r-barclay - Hello Poetry

I am the unknown bug in the bed creeping up your sleeping body. Only in your dreams can you brush me from your leg. You are noiseless, stirless. I'll feel you with feelers, rip you apart with them until your soul splits into my light and guide. It beckons me upward until I clumsily climb into that dark, mysterious end. I am an alien in your black cavern of truth. I want there to be hope in there, to be light. Where are the cut-paper shadows and leaves that show us what is real? Only you can sense the white-filmy substance. Tell me about how it sparkles like reality. Tell me how to find a cave of my own. Spread open and let in the silver moon of the night. I'll tear the program down. We can re-do it together. And then you'll say "You can't deconstruct what you can't construct." I come back to you when the sun puts his harsh face over the edge, In the cold, sunken bed I eagerly await the moment that long, defeated look hits your morning face. You stretch, scratch your body, and wonder who is taking your life.

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Feb 11, 2011

Feb 11, 2011 at 11:51 AM UTC

A Bug of Your Own

I am the unknown bug in the bed creeping up your sleeping body. Only in your dreams can you brush me from your leg. You are noiseless, stirless. I'll feel you with feelers, rip you apart with them until your soul splits into my light and guide. It beckons me upward until I clumsily climb into that dark, mysterious end. I am an alien in your black cavern of truth. I want there to be hope in there, to be light. Where are the cut-paper shadows and leaves that show us what is real? Only you can sense the white-filmy substance. Tell me about how it sparkles like reality. Tell me how to find a cave of my own. Spread open and let in the silver moon of the night. I'll tear the program down. We can re-do it together. And then you'll say "You can't deconstruct what you can't construct." I come back to you when the sun puts his harsh face over the edge, In the cold, sunken bed I eagerly await the moment that long, defeated look hits your morning face. You stretch, scratch your body, and wonder who is taking your life.

7

god gets hungry too one time he mistook the sun for a cookie jar and pardoned his reach over top the planets for a pecan wafer but burnt his greedy fingers so he made the world with his fist

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Feb 5, 2011

Feb 5, 2011 at 4:45 PM UTC

The Cookie Jar

god gets hungry too one time he mistook the sun for a cookie jar and pardoned his reach over top the planets for a pecan wafer but burnt his greedy fingers so he made the world with his fist

5

In comes one every week, tracking into my home the filth of the streets: some are patterned like cows, some wear tuxedos, some have turtle shells on their backs. One looks like a whole spice rack spilled out on him. Barn cats, alley cats, stray cats, exotic cats— she says no to none of them. This home is wild and foolish like her mind. That compassion pours out like acid on my bones. Then I’m forced to shoot her down with words that fly out like bullets, and more mouthfuls and more mouthfuls of bullets that all but ricochet off her iron clad will. You turn so perfectly down your roads of passion. Creep on through the stop signs I put up and mount on my head the horns, the ones we pretend we can’t see, the ones that let the bullets soar, bullets to **** you again, horns to undress your sister.

0

Feb 5, 2011

Feb 5, 2011 at 4:37 PM UTC

A Cuckold and His Gun

In comes one every week, tracking into my home the filth of the streets: some are patterned like cows, some wear tuxedos, some have turtle shells on their backs. One looks like a whole spice rack spilled out on him. Barn cats, alley cats, stray cats, exotic cats— she says no to none of them. This home is wild and foolish like her mind. That compassion pours out like acid on my bones. Then I’m forced to shoot her down with words that fly out like bullets, and more mouthfuls and more mouthfuls of bullets that all but ricochet off her iron clad will. You turn so perfectly down your roads of passion. Creep on through the stop signs I put up and mount on my head the horns, the ones we pretend we can’t see, the ones that let the bullets soar, bullets to **** you again, horns to undress your sister.

23

This girl struts into class abnormally early the other day, and my mind immediately begins to spin because she was always bent on being late— like some undiscovered oil. She said she turned over a new leaf. Next class she was late. So I asked about the new leaf, and she said that it was no longer that way because leaves decay and wither when they are unattached to stems of sustenance, and its quite easy for the dark gusts of life to blow ‘em onto their other side.

