil is late…
He must be on another date.
Think I’ll sit a spell.
He’ll come along, oh he’ll come along
I’m too good a treat.
Just you wait
He’ll come along.

Time is a crawl,
the sun dropping like cold molasses
down a stuccoed wall.

I spy a crow staring at me
from across the road
he sits in shadowed tree.
He knows.
This crow has seen many a men such as I.
Whether from the East, out of well worn dreams
the West, where disillusion abounds,
the South, where love was lost a hundred times.
or the North where the hidden want to be found.

All I know
is that I’m boned tired.
As raw as a bone can be
One, any dog would love to gnaw.

So I sit, for there is still
somethin’ deep within
residing, abiding the day.
And all I need is for him
to set it free.

A thousand times a thousand
A million sunsets,
A million souls
bartered and bought
I’ll just be another on his roll.

My ears never hear an approach
As my back feels his grin
licking
I turn to him
as the sun drops away
into hell I suppose
to keep the fires burning
below.

Nary a foot separates
as he sits
legs folded delicately
as if he’s always been
He looks left
He looks right
He looks behind
Then ahead at me
and smiles
so confidently
like a fisherman
with his catch
flopping on the deck of his boat.

In that moment, I see,
he needs me.
No matter the grin
or the dark eyes.
He is afraid

This creature
is Lost.

He can do nothing
I could not.
So I jump up from that spot
Give him a grin of my own
and turn with a tip of my
hat to the crow.
Who only caws at me with
a laugh,
as I walk the road that
faces me.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

Savage Meeting



You drive me to want to look you in the eye with a primal challenge when  meeting you for the first time across the dark forest floor in the dead of night.

Your body bathed in the meager light of a crescent moon, wrapping around your delicate frame, yet I sense there is nothing delicate about you.

The cold doesn’t quite touch you fully. The night entreats your presence…you belong here…you have always belonged here.

The night is a comfort to me as well, my senses  focused. You shine  in the meager light. I see a nobility in you, a raw wildness , pure in its essence distilled before me , running like a river as you stand there.

Laying down on our backs naked on the ground,  shoulder to shoulder,  all senses attuned, to the night, to ourselves,
to each other…

Nothing needs to be said as we are wrapped in the comfort of it all.

I smell you , almost most tasting you with the tip of my tongue, from deep in your core, it calls.

I don’t ask as I force your legs open and take what’s mine now and forever as you look at the stars above as a cool wind hardens your nipples to points in the night air.

I will never surrender your body pleasures until you shudder and explode within my grasp, until you are sated fully and surrender them to me..

I want more of you this night …bite me, claw me, lose yourself in the nature of me, my wildness for you is pure and freely given.

You have me in full as my nature demands it , I please you while you do the same…leaving you spent and sore,  scratched by the forest floor with its branches and rocks cutting us as we take each other in good measure.

In the end, we look to be half feral, at the end I shall give you your first kiss as I will truly know you then in truth.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2017

The Me you See


 

The me you see, is just a pale umbra of whom I’m supposed to be.

I’ve come to  a wall and I can’t make the jump,

I try and I try and just bounce the hell off.

But what I really don’t know is that I’m just a toad in the road

and it’s just a small curb on a street.

It’s a cliff so sheer and high that it’s a trick to belie the eye.

I tell myself one more jump…kerplunk!

My little toad head hurts like hell from all the bashing

against the wall.

If I can just find that perfect crack to start me on my crawl to wind my way up.

But that would require luck…fuck!

Where the hell am I going to get any of that?

So I’m a toad.

Not a frog a princess can kiss

to relieve me of this predicament.

Sorry, no frog underneath this frog-like veneer miss.

But I will be the prince of toads one day.

Fuck the frog I say!

So I look for that crack in the wall,

no matter how small,

to eventually make my way

up and over.

To that other me

that I don’t yet see,

The Prince of Toads,

in all of his bumpy

brown glory.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2017

Seeing You


If I were a blind man
and had only a touch
to trace a picture of you
I would kiss you first
as I made a joke
My lips against yours
along with a feather stroke
of my hand against
a fully rounded cheek
I would be in that smile
as I breathed your
essence in.
A flock of goosebumps
springing up upon your skin.
as a fingertip slowly just ever so
traveled down a
shoulder and arm to
trembling hands
in anticipation of
wants to come.
Your body leaning in
your curves filling into
the niche of me.
A puzzle complete.
Heat transfers
Coalescing
Two minds mingling
You are a picture
complete.
with other eyes
that have always
seen you.

by  Philip Wardlow 2017

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TheFeatheredSleep

Tigers not daughters

VIVID LENS VIEW

Let Your Eyes Do The Talking...

Awapara Art

A Place to share My Love for Painting, Life and my Wandering Mind

All Thoughts Work™ Outdoors

Hiking with snark in the beautiful Pacific Northwest 2011 - 2013

unbolt me

the literary asylum

That Weird Brown Girl

Let's get real. Let's get weird.

Just read

Reviews, raves, and rants it's all about the books we read

Musings of a mad woman

Bipolar is my superpower

ReclusiveDreams

writing what my mind tells me and what my heart feels

Vigilante Nation

A site dedicated to mediating and confronting vigilantism and violent extremism in American history, society, culture & beyond

World of Horror

A place for writers and book lovers

Elan Mudrow

The Ridges of Intertextuallity

Exclusive Inflictions

by Kelly Lewis

Megan Kay's Blog

Linguistic twists dripping from my wanton tongue. WARNING: My words are written to be viewed by a mature eye 18+ please

Daily (w)rite

A DAILY RITUAL OF WRITING

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