Shriek

Throw this flesh into wind for to be tattered.

Flense & flay me; sprayed hot onto cold asphalt. Ribbon shred.

This isn't loving Summer, no. Springtime is
planting-
     gestation--
          gasping births---
                violence.
The invasion that is existing.

The Green of April is no gleaming emerald;
It is fury. It is ravenous hunger. It is manic desperation to be
It is the razor's edge of bleeding insistence.

Remove these bones. Festoon your thoughts with the sting and the ache. These verbs are command form. It is Spring.

That ripping. That fibrous, fluid tear. You hear it, yes?

Tilt me over and spill my ******* guts out.
Clouds of grey and bright red rain--squall of ichor. Knife wind.

Let us weep thunderstorms. Chagrin these Gods of Drought.

Howl

Scream for us both. Wail until the throat bleeds. Blood decanter.
Pour us out of you until the sidewalk hides from the cold.

Chilly today! Should've brought an anorak, eh?

Gale force wind. Tear me up. Spare no expense, accept no substitutes.
Leave no intact iota. Return me to my component parts. Atomize me.
Untangle us, we are a tragedy.
...And, after all, this is a slasher, yeah?

I mean. At least distract me. Ya know?

I don’t know if you ever listened to the sky

when it gets hungry.

It growls.
It rumbles.
Even roams.

It sits in the dark,
contemplating what it wants.

Then,

Boom.

Thunder hits
without warning.

At some point,
we've all been there
hungry, with no idea
what we want to eat,
no one to ask,
everything sounding good.

Thunder hits again.

The hush left to whisper
between lips,
******* in air.

It’s enough to make you mad.

The rain doesn’t wait.
The lightning
not knowing where to begin.

Hunger waits for release.

I am the moment
that waits for you

in-between

If nothing else,
At least the spring is coming.
My soul may fade like winter,
But at least the snow melts.
I may disappear into the last breath of winter breeze,
Still spring is on its way.

A Gulf Stream wisp, whistles, languidly,
along, a recalcitrant breeze.
Speaking of temperature, angrily.
The Pavement, can't help, but, freeze.

Branches, embarrass themselves,
with, protruding bark, baring all.
Their dream, is to one day, be shelves.
When, a messianic carpenter, calls.

Teeth clench. Bold, Blizzard, barges in,
nervous Fangs, creek, in Her presence.
She peppers, horizons, white, arduous sin.
Tusks, sign, mute alarms, luminescent.

Coy burrows, open their arms, to hug,
their Creators, for crisp slumbers, ahead.
Moonlit Creatures, pull and tug.
At soil, Voodoo dolls, to stab, Winter, dead.

© poormansdreams

It’s funny how you had me run to your

needs and everything I did it was with

ease, no time to sit back because I was on

your track so if it derailed I knew how to

bounce back, it wasn’t fated or in no

contract I just knew your soul was reading

my context, ever so lifted engraved with

transition full of life and always in the

distance; you filled my days with ignition,

simplistic with intentions but not gathered

by good decisions, we parted ways when

Moses split the sea leaving thoughts behind

as if you were a daydream, a cutoff to the

main stream but I reopened up those doors

like a dam who was in need, refreshing

with a lesson but filled those pages with

wages and empty spaces for me to erase,

create and fill a void that ached with greed,

I knew life would prevail I stood my

ground and watch the ocean exhaled with a

stare that came in like a seclusion hoping

you weren’t the reason I was choosing