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Aug 6, 2010

Aug 6, 2010 at 3:52 PM UTC

Light Weight

This girl struts into class abnormally early the other day, and my mind immediately begins to spin because she was always bent on being late— like some undiscovered oil. She said she turned over a new leaf. Next class she was late. So I asked about the new leaf, and she said that it was no longer that way because leaves decay and wither when they are unattached to stems of sustenance, and its quite easy for the dark gusts of life to blow ‘em onto their other side.

13

There are skunks in there every night burrowing into the yawning parts of my wife’s dream-filled mind. Night by night, their numbers increase— as black as her stare, as pure as her smile. Backs that bear the white-tipped senses of God. They float through as an endless dark stream that glistens with my motives, and confirms my drunken pleasures— beaming out the secrets of my every move, my grief, my thorns. The truth is a cage. My mind is my dungeon. She says the skunks are the alcohol. I say they’re the dogs. She says maybe they’re everything. And she was gone before I could move.

0

Jun 26, 2010

Jun 26, 2010 at 12:08 PM UTC

They Come on the Backs of Skunks

There are skunks in there every night burrowing into the yawning parts of my wife’s dream-filled mind. Night by night, their numbers increase— as black as her stare, as pure as her smile. Backs that bear the white-tipped senses of God. They float through as an endless dark stream that glistens with my motives, and confirms my drunken pleasures— beaming out the secrets of my every move, my grief, my thorns. The truth is a cage. My mind is my dungeon. She says the skunks are the alcohol. I say they’re the dogs. She says maybe they’re everything. And she was gone before I could move.

24

There was this one time you told me if I ate too many carrots, my skin would turn orange, and then you laughed, and I think I looked at you annoyed, trying to act like you were being stupid, and you were being stupid, but I just thought I would tell you that on the inside I was laughing, and I ate a lot of carrots yesterday and thought of you telling me my skin would turn orange, and it did turn orange, and on the outside I couldn’t stop laughing.

0

Jan 18, 2010

Jan 18, 2010 at 5:22 PM UTC

An Orange Confession

There was this one time you told me if I ate too many carrots, my skin would turn orange, and then you laughed, and I think I looked at you annoyed, trying to act like you were being stupid, and you were being stupid, but I just thought I would tell you that on the inside I was laughing, and I ate a lot of carrots yesterday and thought of you telling me my skin would turn orange, and it did turn orange, and on the outside I couldn’t stop laughing.

15

As a child, everything was free, real, like early spring air. Birds were infinite and could fly to heaven. Now air is stiff wood, and birds only **** on cars. I took out the dagger to take a stab. I yawned. They fawned over the shops on Bond Street. I yawned We drank Cristal Brut. I yawned. The lights of Times Square dazzled. I yawned. The toast crumbs were ****** I yawned. The people prayed. I yawned. I asked God, “How do I settle this?” “Give me your sock,” God said. So I did. “Sever all your limbs.” So I did, one by one. God stuffed the legs, arms, and drippings into my sock, blood-soaking it. And with that cocktail sock God smacked me and sat silent. “Now what?” God yawned.

0

Jan 18, 2010

Jan 18, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC

The Stripper

As a child, everything was free, real, like early spring air. Birds were infinite and could fly to heaven. Now air is stiff wood, and birds only **** on cars. I took out the dagger to take a stab. I yawned. They fawned over the shops on Bond Street. I yawned We drank Cristal Brut. I yawned. The lights of Times Square dazzled. I yawned. The toast crumbs were ****** I yawned. The people prayed. I yawned. I asked God, “How do I settle this?” “Give me your sock,” God said. So I did. “Sever all your limbs.” So I did, one by one. God stuffed the legs, arms, and drippings into my sock, blood-soaking it. And with that cocktail sock God smacked me and sat silent. “Now what?” God yawned.

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