tension…

I am waiting, meditating
on real things un-
realistically changing
your mind every second second,
skipping a beat every minute,
making complete every hour
is making deceit until our

release.

to think about us among the limitless
myriad of balled lights and
desolate collections
blackened by emptied
darkness,

chills scurry upward the spine to
the peak of knowledge,
scattering

infinitesimal sparks of infinite possibilities.


to think about us among
limitless light and desolate
black,


chills peak knowledge.



                                  think of darkness
                                  scattering.



think



of infinite



possibilities

.              I

birth is what binds us
to our family but
blood does not define
its adhesive bond—
experiences

connect everyone.


             II

where sings the bird
when limbs cascade
down carious  
trunks of tall trees?

where can we sing?


             III

we listen
to nothing,
responding

to nothing.


             IV

cool air
alone

quiet


             V

talk

slow

He meant well—

that callow boy who played his toy
and tinkered and tampered without knowledge,
with juvenile thoughts about her or him or us and them.

His mind was brittle from the bane of existence,
from the pallid expression of insipidity on his face, exhausted,
he spent nights puling after that artificial release and in daylight, suddenly,

cantankerously,

pummeled people with his stare—that blank,
lackluster look,
soulless—

but

I meant well.

The air whispers cool,
phlegmatic secrets
round my neck and
past my ears—

As the sun sleeps,
I walk past trees and
weeds and, between
the brown grass
from this draught, I find
only rock and no water.

Desolate stretch of black tops
where cars rested, darkness
enveloping the invisible, and
uninhibited gazes at nothing
occupy all my sights and
thoughts and dreams.

…the worst part     of life
is that most

spend it
in a straightjacket with
one cuff un-

done.

n  u  m  b. . .


My      
                                w   a   l   l   s
                                a                  l
                                l     cage,     l
                                l                   a
                                s   l    l   a   w

                                                             ­                                                                 ­                                                  solitary,

                                                             ­                               obdurate  C
                                                             ­                                             S,      Y
                                                             ­                                          E     C
                                                             ­                                              L

circadian,
inexorable. Crimson orbs see every-

thing. Flaccid thoughts
lay helpless

                                                             ­        on my bed.

                                                             ­                                                                 ­   The lovely
                                                             ­                                                                 ­   lull
                                                             ­                                                                 ­   of blinking

f fl fli flic flick flicke flicker

                                                            f­  l  i  c  k  e  r  s       f  o  r  e  v  e  r.

.              ...our heart
pulses, un-

remitting, quicker to slow and
stopping, but
not.
                     this moment,
ineluctable,        will forever sear
the backs of retinas, your-

self and
I                

                  are one.




© 2012 Matthew Bridgham

I hear ringing.

A flimsy fence separated
the Avon railyard from
my doublewide haven:

I lived in her for those good years.
Her sides were dark grey blue and
her white skirt kissed the green weeds,
which tugged at her ankles tightly.

The trains played lullabies.
Bowed chords, in the treble,
from rails on metal wheels
coaxed harmonious melodies
which still steal my breath
and remakes my memories.

What is that ringing?

Those early hours, the springtime
of my life’s year, beautifully lit
by the light of my television,
were at times bitterly black
like my father’s coffee,
and other times sweet
as the chocolate milk
he mixed for me.

My body swayed and swooned
to the sound of the trains.
All that’s left are tunes.
Nothing else remains—

The alarm of adulthood
rings loudly in my ear.
The a.m. of my life
is no longer near…

…but I remember the music.

I will always remember the music.



© 2012 Matthew Bridgham

Little discerns
Good poetry on this site:
Meter and Rhyme,
Stanzaic Structure and
Fickle Commentaries
from poets with dusty books and
Dustier Dictionaries.

You five-star
one-star poems
when words
Hypnotize
Your Hippocampus—
These poets
Mesmerize,
Charm you into
Commenting,
But what of
Substance?

Be it flashy words that make you
Squirm in rhythm with your
Dreams
Which leaves you
Breathless,
Motionless,
Awestricken by
Technical prowess?

Be it Capitalization,
            Indentation,

Breaks,

Brevity?


Submit what you feel
to people who reveal
that poetry is naught
but phrases left to rot.



© 2012 Matthew Bridgham

I lie on our bed
staring at things:

I see the reflection of people
made of bronze,
holding hands,
silhouetted
on my phone’s screen.

The sun casts
light on their
cast metal frame
through the blinds
they stand beside
the windowpane.

I’m not sure of
what they like,
who they like,
where they like it,
when and why they like it,
but who cares?
(In a perfect world
who would care?)—

They seem happy…

I look away.



© 2012 Matthew Bridgham

Whisper thoughts
   of lulling dreams…
      Let your breath
         kiss at my lobes
      but miss my mind.
   Oh, let it miss this time!

Let our hearts combine
   and break and twine
      together like line
         made of hemp
            with knots made of
         naught but cement
      rope so strong
   that steel is straw.

In a single moment,
   we listen with eyes
      and see through ears
         what most neglect
            through all their years.

         We hold whole
      the breathless sigh
   of our soul—

You and I.





© 2012 Matthew Bridgham

We ponder the thought of the selfish desire
of what we require to live in this world.
Little is needed to dwell on this crusted,
infested with lowlifes, planet we call home.

The water of living which flows from our heart
is never mistaken for spit from our mouth.
The question is simple and maybe a little
deranged, but I’ll ask it all the same:

Why must heart mean mind
when thoughts are those that bind?



© 2012 Matthew Bridgham

What causes the mind
to be vexed by the virus
of the racing heart and
the beading sweat and
violent shaking of my
vacant chamber?
                                                     Nothing.

The walls tighten ‘round
the roofed vessel of my mind.
Aching in pulses. Trembling
to the rhythm
of my steady
heartbeat
beat beat
steady
beat beat
beat…beat—

My form is weakened
by the invalid absence
of valiantly valid sense.
The empty vale within
my head deepens with
such vigor of decay that
these senses submit to what
                                                      is real.

I dismiss this vagabond
from living in the digs
of my body’s dome
with a simple
“I’m fine.”

The tempo of the beat
surges to a halt then
stops then
starts as it returns to
normal then stops…

Bold assumptions
Create malfunctions.


© 2012 Matthew Bridgham

You have

Hair like chocolate,
              veiled velvet

Skin like caramel,
              candied casing

Eyes like almonds,
              tantalizingly toxic

Lips like oranges,
              softened succulence

Voice like meringue,
              eclectically ebullient.


Your gaze and kiss and sound
make belly-butterflies wing around!


© 2012 Matthew Bridgham

You meet eyes with lies of feeling proud,
wearing the forced grin of an unamused clown
or those belly-speaking freaks that smile
that all too familiar smile—

The stilted motions of conversation
sedate your social senses.
Conventions of grandeur replace
your frozen, expressionless face.

Your exchange
is naught
but short,
annoying phrases
poignantly constructed
out of who-cares
and what-nots:

           “Hey, how’s it going”

           “Good! You?”

           “Not bad! Not bad…”

—My ears drink in the rotten liquid,
leaking and gleaking from the lips
of wannabe professionals—

           “OK, I better go.”

           “Alright, see you!”

           “See you later!”

—My stomach cringes curds
from the month-old milk of
yesteryear’s fancies…

Go ahead.

Lay in the bed you’ve made yourself,
fluff those plastic pillows and cover up
with your hand-made quilt
of fabricated thrill
and tuck away
your sorrows.

© 2012 Matthew Bridgham

—Heads like gushing grapes
Gobbling pale bodies for treats—
Zombie’s gotta eat!


© 2012 Matthew Bridgham