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Killing Mary Poppins
with a spoonful of sugar,
the sugar from the medicine
on the other side of town,
the town called Silent Hedges
And A Bit Of Fluff.

Only a display model,
her name is Marmalade;
skin white like the moon,
she wears her ****** stranger dress;
one of her sisters is dying,
the other never lived;
God is a far off concept,
the fuchsia colored ball on
an overhead power grid
points her way to salvation.

Morning became something else:
bright decline,
cold things start to burn,
tragic saxophone
among the beckoning,
everything's a symptom:
tax exiles, imperialists,
girls talking nitrous
--mouths full of soil,
Virginia Reel around the fountain
ready to buy up impossibles
as the dominoes fall.

Memory is a chemical
to the girl who cried champagne,
like ceiling stars
during the prodigal summer,
she played the game
on all fours,
and found a drawer
full of quarantine polaroids,
some with blood in her mouth,
others, of rain on her birthday.

Sonorant Sep 2021
A pearl mansion, three stories tall
Soaring on a halcyon hill.
A stretched view to read the world.
A throne with riches to fill.

The comfort of a swain.
But carnality in silence
An everlasting reserve of cake.
A bottomless appetite in defiance.

A quail in a cage, the keys in her hand.
To pluck the plume languidly.
A daffodil to determine fate:
“I love him. I love him not.”

To spoil their fly,
To reap their fall.
Their loyalty hazily sewn
In grounds of her royal hall.

Heels encased in crystals of tears.
To lien their names
And shine her shoes
Perched high on a golden bluff.

To shutter her windows
On cloudy days.
To be a star in the night
Despite the moon’s wane.

Eternal seasons of the self.
To watch feathers move
Without the burden of wind.
The quietude of stillness but to fill the void.

To reign solely as a dreary majesty.
To kiss and then walk astray.
Or perhaps earnest denial
To pacify the pain.
My Dear Poet Aug 2021
I walk a lonely alley off a quiet dead end street
at the gushing blow of where the wind and I meet
I clench my coat across my chest, turn my collar for warmth
my hat is flung off my head by the coming storms
my tie has flown and ***** like the tail of a kite
stripped right off my back, my coat puts up a fight
I tug back my shirt, but it’s bye byes across the sky
Like a black bird bleating I wish myself to fly
I extend my arms, running, like a plane off the ground
The winds undress me, more clothes dropping down
Soaring over cities, buildings and their blue seas
releasing the fabrics of my life now escaping me
I’m naked, but warmed by the layers of rays from the sun
nothing now matters than this feeling of having won
against the wind, an open sky, beyond the cast shadows below
I freely fly, with nothing on, but the air and where the wind may blow
dilshé Jul 2021
desire is the flame
that burns us from within
why give it more fuel?
when you know it only stings...
to fantasize, romanticize
give your hearts' glory & fame
to money & material things
when in the end- it's the same.
wanting to - needing-
to craving much more
a never-ending cycle
that ends in dullness & bore.
an inferno of desire
consumes the naive & unwise man
extinguish it & quench the quest-
and you'll find peace
at hand.
i used to have money
i wore Dior like a Parisian beauty
chic and sophisticated
flawlessly fashionable
or so the surface showed.
i used to have six different credit cards
a thousand fake friends
a pedigree pug i called Peppermint
i used to have money
i forgot my own worth
i skipped my meals
to fit into a size four
never knowing what
i was doing it all for
i used to have money
until all i saw was dollar signs
until i could not recognise my face
until i lost my mind
i used to have money
Norman Crane May 2021
when the last wear has withered
and the wardrobe echoes
cold memories of empty metal hangers
like falling rain
know you are not poor
undignified or old
rejoice! in the bareness of your porous skin
not hidden by the dead folds
of material—
your soul is a prism
splitting light into threads respun
by God;
every dawn you are rewoven
as the rays of a new sun
Jake Welsh Mar 2021
he was more of a friend than a pet
a modest, ugly thing
with three souls bound by skin & fur

i’ve never known a mouse to be a functional addict
and i’ve known a mouse or two

he monologued with clever prose
about the impermanence of materialism
and with a deep, angry, disappointment
whenever he saw an empty parking lot

and with reverence regarding the flower that grows through asphalt

you could call the thimbles of ******* he travelled with

most times i listened to him in

when the air was right i would speak as he spoke

he was more of a brother now that i think about it
a shy, talkative sibling
who gave his heart away as quickly as he could

i’ve never known a mouse that cared so much for the world
and so little for himself
how do you write your poems? i have no idea where mine come from.
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