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Jack Touchet Mar 2012
I feel a tug on my sweater.
The air grows dark as I,
Full of despair,
Turn my head to find what
Being is at my coattail.

I feel a tug on my sweater,
I turn as the space ahead of me
Is occupied by essence of loving magnificent person.
I turn and see the beautiful world, as a
Being, is at my coattail.

I feel a tug on my sweater
And I question her as to what she came to
ask, and she speaks to me in song.
So lovely are the words uttered from
She who is at my coattail.

So lovely are the words uttered for
Me, a desperate shrew. A hollow shroud falls over
Vacant eyes dripping empty tears onto
A careless walkway. Her serenade sing a sort of
Happy suicide into the icy veins pumping
Soft slush into my heart.
Then suddenly

A chorus arises and I am renewed,
Invigorated.
"Sing goodbye to sorrow,
Save pain for a time when you need smile.
For that pain, in it's essence,
Is only a memoir of hardship that will
Remind the hollowest of souls that
There is happiness."
That there is love.
That there is hope.
That there is wonder,
and wanderlust.
That there is reason.
Seazy Inkwell Aug 2017
from      time        to      time
there is     a romance      of being       alone
   the     imaginations       she  powdered
                                 generously    upon the   colorless  reality.
      metaphors   that  she sews    upon the   sleeves
                         of     melancholy.
her girlfriends   and she    roamed
                 the    ups  and     downs of the  earth,
while their        mothers screamed
                                    for   them      to be ladylike.
     saturday afternoons,
they   procrastinated    upon   pastries and     honey
                 crystallized           fairy      tales
courteous     animals
                                 riding on the      coattail of      dreams
      a lighthearted                feeling    others tried to      snooze.

they    observe things         through glitters    of their vapor.
    they   dote on the    humor of ice    creams
                       and sunlight       of   scarlet pink.
    as we    laugh    with charm,
                                            what a    way   with words,
                 a   lopsided    smile,
a      head    of   curls,
                                        a    flock     of  girls.
[sister poem 2]
Clay Face Nov 2021
The time numbs. I want it raw like it was.
Like ******* and ******.
Something powerful and honest.

I let lies continue.
Fantasies I tease myself with.
I never follow these potential trails.
I’m terrified of not having blissful reverie.
Closure haunts me. I’m scared of definition.

I live in a time that never ends.
I breath the exhaust we know but cannot see.
The world spins upon my shoulders, I pass it on without using my hands.
People die, it’s distant.
Life doesn’t mean much.

I live here in a puddle.
I love all the potential I have to waste.
I don’t know what I would slobber on without it.

I want something raw.
Something abrasive, without some sort of superficial veil.
If I brush back another thin facade just to uncover a clearer image of *******.
I’ll slump the world with my bear hands, and whatever blunt object is abreast.
The ensuing postlude or coattail if you will, is gruesome and redefines the word genocide.

Life passes by because it’s not cut with iron anymore. It’s chiseled away with fantastic stone and underlying hopeful chimes of music. A method to which leaves reality unclear, and insipid. Quite literally dull and un-vitriolic.

The time jingoes tore babies from teats, bounced sore bosoms, and buried John Doe’s in mass graves beside schools. Is long gone.

I live in a butterfly massacre.
RobbieG May 2021
You’re an adult but miss being a kid , tired of a life requiring responsibility to get far

You decide to hide from it all and commit to just being a big kid but how with no toys

When you were younger your toys were your friends , stuffed animals and action figures

Before meeting you they all were nameless and hostage to a lonely retailers shelf

You felt connected as a mother giving birth to a childhood as you gave them purpose

Naming each and everyone, allowing them to tag along in all of your adventures

But that was then and this is now, how ridiculous you would appear with made up pals

Voiceless and choice-less, it’s just not the same kind of fun it was in your childhood

So now you contemplate and sit and ponder, it suddenly hits you like a bag of bricks: LEGOS

Toys with hearts is what you desire, with brains, with voices and real life emotions

So quickly you get excited realizing the possibilities of a completely filled toy-box

Is it fair to them to use them for your satisfaction as you toy with their emotions for fun

Nicer to some than others but the ultimate mission is to get them to ride your coattail

Never out for their benefit but rather yours as you see them as your childhood toys

