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cody-edwardsPoems
I sat on the square of carpet and screamed very quietly to myself. I, the boy who cried melancholy. I, the man who watches his life through his eyes. I, the cruel ship that glazes the waters of a harsh music. I, the silly hair that obscures the face of a murderess. I, fit only for sleep in the white palm of an arthritic hand. I, the child counting backward on an abandoned island. I, glass-colored and triangular like the start of space. I, the single ****** that begs for a just spark. I, the skin of glue in a sweating photograph. I, the man selling VHS players for mega-discounts. I, who clasped your hand when you were so very small. I, an errant breath in the postbox before the empty Jones house. I, keen on eating the brick and mortar beneath me. I, who shall never touch his face, not even the one time. I, in the midst of heat and silence without a single syllable of wet. I, with a hatred for your searching fingers sticky-sweet. I, sitting behind long after the film dies of exhaustion. I, crayon and 8.5 by 11 inch paper Valentines for violent boys. I, second man, forgotten man, to my own movie. I, grinning through the lame as the stitching wears. I, strategic misery on a tempest moon: contemplating contemplating. I, the laughing door with a struggling **** and no keyhole. I, who commits suicide every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday. I, with cigar boxes filled with all the tiny, grandmotherish pieces of **** I, the knot that slips off the head of a lonely purpled finger. I, and my cloverfields, and my rust. I, with my dreams about Japanese furniture and magic, geometric roads. I, dancing to a song I cannot hear that issues from a nonexistent room. I stood and walked outside.
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May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
The Queen of Thirty-Dollar Dreams.
I sat on the square of carpet and screamed very quietly to myself. I, the boy who cried melancholy. I, the man who watches his life through his eyes. I, the cruel ship that glazes the waters of a harsh music. I, the silly hair that obscures the face of a murderess. I, fit only for sleep in the white palm of an arthritic hand. I, the child counting backward on an abandoned island. I, glass-colored and triangular like the start of space. I, the single ****** that begs for a just spark. I, the skin of glue in a sweating photograph. I, the man selling VHS players for mega-discounts. I, who clasped your hand when you were so very small. I, an errant breath in the postbox before the empty Jones house. I, keen on eating the brick and mortar beneath me. I, who shall never touch his face, not even the one time. I, in the midst of heat and silence without a single syllable of wet. I, with a hatred for your searching fingers sticky-sweet. I, sitting behind long after the film dies of exhaustion. I, crayon and 8.5 by 11 inch paper Valentines for violent boys. I, second man, forgotten man, to my own movie. I, grinning through the lame as the stitching wears. I, strategic misery on a tempest moon: contemplating contemplating. I, the laughing door with a struggling **** and no keyhole. I, who commits suicide every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday. I, with cigar boxes filled with all the tiny, grandmotherish pieces of **** I, the knot that slips off the head of a lonely purpled finger. I, and my cloverfields, and my rust. I, with my dreams about Japanese furniture and magic, geometric roads. I, dancing to a song I cannot hear that issues from a nonexistent room. I stood and walked outside.
© Cody Edwards 2010
Written by
cody-edwards
American
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
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