milk & honey flow there

by jdavidcharles

I must apologize for the lack of posting, but I have been sick and working and writing some music and things and not really had much time. I also, though, began reading some new poets (for me) and thus am exploring some new themes and styles. I think I’m leaving more narrative elements which, oddly enough, end up becoming discontinuous and preachy I think, and am leaning more and more towards a very intuitive writing for myself–disjunctive,  reflective, amalgamated, and, for lack of a better term, voyeuristic. I hope you enjoy.

milk & honey flow there


It doesn’t take long to learn the difference between special and different, although, once noted, it can be difficult to account for.

Like that was really nice he said, it’s been awhile—you? No, she said, not really. Concerning himself with writing these days, on the health of the body, dieting, images of the self, it’s all consumption anyways, but how to start? where to begin?

These days. What does that mean I wonder: these days?

The rhythm of the line sometimes more important than the line, sometimes, even not necessary, an unbounded rhythm, a talking without end, at least, until done.

I asked her, “is this okay” and, I shit you not, she said, “you’re not supposed to ask,” I mean, what the hell, yes, yes I’m supposed to fucking ask.

In the night he often dreamt he was tied down and with long shanks of lamb, raw, still pulsing with the red blood of life, forced down his throat, milk too, right from the breast. He felt terrible and disgusting: but it was so moist and fresh.

That woman, the one with hair like copper, loves you. Trust me, I can tell—she’s madly in love.

You remember, you called her bitch—that hurt. I don’t care what you said afterward, I know you weren’t kidding—it fucking hurt.

You know, this poem was supposed to be about you. There are already too many poems about you. This poem is not yours, and I am not yours, and I am not your poem. This was never your poem.