At your dispersement as you see fit for your emotions and personal self benefits  

And when they realize it and get fed up, they move on but your not bothered by this at all

Because just as a child it was only a matter of time before you outgrew them one by one

Then on to the next big hit, the next big trend and the old toys left to take the hit, ALONE

Well these real life toys have hearts and it’s just not the same as they are being tore apart

But you could careless as you witness the pain and agony you force them to face

As they lay in pieces astray, your mind has already moved on , gone without a trace

Well in time this may seem to work as you get your socks off to others hurt

But the reality is the play dates will come and go but before you know it’ll be to late

You’re a narcissist, not a kid and the real victims aren’t your friends but rather you

They tried to help and tried to get you to see but your to into yourself to ever care

A lifetime of new acquaintances is your life sentence as you are always losing loved ones

All the misfits you have offended all pray for the day you can finally grow up

Because regardless the pain you have caused them they are toys with hearts

They bleed, they cry, they can relate, they can hate but they choose not too

Because your not worth any of their emotions and that’s why you don’t deserve

Toys with hearts because there’s no such thing, it just doesn’t exist

They are people and you’re a
F❤️CKING NARCISSIST, with an empty toy box
Rachel Birdsong Jan 2016
i went to your grave today
and my ankles touched the grass
6 feet above you
i placed my palms on brown stems
crackling beneath the weight of my painted smile.
the wind kicks up my hair
like your coattail
hitting the back of a leather seat
facing ivory notes
that mimic the lullaby i sing to you now.
the white flowers stem from
my fingernails after all this time
they are beautiful weeds
that i pluck and loop around each other
placing this crown on my head
that is anything but regal.
the buds are the last snow
and their misty color matches that
of the clouds escaping my chapped lips.
Daniello Mar 2012
When days I wish not to say
or write a word fall upon me
I sleep within and greet the touch
of music’s hand over my eyes.

If you are, as Alan Watts believes,
“the fabric of existence itself,” well
you must be a patch, then, wind-shredded
off the coattail end.

And that’s what the music is for.
Which to keep me, also attached, I’d play
myself if I could and so would you. But you are
off in the wind flailing, remember?

Would anybody hear?

Threads flapping even more
the goodbye to an old man’s coat. But listen.
I’ve heard in it a rhythmic sound. Like the beating
of wings, lifting. Listen to us. It’s like letting

a flag fly.
We Are Stories Nov 2023
I don’t think that you wanted to make me,
But if you did, would you tell?
A silent note is a deafening coattail
To follow the cries and the yells-

For the roadside seems as no one else has tread here
And the wind from a breeze is never felt.
The blood on my feet indicates that I’m walking
But I think I never walked, I only fell-

If I’m the only one that is meant to endure this
Then rid me of the scenery and smell-
Let me feel alone on a world you created
A world that continually feels like hell.
William May 2019
A hermit crab in a soda can
Evicted from a bubble gum dungeon
Fireworks on the tongue
Licking undertow of heavy sod
Swaddled in laminate pressure
Breathing sea foam
In a featherless sinking slant
An elastic anchored pendulum
Falling zagged
A jelly-hocked comet
With coattail streamers
Fertilizing liquid nickel
Tom Shields Aug 2020
Striped to the nines
these cats carry pig stickers
animal kingdom death comes quicker
shoeshine, no sunshine, grease ain’t slicker
chalked out in lines
lead bellies line mines
outlaws make laws, break jaws
drop jaws, buy cars, bank rob
live like all-stars, a full-time job
all-grime, an all-crime job
a romantic era of terror
splashy ink does injustice
while they sidle Fords with Thompsons
every John a Dillinger, every Romeo a Clyde
everybody comes to terms with hunger and iron
everybody comes to town either starry or steely eyed
they leave or stay forever, never rich enough to justify why these are the streets they had to die on
it ain’t pretty
black eyed beauties and black tied beaus
lies as easy as blood when the liquor flows
guns and love and money, everybody knows
it’s all business, question contracts and the details get gritty
you can get in clean
but you have to get your hands ***** in this city.


