In the Classroom

The most potent sound in a university classroom

Is the click of a projector,

Followed by the soft rain

Of fingers on keyboards.

This soft, gentle falling

Not at all like the quiet harshness of knowledge,

Falls in arboretums, hallways and centers,

But never sounds in gardens or minds.

Knowledge is not soft rain.

Knowledge is a thunderstorm.

Knowledge is pounding skulls, the clashing of hearth and heart and heat

The clapping of disbelief is thunder, shattering the previous silent tense throbs of electricity

The tombs of puddles, rippling in the quiet rain is not

The rushing rivers of rolling waves overrunning beachways, roadways and pathways

That flood and overspill and still the torrents pour more in.

Knowledge is violent light streaking over skyways and twisting into new brightness, it is cracking and re-shackling the great powerful sky, its tightness

Knowledge kills

and fulfills and thrives in dark wide spaces like fields of hungry wheat twirling and thrashing in winds so harsh the earth shivers.

She shivers when knowledge roars and reaps and reeks.

Knowledge is so loud it deafens.   Knowledge is so hot it burns red hands on faces and sears and licks lips. Knowledge is so cold it burns stinging eyes and sears and licks locked blue lips.

Knowledge is more.

Knowledge exists outside, in the storms.

And she doesn’t exist. Because existence is a limitation.

And knowledge cannot be limited. 

Knowledge cannot be contained or restrained.

Knowledge isn’t given.

It’s earned.

Through blood and steam and tightening chests.

Knowledge is mother. Knowledge is father. Knowledge is screaming shouting hitting hoping heating whoring hacking lacking stuttering stacking stopping stalling seeking seeping soulsearing shaking making faking fulfilling stilling thrilling.

Knowledge is not a quiet rain.

Knowledge is.

Lustily

There is a dangerous word
I dare not mention.
I cannot know it's true extent
So I may inadvertantly lie,
the moment before i die;
I may peel open with suddeness
and know the words deeper worth
and may honestly see clear
the dangerous word as true
when pertaining to you.

The Rippling

There’s a velvet purple stain rippling where I once had a bruise made by cane sized fingers.

A deep red touch so heavy it smothered

And I only whispered half heartedly to you

About that dark thing I felt growing in knowing

When I was battled by spirits

And I wish I could have explained to you how broken it is

How disappointed I am

That I did not receive the worst

My bra straps never quivered

That my cane tinted stories aren’t the real darkness

Or deserving of

But that the great awful happened to others

Scissor stories

Sharpened by the passing of time and word

And that whiff of something indecent

I had enough imagination to see just the dark figure of it

As something awful

Just that cold cold cold cold cold cold cold cold sick knowing

The dark giant

With cane fingers

With scissor eyes

Was nearer my mother.

And I’d never know the whole flesh of it.

Rape, Hard to Spell

Sacred disembowelment

You thief!

I wanted to be your goddess.

How sad that I still stand now, alone as strong women often

Doze, lightly.

I find myself torn from the manly breast of

The papery folds of origami society

Delicately bound

By idle chitchat and soft vibrant sunlight flickering

Swarmed in the blue velvet seat covers.

I wanted greatness.

I am unable.

We wished once that our skinned hides were tanned like animals.

We dreamed that our safety was not in dependency of another.

I imagined myself to be invulnerable.

Not within

Vulnerable.

After all, this is this year, what silly worries you carry my dear.

That sort of thing won’t happen anymore.

Not to this common place whore.

Safe. Clearly.  From those whom otherwise found pale to medium or dark skin delighting.

In-discriminatory taste;

You shant be picky when you pray upon the weak.

Weak?

What a lie!

There is no victim in a crime kept shushed.

I’ve swept, like mother dearest, these dirty stains

Like table tops,

Wiped twice with damp wet sponge cakes.

Lifted the carpet, like some snickery deviant

And hidden this welt of flustering dust beneath the rouge folds of insecurity.

Not once have I found the mirror a safe place.

She teases, finger-paints her makeup smear and cackles.

How cruel, how ugly.

We only have each other! Yet still alone.

I doze, safe, as always.

Because these kinds of things don’t happen anymore.

Not to me, anyways.

And I haven’t the time to care about the rest.

                                                            RH Carew

Actually, don't know how i feel about this one. it needs editing. PLEASE input input.

I Wish I Could Absorb

I wish I could absorb all this paper

Take it somewhere within

Where the lines blur

Where art is word

And damnation is holy being

And all the tiny thousands in the beaches

All the people on the shore

Holding their kite strings

Let their failings slip

From fingers clasped

Somewhere between these papers

Somewhere in the ink

Is meaning at its finest

Truth, wearing decorative lies,

Fanciful wishes and all the rest

Buried in one word.

                            RH Carew

Nightingales

Nightingales are the birds of poets

Moonbeams bleeding from their beaks

Tasteless harmony, sung sweet and hollow

Casting shadows in my mind.

The quiet song

From bushes and brambles,

Illuminating the endless evenings and sunrises

With their lovely calls.

Their wings spread like ivy,

Blotting women’s bosoms

And piercing men’s hearts

With thorn-like claws

And snowy black eyed puddles.

And the poets drown in them,

Consumed by their own dark innards,

Which once summered so sweetly,

But is now an echoed call from the past,

That only dreamer’s chase.

Untitled

 WARNING: Language

Untitled

Good dead innards,

Gather, gather, sinners,

Smokers, sniffers lighters,

Awful neon fighters,

Shallow dreamers and hopers,

Midnight, firelight tokers,

Hairy palmed caressers,

Late night body dressers,

Gather, gather, sinner

Our moments, she grows thinner,

Moonbeam breakers,

Dirty money makers,

Movers and shakers,

Givers and takers,                                

Gather, gather sinner,

Our moment’s growing thinner,

Harsh beats upon the drum,

While on guitar we strum,

Gather slut, villain, whore,

Gather thieves and many more,

Made up off our tummy tucks,

Money cash, and birthday fucks

Lustful dark sinning eyes,

Pig glutton, king of lies

Gather gather sinners,

Like teddies to their picnic dinners,

Gather round unholy, not-virgin,

While the knives fly from our not-surgeon

Welcome hero, welcome maybe,

Welcome innocence, welcome baby

Into a world of wolves.

                                             RH Carew