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 Oct 2014 Sal Gelles
Fake Knees
Every mutter
in my ear
sounds like you
and every bead
of sweat
reminds me
of our summer days
but I am trying too hard
to move passed you
and it ruins me
like
a demolition.
I look for you
in everyone
that I ****.
I am afraid
of the karma
and what it will bring me
once it finally catches up.
Not like I move fast anyway.
 Oct 2014 Sal Gelles
Sarah
september
 Oct 2014 Sal Gelles
Sarah
why can't I breathe
anymore?

september air
so stale
and maybe my lungs
are only yearning for
a little october rain

But this ocean in the
sky above me only
bleeds clear poison and precipitation
of dreams that belong to the night
alone -

this stench;
what do they call it?
petrichor

I'd much rather my
lungs wither to nothing
at all
kicking, screaming, softly speaking
 Oct 2014 Sal Gelles
Fake Knees
My reflections
ruin
the pages of mole skin
journals
pushing down
on the pen
like it's not
my friend
my notions
are sorry
excuses for entries
what feels
like centuries
pass
still
my theories
crowded and unstable
spoil the pages
of my mole skin journal
 Sep 2014 Sal Gelles
Fake Knees
Driving myself mad with believing that I am so easily pushed out of your way.
Infuriated with the past three years of being hooked in the mouth because I remember the satisfaction in your eyes.
Indignant for allowing to be reeled within your palms that have stayed just as sweaty, as unsympathetic, and as rough as i can remember;
just to be booted back into the water again.
Looking back, I was under the impression that you were merely a lost soul, a ship without a captain, and ultimately a lost cause.
**You still are.
Was trying to give peace a chance
and yet we all shine on
in are warm computer glow
of are world
like the moon the stars and the son.
TRUE story 59 and three quarters.
P@ul  nanu nanu.
You are hollow and sharp--
        not exactly hollow, but full of holes
        where your guts should be.

You are rust and cruelty,
all ancient bloodstains and missing
hunks of steel.

You are afraid of your angles
        the wicked serrations of your tongue.

You lick your own wounds
to taste blood wondering if
it really tastes like you at all
or more like the leftover bits of flesh
still stuck between your crooked teeth.

        But you don't frighten me, Bonesaw;
               your razor blade arms are nothing but home.
 Aug 2014 Sal Gelles
Fake Knees
Blue eyes on a clear day.
Bluer when the sun hits just right.
I've seen her eyes the bluest when the kid in the red shirt showed up.
Her eyes locked and practically green.
A color on her I've never seen.
Like the seasons changed, so did her eyes.
Eyes so far from the blue skies that once drew me to her.
Jealously struck.
She became a monster.
Green eyed distraught.
I might have lost her.

*Green eyed distraught when it's pouring outside and your sky tells no secrets.
Your petrifying skies that force me on my hands and knees until they bleed screaming
"SKY, WHY DOES HE THINK MY EYES ARE GREEN?"
Seemingly colorblind after he struck me with his lightning,
radiating me with yellows, blues, and pinks
and I'm sorry that I'm still dead and cold after everything.
He wore the wrong color.
Shirts as red as the passion he had only for blood.
As red as the stop signs that I will not let keep me from moving forward.
Deciding to run some place warmer.
Writing you a letter on a purple piece of paper.
Where the sun hits just right.
Signing it, "Sincerely, Your Darling Little Monster."
This is a "collab" I wrote with Jorge Echevarria. His writing is in italics, and mine is in bold. http://hellopoetry.com/jorge-echevarria/
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