I.
The humdrum whitewashed wall of my balcony
overlooks almost everyone here,
but it’s yellowed in the slightly
past-the-season holiday lights
winking behind my back.
Rip them out, and yet
the still flaming cigarette butts alight
the charred pupils watching.
Never quite willed away.

II.
Today I saw a hairy upper-ankle poking
out from a tie-dye dress
and out-of-fashion Birkenstocks.
Adam leering through
the straightened golden curtains,
and I thought: woman? No.
You wouldn’t catch me out like that.

III.
The end of my mug’s looming
and only now am I confident
in passing personal judgment.
The last drops smile while they cling
resolutely to the inner-rim.
How they refuse to fall!
The sprightly demon climbing
the wet, ridged inner-walls
of my throat is parched,
strumming on my vocal chords,
and I’m singing,
obscenely.

IV.
You can’t come into my house
before I’ve cleaned it up,
flipped the cushions, hidden
all the plastic cups and washed
the clear ones to look like glass.
I’ve gotta Lysol, Clear-ox, and detox,
then I’ll let you in, maybe.

V.
My balcony knows too much about me.


-BRD

Copyright @2012 by Ben Davies

Just because the rose beats our blood,
Why does the violet come second?

I’m sure the lizard loves it warmer
Cold. His heart flies in a square, blue box.

They should sacrifice blue ribbons in
Stead. Martyrdom looks clean, sans crimson,

Sans blood at all, then we’re murdering
Statues, already dead, beaten me-

Tal, standing without legs or organs.
Sheba, just part of the whole shebang,

You look so depleted, staunchly there,
Staunchly not, and somehow I wonder

Whether you’d like the b or the a
Better, or nursery rhymes at all.

-BRD

A wraith in Monday’s spoon,
I’m pale to start again,
Winter’s dark in day lit June,
I’m maimed by blackened game.  

My skin so deeply grooved
With days of gritted muck,
I forget the face I wore in youth
On such temporal crutch.

With lonely else but waiting,
I’ve yet the time to count,
Eighty-eight in lines remaining,
As the bright of day, dims out.  

-BRD

In the Garden

As the rose cuts deeply with its redness,
I see your visage in sleepy visions,
like a portrait beneath my lashes, stroked
flawlessly, through the length of days
spent trimming down the weeds
that grow relentless through our efforts.
In a matter of time we’ll shear
them down again, that much harder
to slice that pestilence away,
as the darkness of autumn evenings
creeps into summer’s passing shadow.
Let there be some light yet, to see
the work of longer days in our garden,
to see your final smile in the sun’s beam,
and watch, as my delighted fingers caress
your freckled neck in admiration.
Let there be hours to pray and sing,
and laugh at gilded butterflies,
let there be moments yet to wonder
at the splendor of it all.

I close my eyes to see your likeness,
but the paint begins to crumble
from its canvas, wrinkled
as if worn by the harshness of times.
The smoke between your fingers
has clambered up and stole
your golden hue away,
like a breath of darkened wind
it strips the petals from your face,
and tears have dripped the very
sparkle from your eyes,
the spirit soon to follow.

You wounded me with beauty once,
without, you wound me still,
the faded wings of butterflies,
pressed cold, upon the sill,
the garden’s white with winter’s cover,
the glass with winter’s pall,
there’s only moments yet to wonder
at the brevity of it all.

Dear K,

I’m broken
With a half-empty toast rack and extra jelly,
Unground coffee beans and our unwashed dishes,
I woke to a cold pillow, but no amount of caffeine
Wakes your absence to my expectant lips.
I wandered down with the falling drops
From my tributary lashes,
Wondered why these pearls should dive
So much deeper than it seemed they might
When you said we’d be better off,
You’d be better off, alone.

I shook with clammy hands and nervous glances,
It should have been a sign of things to come,
Briefly entranced for brief romances.

With nothing to be clammy for, anymore,
I sit in the desert dry of unaccompanied rhythm,
Like these notes were begging to be written,
Written because I’ve no other river
Through which my thoughts meander so comfortably,
But stop, I know you’ve no desire to hear about
My breakfast, my day
   I linger.

-BRD

Shades of Gray

                                     A man in black,
                               blurred, as the beating
                                 wings of butterflies
                                 cannot be captured.
                                 Smudged, the steps
                                        he took, lie
                                          smeared
              ­                          on his past,
                     like a wake     of     mud printed
                                            soles.
             ­                         He’s cryptic,
                             obscure as the pictures
                                  drawn to fill an
                                 empty       space,
                       unknown as       those behind
                        him. Come         back to
                   airplanes and          clover leaves,
           childish bathroom            walls. These tiles
           are trodden weary           shades of gray.

A thick mist twists about my childhood,
when it all seemed so much simpler.

Mammoth butterflies tickle
my imagination, I sit and wonder
at the minute grains of sand
cascading from my palms,
the naïve pleasure it once rendered.

These men are chasing dreams
on the backs of butterflies.

Soft driven airstrips blow away,
I have little expectation left to fly.

My mother used to tell me
I could do anything I wanted,
I would sign my name on the clouds
but I have no strength left to leave the ground,
time has left me reaching.

My sand has dwindled.
The butterflies have drifted away.

-*BRD