xaeonbluehybrid thinking about sex...what else? lol

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About Me:

Michelle Boleyn, poet. Leo/Virgo, loves poetry [I write a lot and am looking for the right publisher], the ocean where I live, my cats, a nice date with a very tall man, who may end up in my bed after some time [very picky] Survivalism--my dad made me spend a week in the woods with only a pocket knife and some twine & the clothes on my back to see if I had learned enough to take care of myself [out of 5 kids I was the only one to spend actually 9 days, he had to come get me because I really got into it after reading "My Side of the Mountain, check it out.] Dislikes: Gov't snowing everyone that the USA is ok, just watch my playlist & you'll see just how safe you really are. Rude, rich people, being told what to do, destructive critisism [sic], screaming spoiled children, I'm a young grandmother and like being one--you can always give the child back to the parents if they behave bad...heehee. For some reason I'm having trouble finding the areas to upload pics, gifts & such, it says there's an error on my page everytime I log on so bear with me.

Hobbies:

gourmet cooking, reading & writing, gardening, various mediums in art, forensic anthropology,survivalism, theology, astrology, tarot, dream skills. my best prophetic dreams become my poems. I've been told I'm a cross b/t Sylvia Plath and Nostradamus so if you want a free reading, advice, or just to talk, send me your msgs & I'll get back to you shortly.

a few samples of my copyrighted poetry. Enjoy or rip up...constuctive criticism is always welcome.

Paper Trails

So, this bent & smiling Queen, she halfway makes some sense.
To her subjects--as she gives them speeches from
her bathroom sink.
And finds herself the cruelest sort of jeering and retort is the silence
bitter silence of no distraction.

With a quoting talk & a meandering walk, she perpetuates the constant rubbing of a Budda's ass
and counts, in triplicate, her suspisions of the day
cusped in her signature, shapeshifting to her satifaction.

There is no structure in the palace anymore, or anyless & the Queen moonlights with most oppressive of thieves
barefoot beneath the old & pungent pines, she is a graceful swish...
Mosaic in her careless toss of tissues as they fall.

Stuored by th katydid's refusal to sing tonight
she hums herself a chant as if in lullaby
Gathering her tissue garden like butterleaf
by the moon
No paper trails, no paper trails, she sadly sighsl.

Michelle Boleyn
copyrighted 2011


Staturine

A glittering granite passage of stone, I am Grace
Long stem poppies lit like flaming fans
sway en mass, the silent whisper of air, such sweetness & my en tourage is fading
fading ever fast

In company to the white owl that bemoans my lot
placing offerings at my annointed toes
& weeps moonstone tears for me, they leave
carcasses of small affairthat attracts the crows
of red eye hate, magicians in midnight cloak

Oh, how I loathe their kind of black love

somewhere, someone draws my contours from every angle, my image & 1000 miles away in red clay
such caven painting is my still life revealed
It is nothing for lovers in want yet...

they continue to chip away as if I can help!
Oh, time, she wears me down for luck for some, for love, for dreaming all that they are not
some weep to just go Home...
wherever that may be, an image doesn't know

and you keep drawing & chipping paralells,
alignments of my expressions as you see fit
giving meanings worth nothing
but my weight in marble, gold, & clay.

M. Boleyn
copyrighted 2011
[u][/u]Dust

Coated clocks tick & time has a memory--
Still brained vegetable & wanton, fruity thoughts
I have been forgotten, deemed rotten
Gathering dust, encrusted microjewel

Segmented glorification of a larger whole
cooling heels digging beneath the silken dirt
resisting ghostly kissing games
melancholy, that I am.

Nostalgic specks--hardly a thing to grasp
pearls of paneled faces, a cursing chior of melodic dances
Memories of mistaken chances...there was a time when

Papery petals drifted languid upon imagined gusts
and I am still...without moisture in my voice
Collecting tilted thoughts, though filtered
I had gone utterly mad in the Sun that summer

Jumping the tears of happier times
Roseprinted in my little dress & black patent leather shoes
that hurt for I'd outgrown them & we were poor
through the red & orange poppies days I sprinted...yes

Honeydews--still green where I hurdled them by twos
where there was an end to my childhood
I didn't run, I dashed!
Off an Arkansas road of red dust

A Huntress who set the ole chevy in a loud flutter
Like my grandma's old ticker
She knew my hillbilly heart wore red high heels
As I drove the stick in the floor

My pigtails let loose and became wings of flame
Having once begun my illicit transformation
my cheeks flushed as grandma turned away in disgust
She began to spin her tales...

that I an still, alot like her
Habitually silent
running against the grain
She said:

I had the inner working a beetle rolling dung uphill
Fingershaping clouds to my Augustial dreams
Such boring, neurotic sensibilities giving birth
eddies of heat & dust, I knew love, so I thought

That summer of my sixteenth year
One by one, my dreams
scattered like atoms beneath my tongue
One by one I became a Woman.

Michelle Boleyn
copyrighted 2011



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