Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
L Maughan Sep 14
can you feel the summer
bleeding out
in fallen pink ladies
sweetened on the ground
and the sunny wounds
of barren
five starred receptacles
green reminders
of dropping blooms
tougher than a frost

do they miss the color

if a rose could speak
in September
would
it pause and break
as I do in this distance
...seasons have no mercy
come to me burning on my skin
as an icy brine would
make fossils of dim ideas
that grew and bound these limbs
from touching what they wanted
L Maughan Sep 2
Smuggled through nocturnal talks
in shredded shadows split in strips
of mother’s bits her pockets kept
the bleak concerns he always kept
his father’s feet and staggered talk
sheets playing out across the strips
of comatose in comicstrips
submerged in worlds he never kept
of garbled words and gargled talks
talk pealed in strips of what he kept.
L Maughan Aug 3
Cold moon come rest your face upon my breast,
leave the stars to poke their insufficient sparks.
Lie naked with your abalone chest
new, quartered, full against this matriarch.
Let fly the harnessed orbit of depressed
half circles hidden, stranded in the dark.
Sad satellite, unloved and second guessed;
glum pearliness, the sun has fallen west.
L Maughan Jul 27
it comes when summer
is a geisha fan unfolding
for the soaring heat
something in the cabinet
aged to silly perfection
more beautifully grotesque
than a hammerhead shark
with tourmaline eyes
a large tree
found
growing inside
of Carlsbad
is less puzzling
than this love
L Maughan Jul 19
mark these husky rainless days
with a low coal of the sun
and dark lacy treetops
in the distance against it
as are we blackened
to summertime goblins
in kingdoms of lust
brilliant and bruised
in the evening
desire burns hottest
in embers of us
our maddened tipped torches
inflamed with still
reaching for fires of touch
L Maughan Jul 12
I dreamt of how I would indulge you
how tenderly I could bathe
your quiet wounds
and calm each raw
gut string
frayed on the neck
of your misgivings
until they lay brushed and kept
I imagined myself freed
in acts of a natural reaching
and emptied
to fill the pewter
shade of your sadness
and I dream still
there are no blades
for thoughts of love
they are the sweetest illness
L Maughan Jul 1
How often I misjudged you
from my hut
up on the headland
I contemplated the belly of the tide
through the smile
of my whale bone fence
I thought your ship
to be a stone on the horizon
it grew into a white and wooden triangle
foreign voices carried
from your launched skiff
thrown upward to the wind
I secretly watched you from the cliff
you brought whisky and bonfires
to the beach
horseplay and laughter
to the sand
gunshots at one point
into the innocent stars
at dawn when you had gone
I sorely missed all of your words
I could never understand
Next page