A blues musician blew through the nightclubs with his sound
the rhythm of struggle, poetry and soul come alive
one with his voice, his guitar, singing of how he strived
to make it to the bright lights, he thought it was a miracle he survived
songs of Southland and heartache, the sounds of a segregated culture thriving above ground
what scratch he could collect
he would make if he had to play until he broke his guitar’s neck
wise enough to only accept cash up front, no checks
he was not ashamed of a spotlight
a bluesman can’t be afraid
he tore down the house six nights
and on Sunday he prayed
when he heard his music on the radio, riffs and lyrics ripped and splayed
the mournful soul, howling moon, woeful pontifications and rhythms all butchered onto a premier
a darker, sadder set of eyes than he had ever seen fell back on him from his own rearview mirror
outside of a studio, champagne bottles broken on his back for white rock and roll
at some hour when the sun was too far to imagine rising
he found himself peering over the edge of a darkness in his soul
and the liberating relief was frightening, he wanted to force it to feel surprising
a brown neck and a half ago he traded his first guitar, offered to sign it, too
pawnbroker bought it off him for a bill or two, said “Why, who are you?”
He swapped for a pistol under-the-counter and the bullets
bought a couple bottles of liquid encouragement to help him think it through
he drove out to the record label where the thief was lauded on the air
sitting is his car with his last guitar, barrel scratching his head, parting his hair
he was half-awake, about to leave when he saw four people walking out of there
a quick release, trigger, clutch and gas, the conspirators who stole his soul collapsed,
he drove into town to sell it back one piece at a time just as fast.


Putty in palms
men melt in her gaze
Medusa couldn’t ****** a man as easily
Penny flies with fancy and never stays
she was the high school sweetheart, girl next door,
to the star quarterback, to the class president, who fought viciously over her
who were sidetracked brawling while she was romanced by promises of city life
which swept her off the suburban sidewalk, and deposited her in a diner
where a man would come to blows over her, promising to make her his wife
she led men to collide with one another, they called her the Lucky Penny
she loved the attention, flirtatious eye-batting and men being reduced to fools
it was nothing shy of flattery, her chest felt empty without superficial value
and what is a better showing of what you’re worth than what someone else is willing to do to someone else to keep you?
She never really cared beyond the surface for any of them at all,
until, of course, she was ensnared herself by becoming a moll
Penny would only go steady with someone as beautiful as she was,
this invited trouble to her diner, because
a pretty-boy gangster oversaw collections in the area, just as handsome, just as clean
every bit as petty as Penny, twice as angry, twice as spiteful, and twice as mean
he carried a switchblade knife, a jackboot blade, he would love an excuse to cut ribbons out of skin
he had the sharps in spades, sharp wits, looks, angles, and cuts, when they met Penny was already done in
pretty boy promised her the moon, gave her a pad, he made sure she stayed living in the lap of luxury as long as it was his lap, and she’d never step out of line after the first time he got mad
she was number three in a marriage, in over her head and scared for her life
Penny, the apple of every man’s eye, a prisoner, mistress, and second to a mafia wife.

Ruthless killers aren’t these snarling giants
they’re scrawny, little, barbed wire, white men
capable of extreme and unconscionable acts of violence
you never see them until it’s too late for status quo, still water silence
deeper though, you never know, a gun is just bamboo, a ball and black powder, light it
your next-door neighbor could be the next news-maker, a headline teenager
used to be you’d never know somebody got shot if they popped 911 on your personal pager
the world isn’t spinning any faster, but these gray matters will age ya,
I say, going postal isn’t even a clever turn of phrase yeah?

Sunup in the city, Chicago typewriters were dogearing a page in history
like firecrackers going off just before dawn, you could see them from a sky penthouse
the locations of every execution, it wasn’t a mystery
a plan went off without a hitch, an overtaking in the criminal industry
you can say it, business is booming
body-bags went out by the half dozen to a dozen spots, by noon sirens were still zooming
out of precincts, hearses and coroners, ambulances and firetrucks, police too
it wasn’t a warzone, it was a crime scene, every block everywhere, put tape around the whole county
you could bring every citizen in as a witness, they’d probably all have a statement, it was anarchy,
an entire organization was weeded out and killed, with efficient brutality, and get this, no payment offered up for a revenge bounty
nobody retaliated, they were emasculated, eviscerated, devastated and decapitated, nobody knew who held the keys to the city, but we knew to revere the new monarchy
and for months there was humidity so thick it made me sweat through my collar, an air of anxiety
terror is what you don’t know, can’t understand, aren’t able to feel, hear, or even see…


