Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
KM Hanslik Mar 2018
There are so many memories here I’m
choking
on the ground-up rubble of so many broken promises and the stench of
the few still rotting away in the corner;
I wish I was ancient, I wish I was
made of stone
so that I would break instead of bleeding
my chest crumble into a million tiny pieces instead of
dragging breaths through my lungs that make me feel like I’m drowning,
one minute fine, the next
full of black water and the remainder of what
could have been, or maybe things that never should have been.
I wish I could fly, I wish I was
paper-thin
instead of tied down by these weights around my ankles that
don't have enough substance to hold me in one place,
but just enough to
chafe my skin, just enough
to make everything heavy.

I wish I was perfect, I wish I was
carved into the hills somewhere, as if my image might
live forever in someone’s artistry, rather than
changing constantly
rather than
reminding me of all the
shells of people I’ve forgotten, people
I’m not anymore.
There are so many memories here, it’s
suffocating
but maybe I’ll install a high quality filter that
catches all the debris for me,
maybe I’ll
grow my skin so calloused I don’t bleed anymore,
maybe I’ll
cut the weights off my ankles, or
cut my legs along with them
just so I’m light enough to drift away,
drift away and never come back
Hank Helman Jul 2017
The band was exhausted,
Fall down tired and sweat happy.
But still on track,
Eye flirting and sending secret messages
To every girl they coaxed up
Onto the sandy wood plank dance floor,

But after six hours and 100 songs.
And now at 2:30 a.m. and the lights all up
A bit too drunk,
And way too tired to search out the tempo of the blues,
The drummer,
Buddha on his toadstool,
His shirt soaked with rhythm and stained dark green
From a steady sweat,
His boot, a robot after all these years,
Still tapped the bass drum lightly
As he dreamt of pizza,
Pizza in bed served by naked twenty somethings,
Who don't believe love has to hurt.


They, Bill and Sheila,the music gone
Continued to slow dance,
The beat replaced by the random ****** of shot glasses
Loaded by hand onto the top shelf
Of the dishwasher...
And to the scratch
Of the one armed bus boy with a push broom but no deadline.
The full moon had finally risen out of the sea,
Or was it the sun too tired to shine and begging for a day off.

Her arms were a tight hoop around his neck,
She knew how to hang onto love,
Her cheek to his chest, to his heart.
She'd kicked off her sandals and stepped onto his boots,
Her full weight a reminder that they weren't dead yet.

He'd always known how to lead and carried her with ease.
'Is this the end', Sheila asked him
And looked around at the nearly empty room,
'Not as long as we keep dancing' he said
And kissed her with a full tongue.
Part of what I'm trying to do here is literally paint a picture in the reader's mind. Many years ago I used to own a bar and I saw love come and go every day. Every once in awhile a couple who just seemed to be the couple who would stay together forever arrived and brought with them a special kind of buzz. I always wanted to know how they did it, how did it work for them while the rest of us were continuously unhappy. I never did find out but this poem is a toast to Bill and Sheila and to those who get it right. Love is slow dance that won't stop for nothin'. Party on poets.
sweet ridicule Apr 2015
I speak you
     (portuguese, spanish, english aside)
I speak you almost fluently
and now I wear shiny lip-gloss more often
since I'm speaking you without touch
for now. and
    distance is beautiful
  --like your knuckles
and the back of your taught ankles--
which are not noticed enough
(they hold everything together)

much like distance.

I think both are beautiful on you.
both are needed
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Can I show you how beautiful you are? Can I take out the old photo albums and push my index finger into the faces, the places, and seas? I want to peel back the plastic and remove the square photographs from their sticky setting. I'm alluding to ideas that exist more formidably on the internet- there are no paper photographs, no sticky settings, there aren't even faces in the numbers; it's only ever been you or me.

Some of my things are crooked. The strings don't work, the wires are twisted and make the sounds all come out funny. There's a strange buzzing everywhere, it's like Mickey's gray cloud, a cloud Koopa throwing spiked shells from Park Avenue beach to Montrose street. Everything is quiet, consuming, unassuming and still recalcitrant. I'm showing nothing to nobody. Coaxing storm systems and netting foul play and ***** tricks, with my pants around my ankles or my fly unzipped.

I'm stinking of this stuff. These sudorific crevices on the insides of my thighs. I'm more or less always pacing. Rocking. Rolling. Small room I'm living room, cadavers I stuff my skinny fingers inside of- cold, wet hollow places I'm seeking skin covered gods in. I'm craving tastes and flavors. I'm looking at these pictures of me, of my face and the clothes I wore, the people that knew me. Where have I disappeared to? Every place that I went, every condition of my humanness has gone. Five minutes past my certainty, squirting hot molten magma from my ****, my lips, and my fingertips. Hysterical thoughts and homily. I want just a hello. I want just a hello.

— The End —