hannah-jeffery - Hello Poetry

Fabric is fabric, it wrinkles, stains easily, it drives you up the wall. But emerges from any dryer warmer than a summer breeze. Catch it quick. It doesn’t stay long.

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Oct 5, 2014

Oct 5, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC

Clothes

Fabric is fabric, it wrinkles, stains easily, it drives you up the wall. But emerges from any dryer warmer than a summer breeze. Catch it quick. It doesn’t stay long.

10

Pretty girl. Smart girl. Lovely little collection of dirt-smudged books with dog-eared corners, that girl. Quilted comforter girl. Non-drinking, church-going promiscuous girl. Strange girl. Senseless girl. Dreaming, preening in the graying bathroom mirrors girl. Taping pencil tips during testing kind of girl. Uses skin when there’s no eraser kind of girl. Smooth fingers rubbed to gunmetal kind of girl. Smart girl. College girl. Uncommitted, TV-watching girl. Reads the books before the movies type of girl. Smoke-eyed girl. Diamond-kind-of-like without-the-shining girl. Nimble fingered girl. Pretty girl. Promiscuous girl. Lead-wedged-deep-in-the-head girl. Nobody knows Jane Doe. Orphan ***** Jane Doe. Pavin’ her way Jane Doe, they say. Doe-eyes tinted red like crushed grapes in a wine glass.

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Aug 29, 2014

Aug 29, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC

Heard about her girl

Pretty girl. Smart girl. Lovely little collection of dirt-smudged books with dog-eared corners, that girl. Quilted comforter girl. Non-drinking, church-going promiscuous girl. Strange girl. Senseless girl. Dreaming, preening in the graying bathroom mirrors girl. Taping pencil tips during testing kind of girl. Uses skin when there’s no eraser kind of girl. Smooth fingers rubbed to gunmetal kind of girl. Smart girl. College girl. Uncommitted, TV-watching girl. Reads the books before the movies type of girl. Smoke-eyed girl. Diamond-kind-of-like without-the-shining girl. Nimble fingered girl. Pretty girl. Promiscuous girl. Lead-wedged-deep-in-the-head girl. Nobody knows Jane Doe. Orphan ***** Jane Doe. Pavin’ her way Jane Doe, they say. Doe-eyes tinted red like crushed grapes in a wine glass.

23

I stare, intently. He glances momentarily. With its big calf eyes, the skin peeling away from its lids and its hides. They float by, I gaze quickly at their popped peepers which are skinned like white grapes, and they go about their day. I love them, them and their color palate, their unique selection. Bloated and baggy, bubbling up, it looks so goofy that I cannot stand it. My mouth gapes at the dazzling gold bands, the alternating tan lines, the glow-in-the-dark marks, the cool blues and the light blues alike. They seem startled and pouty. But what to do about the **** They cannot leap the glass and twirl with us, dance with me, fly past the current ripping by. Poor things…how they wish they were wild, undomesticated and free. They want to be near us. I see it in the gestures of their prehensile ***** that smear the glass as they press in, trying to chart our turbulent patterns. I wonder in my head how they breathe so easily, flopping about their blue-tinted box, drinking deep the LOx fed in through a tube somewhere as the world morphs and vibrates between us. It is full of grey energy. Like a cloud in a lightning storm. Ever changing.

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Jul 22, 2014

Jul 22, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC

Aquarius

I stare, intently. He glances momentarily. With its big calf eyes, the skin peeling away from its lids and its hides. They float by, I gaze quickly at their popped peepers which are skinned like white grapes, and they go about their day. I love them, them and their color palate, their unique selection. Bloated and baggy, bubbling up, it looks so goofy that I cannot stand it. My mouth gapes at the dazzling gold bands, the alternating tan lines, the glow-in-the-dark marks, the cool blues and the light blues alike. They seem startled and pouty. But what to do about the **** They cannot leap the glass and twirl with us, dance with me, fly past the current ripping by. Poor things…how they wish they were wild, undomesticated and free. They want to be near us. I see it in the gestures of their prehensile ***** that smear the glass as they press in, trying to chart our turbulent patterns. I wonder in my head how they breathe so easily, flopping about their blue-tinted box, drinking deep the LOx fed in through a tube somewhere as the world morphs and vibrates between us. It is full of grey energy. Like a cloud in a lightning storm. Ever changing.

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