So, I’ll put a bomb in the mail, watch his face turn pale, stand outside the window
make his wife a widow, I’m not settling for the ironic justice he doled out
my life wasn’t nothing, but now it’s always something, ever since I sold my route
a job in this town is a weapon in the wrong hands, if you work for good folks, you’ll be met with injust demands
I delivered payroll for a law firm, took an armored van and stuck to plans
making sure paralegals and secretaries and partners see their paychecks, private sector, shotgun overhead on the rack, nine-millimeter on my side, and rifle in the back
same three to a car, I always drive, if you’re gonna hit us in broad daylight, it’s gotta be on Monday when we’re fully loaded, as we cross this bridge and you better promise we all stay alive
I get my cut, a quarter million, a Judas’ fee to guarantee the financial security of my family and we’ll be packing live rounds if you think of double crossing me, for our own safety
that day hits, we come across the bridge to a traffic stop
I was sweating bullets, my partner rolled down the window to talk to the cop
an accident ahead, then a sudden, deafening pop
now I feel the adrenaline flood, my face is covered with my friend’s blood
I’m kicking at the door, a ricochet bites my ear, I think my head is gone
but even if I’m dead I’m still running for dear life, I’m going on
I hear screaming, automatic gunfire, he’s shooting, taking them out with him,
he’s dying, I’m ripping my uniform off and ducking out, half-blind, the lights get dim
it’s days later, I’m contemplating the darkest things I’ve ever thought, outside a ***** cop’s residence
I’ve barely eaten, I’ve barely thought of anything except tracking this heist crew down, and now I’m showing hesitance
I’ve followed them since that day, I know this is it, they’re all inside, four bad men got rich and two good men died
one coward allowed it to happen, I’m gripping my sidearm, they won’t strip me of my pride, I don’t need any evidence
He kicks the door in, gun drawn on four men, their families just outside, seconds tick away, sweat drips, feet sway, chairs slide and casings clatter, he serves up an equalizer on a platter, that day it’s not a blue matter, it’s a blood splatter, eight dead, four thieves and three collateral, with a lone gunman at the heart of it all.

Fisticuffs always calls up a type of fighter, former priors
agents looking at delinquency like juvenile homes are boxing regency
adopt a son, own a slave, train him to fight for his home and do it all legally
coattail riding, meal ticket punching, a prizefighter raised from adolescence
to do one thing as soon as he enters a ring, turn lights out, win a money bout, leave opponent with no recollections
a colored boxer, killing competition in a record winning Olympic position
never shies away from trouble he tucks his chin and takes it double
always looking on the uppercuts, combinations break safes, open faces and break up guts
a contender for a spot, he’s dreamt of this, he’d give everything he has now away for this shot
it’s a chance at a chance, the only one he’s got
he loves his foster father and his foster mother and it feels like they’ve worked to give him a lot
sitting front row in reserved seats, while ten rounds pass,
his brain rattles in his skull, while they eat popcorn and sit on their ***
hands trembling in his gloves, slumped in the corner, cut the swelling eyes to let him see
he is dying ninety seconds at a time, how long can he last?
His masters don’t stand unless he falls, their love is slavery
these gloves that keep his hands in fists are new cuffs, they contain him, set him free!
He spits blood on the mouthguard, leaves his teeth on the mat, presses off on his knuckles and clears the ten count with the referee
eyes like a monster, he finally snapped, and wore the leather out
he proved his love was stronger than anyone and anything,
by beating his opponent into a fatal coma, in twelve rounds, blood pooled at silent spectator’s feet, as he continued to swing
it was an undercard they never forgot when he went back to prison and left it all in the ring.

