Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Municipal Corporation
Has begun collecting
Garbage door to door
I told them
I have special kind of garbage
Accumulated over the years
The garbage of words
They refused to take
Saying it's difficult to sift this kind of garbage into categories
Their garbage processing plant
Might explode
annh Dec 2019
Time lapses, as quick sands sift from flask to flask,
Half empty - a flick of the wrist - half full;
Hours of glass, ground into powder, measuring my frailty.

'He dreamed of deserts and great empty cities and imagined he could feel the minutes and hours of his life running through him, as though he were nothing but an hourglass of flesh and bone.'
- Laini Taylor, Strange the Dreamer
MsAmendable Dec 2015
Hello, my darkness,
I found you at last.
I stifled the blinding lights,
And delight in your soft kiss,
Your velvet cloak pooling in the corners,
And the soft silk touch of the moon
Glowing silver behind your eyelids,
And your fathomless depths
Bleed like ink, and I breathe you In like smoke,
out like water from the abyss.
You surround me with your touch,
you fill me, even as we cut delicate missteps
In the sweet, swaying, firey silence
For I am as mystified with your cool secrets,
As you lay entranced with my light.
Àŧùl Jan 2015
Lying on that beach,
Under the calmer Sun,
Hands sifting in sand...

Touching your fingers,
Feeling so alive today,
Holding your hand...
A vision from the future.

My HP Poem #764
©Atul Kaushal
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
The plane is emotion.
The form is a gentle rider,
she pushes bullets off cliffs, she hugs the stars.
Catches the moon eyeing her with one
great big hand wrapped on its ****;
spins the bell of her dress
round and round.

Sifted from the Earth, man moody
cleft in heaps of his entrails,

no progress has been made.

My metal mother pulls hula hoops for zulu,
she rips down the shelves and pulls
Bobby Dylan from the wall. She says,
"grrrplleeopzhrka." And the smoke gets into
my eyes and burns my nostrils too.

In the great wind screen, footprints of man,
Native American blood weeps on my bright
Summer burning, no regency cleared. The
outlook denied. It sits stagnant, maddening
with its blockhead on sideways. Heavy, old
mutter hubbard wilting gold in her stare.

Mess comes. She spoils, her skin is loud
and anointed, her fecund white placard
is thinner than air. People look at each other,
a goblin, two trollops, the green woolen winter-wear
of a soldier in despair. Only a putrid noon, escaping,
cuts the flesh from the garden. Cuts out all the weakness,
the hope, the love, every thing owned, every one cleared.

The skin trap and oyster flap. The rich mixture of voices,
nothing holds common that bond, that few could look upon,
that youth could-

none of the old things work anymore.

Just a wicked boredom trickling in blood down her legs, just
the lust trickling down her legs, dear mommy, I obey.
And when the summer months set in mahogany, and the icicle
feat swallows us up, dear-
moths buzzing
your sweet bomb
bon bon

— The End —