Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
A phantom in man’s dreams,
driving fear for the soul.
Silent hunter as it is,
It stalks preys in shadows.
Lurking in many spaces,
snatching the unsuspecting,
it chooses no special place.
Time is within its claws.
Merciful face of death,
it can be swift and just.
Or an ugly vendetta,
as pain devours the flesh.
An inevitable fate.
The living’s destiny.
When or where to strike?
Unknown to men.
One thing is certain…
In death’s glorious time,
or moments of gloom,
We die alone.
(c) Maximilian Montes @ November 11, 2009
'Ugly realities.'
Why do we do this to each other?
We paint targets on each other's backs;
targets no one else can see.
Ready. Aim. Fire!
You hit me hard
right through my heart.

Pain travels throughout.
It makes no sense to me. We see
these targets and know they're
Why keep shooting?

I want to scrub yours off
but you insist on wearing it like a trophy.
A trophy of what?
There's nothing to celebrate in pain.

Need to think
A way to get through to you
I know
You know that you know also.
This need not be a tragedy.
blunt tips of bent cigarettes
were incisive as razors -
sliced wrists weeping
bright red sentences,
spattered unborn to blank paper
and turned into statues
so the dead would always remember
what they did,
never safe in the graves
in which they'd took refuge

but blue on blue
was ever her color;
blue on blues
seeping from old sins,
deep, hidden within spidery veins
that traced pale, soft *******,
finally filling mute lips as she slept,
subsumed in oceans of color,
blues that gave stories, as waves to shore
subsided, reclaiming their pain,
and cleansed sand once more

What end to life!
a collection of furies like stone turtles
arranged on the mantle -
just a few dozen last words
tucked among ads for
Old Spice and Polident tabs
unread, used to line
litter boxes in Cambridge
or wrap fresh fish at Hay Market;

then, someone pausing to wave at the sky
missed saving the drowning woman
by years, if he'd tried,
finding questions in every answer;
child curled in hard lap of his mother,
her cold affections of words
blew from dead lips like old wishes
without tender touch or wet kisses;
but that life continued,
if lived only blue on blue
From memories of Anne Sexton I never had, but only imagined were real, from that time we met on Mercy Street.
Rain cant wash a twisted soul clean.
Miles still leave me nowhere bound.
In words I found a home now vacant in thought.

Even the best slip to the worst places over time.

Days are becoming a blur as nights waste my thoughts.
Speaking of things that are beyond a goal
in a long winded , lossers scrapbook of bitter end's.

Will they notice what I will never understand.
Ernest saw  it first your sea was becoming yet a
shallow pond of misery.

And that same old thought eats away the mind like
a cancer.

Caught in the fade do the lights burn brightest?
Or will drunks just pour thoughts like whiskey
into the glass.

Im there now.
Dying in dreams only to exist
in past stories of new chances.

The what if's are ******* kids.
No matter the road you choose.
Never regret a second.
To be good at anything there is a price.
Anyone can write but few can  truley be great.

I never have been.
But I do understand to write from the edge.
You must truley experience it.

I write everything from the top of my head.
I never filter myself no matter  how deep or in what direction
it takes me.

But what would a drunk know right?

Stay Crazy

from deepest rivers you
surging flowers OPEN

                                         scar newly
                                         adorns you
                                         beating stillness
                                         in darkness a
                                         light first meekly
                                                                        its colours
murdered slowly a plume of bird's
throats fat with music wings splendorous
over bodies rapt in loving fire
a song
                                              on my arms
                                                                     you note
                                                                                      (in me played
) deepest and fluttering your eyelids
magic springs eternal voluptuous panting
tigers skin an angel in
                                                                        my razor
                                                                                                                       a mountain
                                              i'm stabbed thee with
                                                strongly flavored
                                                 lush garden
                                                  of rivers
                                                     deeply flowers surging out my mouth
                                                       a gallon of petals endlessly
Usually I'm
too busy being happy
to write about it.
1/22/2011 JMF
Next page