she is a charcoal sketch.
she is dark,
jagged at the edges, rough.
she is only a first draft--
soon the pencil marks will be erased
and the best is yet to come.
not only is she a watercolor painting--
pastels bleeding together until
you can't find where
each emotion stops and starts--
but also the dark Sharpie lines
etched in arcs on said painting,
a beautiful composition of
daydream and nightmare.
she is cracked clay.
she crumbles easily, powder
breaking off from her sculpture
in such a way that
no amount of glue will ever reattach.
she may be broken and
cracked in all the wrong places but
sometimes imperfections add beauty
to an otherwise ordinary masterpiece.

you don't keep things very steady
but I'm feeling you and it's heavy
I've got a recluse vibe
but you dig me
you've got a twisted mind
and I wannna dig deep...
who needs ******* sleep?
cause I wanna bleed these sheets
((with whatever comes next
two bleeding hearts for romance
has gotta mean hot ***))
with only inspiration...
because passion creates feelings
creates paths that are freeing
creates monsters and tingling
creates goosebumps and scream queens
((and I like your ***** jeans,
I'm saying so much more
than what that means,
***** jeans :
adventures that aren't clean))
biting my lip isn't helping
biting my tongue is ******* annoying
((biting you wouldn't be boring))
I'm sometimes a sick kind of *****
take a breath before you sink in me

this morning I woke
and for a short, tender
moment
I swore I could feel your breath
against my back.
I remembered once again
that someone else
with rose petal lips and
piano piece hands
was waking up to your heartbeat.
I wondered
if you ever had moments
where you believed I was still
under your skin
and if it ever felt alien
when her piano hands played
stripped back versions of songs,
even though her rose petal lips
couldn't kiss the most vulnerable parts
of you.

The birthmark rides her set jaw.

It is a deep, bruised, purple
that starts just below her left eye
and runs like a brushstroke,
to the right and comes clear
across the lower mandible,
stopping after her right ear is
swallowed by the color of fresh
plums.

The iPod or smartphone
rides in the pocket of her
pink sweatshirt.

It matters little what songs
reside therein;
those jams are pure armor.

The sun is in her warrior’s eyes,
she squints and the muscles in her jaw
flex.

She’s spotted me,
ambling in her direction.

We share a brief glance.

Immediately, I can see that I’m both a kindred
and an interloper.

(I start. I stop myself. I say nothing.)

She continues with the thousand yards, the long knives,
the silver-bullet eyes.

I’d lay real money that her DNA is angry.

She’s an Incan or an Aztec warrior,

and she wears her unwelcome birthright,
her birthmark,
her war paint,
her war pain
because she has to.

*
- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017

i contend
you're my best friend
through the good ****
and poems writ
and a whole lot more
through the bad times
and bad rhymes
and remedial chores
despite all the words i speak
and all the feelings i leak
despite how much i bug you
to hear "i love you too"
and how much i mention
i need too much attention
you're still here
you keep me near
sometimes i wonder
when i'll make a blunder
i wonder when comes the day
that i drive you away
but no matter how much i complain
i never drive you insane
you haven't once said you're mad
it's never my fault when you're sad
and i don't know quite how this is true but it is
so i won't look at gift duck in beak because his
**** is what gives us the gift don't you see
that your **** is so great and so wonderful to me
and i'm sorry but thinking of your **** got distracting
but instead of deleting this line or redacting
it i have decided it's best to include
it because it gives this poem character and some attitude
but perhaps it is best to get back on track
now that i've talked about below your lower back
anyway what was i saying, oh yes
i know it's not news but i must confess
that i love you way more than i could ever impress
just with words or a poem or even a book
more than puns or kiss or a pointed cute look
i love you, dear
not just for your rear
but for your soul
just to be clear
it's light and it's warm and it's wonderfully pure
i know that i'm certain, i'm one hundred percent sure
you're the one
no joke this time, not even a pun
you're the love of my life
and maybe one day my grocery shopping partner

On an orange field blessed by sunset
shards of broken glass lay on the ground
in the autumnal grass wind gently passes by
and soft as a swan’s feather
she dances around.
Sunlight drops on her eyes of sky
her pearly smile shines more than stars
and she looks to me, her eyes do not lie
for she is the purest jewel I will ever see in my live.
Like water, that gust of wind
she splits it with her fingertips
and a red breath-nourishing rose
she holds between her lips.
Music is a woman full of love
that loves carelessly until it hurts;
Her laughter will caress your skin
like that glass caresses that orange field.
In her, like in a true love I see
a reflection of freedom, reflection of all mine;
She is the bird to bring joy and peace,
the one to say “shush” and tell that it is fine.
Wherever may I roam,
with her, that place I can call home.

your expressing sunshine
like unforgiving aspects
raising ******
camouflaging silver
meshing razor teeth
because back it up honey
lunacy is saccharine sweetness
  
your suppressing moonshine
chains of bitter freedom
rays are often hidden
beneath a skin of ashes
there is taste to savour
of warmth and promise
where madnesses collide