Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
ray Apr 2016
It was sobering;
His hands, the laughter,
The murderous sips of a love that wouldn’t last, yet couldn’t die
Just the same
All the same,
We drink on
Finding the barren path to be your saving grace –
As if I cared.
I don’t care.
I only want to bottle your anxiety until I see your smile again,
Sit on some glacier, pleading cheers to your cure,
To be your cure
To sing away your worry, delusion
To embarrass myself so much so that you may just forget your tiny insecurities,
Your teeth, hands
Without returning my love, of course
I never return
What would the wine taste of?
Love, or better yet tears?
The broken bits of your impaired heart, my awful mind,
A temptation to outdate a clouded daytime
My cold heart gets exhausting, misses our warmth
Your skin, lashes
With notes of your favorite fruit, my favorite song
It feels right, it feels right, I just want it to feel wrong
  Mar 2016 ray
r
I took a broom to seven generations
of moths in the spare bedroom closet
when I saw the red wool sweater in a box
with crossed white cloth baseball bats
sewn on the back and a # 1 patch smack
dab on the heart; the window to my past
shattered like glass on a long ago Saturday.
For Noah.
ray Feb 2016
nothing as reckless as a feigned indifference, reckless with a negative connotation- that is-
a pretended falseness and concealment of passion, obsession, a love….

inconsiderate of a universe’s ability to destruct, to ****** away any given scenario, to wipe clean the gravity between two souls, two minds, too much gambled. too large of a bet. high risk little return, no return.
none at all.

we bathe in sorrow hoping it lightens to laughter.
ashing cigarettes on our skin, dexterity
laziness in us all
leaving coffee black
leaving ashes paraphernalia of the love I burnt
with fists that turned cold, so cold, unclenched
a melancholy weeping for the sighs of metal breath.
an injection of remorse, what’s it quenching? what’s it worth?
what’s it asking? what’s it taking?
are we sinning? are we praying?
where’s the Dying end, where’s it stop,
tonic, what’d it tell you? did your analeptic 'screaming-to-the-ceiling' testify to the woes endured by a life on earth, a life lugged through, broken by its intricacies
we’re all on hands and knees
singing, sobbing, pleading, throbbing
it’s a beauty in the dead leaves, the Fallen I feel badly for, a reaching sympathy,
beyond what my hands express
we embody selfish bringings  
bursts of breath
balloons of noise of gasps of the lapse preceding death
is it hypocritical to enjoy the lack of closure, the abrupt ending, keeping bottles kept?
the myriad of leaving
the method to Drinking
heavy heaving
stumbling cross-legged through this party of contemplating Permanence, a greying breeding
i imagine a man heading a room ceasing noise not having to demand it no, rather whispering, whispering streams of thought of consciousness.... or the lack of it
on buzzing fragments of philosophy and rationale.....
or the lack of it*
the lack of a sounding foundation
the lack of a solid grounding of a planned pathway of a plan at all,
bottomless to the Bottom of the top of the
  Feb 2016 ray
Akemi
maybe a black mouth
opening and closing
usually you can see the gums
the teeth
lips stretching over them
there’s nothing
a gaping entrance to the void
there are two stale muffins on the table
one soaking in milk
it’s been two hours now
the room at the top of the stairs
is growing louder and louder
a piercing bellow
drowning out all thoughts
but it doesn’t
i want to scream
throw myself into it until my entire being is lost
between the teeth
the white black lacuna
corn splitting from the cob
a rotting banana
an empty carton of milk
my god, could life be any more boring?
i caught a cold
sneezed at the floor
achoo achoo
get well soon cards at my funeral
loraclear on my casket
dirt over
grow me like a mushroom
expanding into the root systems
puffing into a bulbous fruit
pick me and slice me
but i trust only supermarket goods
picked by mechanised beings
******* on an industrial conveyor belt
modernity made physical
look into the slaughterpens while you eat your steak
barter your children for another shot of coffee
hah hah hah, doesn’t affect me
strutting your cash like an empty slot machine
rigged to emote only with your colleagues
while the television blares another thousand deaths
**** this ****** world
consume me until there’s nothing left
everyone’s a nihilist
someone brought back a dozen breadloaves from the women’s refuge
eat them before they go off
turning our bodies
pouring soap down the sink
all the fishes scales rot away
they slowly sink into the depths
and line the seabed with teeth and ribs
8:41pm, February 6th 2016

we are a void
ray Jan 2016
the tops of our trees, the lack of leaves,
with a pulse.
there's eloquence in contrast. Contrast.
makes up the tone of our days,
the fridays we choose not to wake up for,
smelling the sweetness of our cigarette against the coffee we were far too lazy to sweeten,
but there's beauty in the raw. in the raw, throb, of a break in routine,
in analyzing the why and where,
why i'm stuck in Virginia, why father stopped paying child support,
where a drink turns to alcoholism,
where people insist on resisting to a permanence in memory. Or,
the opposite, a beg a plead to remain.
to stay.
why he begs me to stay,
more so, why i push the love in my life away
ray Jan 2016
compilations of cold coffee cups,
dancing about in my candle-stained room
to French music from the 50's, today,
contrasting with the cacophony of construction
four stories beneath, below,
the day is blush.
rain as rosewater, fossilizes into flakes on the cheekbones, the lashes.
a quick reading of Kerouac reminds one to
believe in the 'holy contour of life,' whatever 'holy' means,
if it exists at all,
whether America is overrated,
whether i rather play in puddles of Scotland
or some foreign place,
how delightful it sounds, as Edith Piaf's
voice trances my loveless memory.
i'm cold. but we have to be.
Next page