Terror is what you don’t know, can’t understand, aren’t able to feel, hear, or even see
and for months I dreamt of what I saw that day with no lucidity
I was locked down in the tragic relivings of a marred, scarred up, firebomb charred memory
they look for the truth in their ink, why does that burden fall on me?
All I am is all I could ever be!
Dogged, **** tired, I put a cigarette out on my arm to see if I’m awake sometimes
sometimes I do it to see if I’m alive, after bearing witness to fresh hell, in some crimes
investigative journalism, my life’s work, it’s all dirt
digging for one breathtaking coffin, until my lungs hurt
it’s misery in a city of misgivings on loop for eternity
they know no one can stomach the bottom; even the bottom falls out
and the bowels and the guts spit up their disgust, the bile discussed their vile supremacy in doubt
but the duty still lands in my lap and I carry it readily if wearily
a good deed is unheard of, which is why the death of all factions
all fractions of crime, all at one time, all one action done on a dime, is killing me
I know there’s something more behind it all, that kind of slaughter would take an army
where does it begin, who’s covering up, lying and playing pretend, where does one thread stop when another one ends?
Am I standing in a web or a noose?
Am I cutting through a conspiracy or am I cutting myself loose?
I feel as if I’m suspended by my own suspicion!
I am lost and I’ve been more directly involved, more focused on a mission!
There are laughs in the walls of motels where I stay,
when I take my pills and check out for the night they giggle “Have a nice day!”
I’m sure of nothing, why do I know there must be foul play!
The streetsweepers must have an agenda, they must profit in some way
but they don’t come out of the woodwork to claim any coercion or pay
any heroics or fame, if any figurehead stood behind them, that person stands at bay
while I wait with bated breath, knowing one thing of murderers who achieve a getaway
that they either are assured of success enough to retire, or to attempt a grander feat of death…

Once an aging prima donna fell upon a spotlight
with all the natural talent of the charismatic, valorous and gallant, a comet in the starlight
she could sing and act and dance and grant wishes with magic if directed so
so, she was a child when she graced stages with her presence every night
crushing the pressure of performances that sink politicians by the sheer size
she could captivate and entertain, dazzle, razzle, sizzle, and shock a crowd
ahead of her time and curb and curtain, her cast and calling, producers she seemed to hypnotize
evoking the ire of every other actress, singer, dancer and magic woman living loud
she burst with color onto silver screens and took the world that was hers by any means, the masses she could mesmerize
even in black in white they fell in love with the gaze of her baby blue eyes
and the only thing to slow or stop this comet’s meteoric rise
was time, she was too old for the parts they wanted every woman for,
tapdancing and vaudeville, lounge singing and musicals, from the ivory tower to the first floor,
an aging prima donna, who would never want to play a bit role or a fill a hole well, she was a goner
she wanted to trailblaze, turn these old ways into new days
and she only needed new opportunities, a chance to shine in her advanced age
for the elderly actress desired to perfect an archetype in drama, beginning with one screenplay page
she wrote herself a major part, around the central cast, so the young talent could shine in the brighter lights, while she would create a legacy to outlast
and they look for her today in her films and wonder what changed to make it so,
that the energetic and happy woman lost all her glow, to go and wither into shadows where she would play the crone and cantankerous, conniving, lonely gypsy or old widow.

In a new era, a new form, the prizefighter came back, weathered the case
five to ten
years off the prime of his career
militant Islamic conversion in the joint, scowl permanently on his face
disowned his adopted home, disemboweled his circle to scorch earth for some personal space
and worked harder to prove he deserved to earn the boxing commission’s good grace
got his boots back on, never out of shape, kept them laced
older and slower, but stronger than ever, a lifestyle change is a new pace
he met a new agent, a man with his true interests at heart, cross it and hope
he’s representing the same faith, referral by a cellmate, representing the same race
he’s educated and well-dressed, his lawyers got lawyers who all send money upriver
so why would he ever sell a fighter downstream? He’s all about one color, one power
the power is cash and the color is green! He’s selling prizefighting like a butcher sells liver
looking at his prime killer like he’s working by the hour, like the man has never been here
he’s lost speed, gained mass, sore in the bones from time’s past and passed in the joint, he’s one night away from an official anoint-
meant, appointment with the king, a racial salesman who takes advantage of the divide to provide a talking point with his melanin
when he doesn’t care, he doesn’t even see people before him as more than cattle or less than human
and with every victory he’s seeing clear, the field he’s standing in is tall grass
he’s struggling to see the path he walked in on, but he’s got to keep burning through the gas
promotion, fight, rounds of blood and sweat, hand held high, interview gab, it’s not over yet
locker room politics, agents and deals, brands and lawyers and contracts, contacts, pagers and producers, politicians and televisions and business meals
he’s got a clear role on only one side of things, that’s why he lets the bird out of the cage because money talks and sometimes ******* sings
but when it comes down to trimming the fat, he earns his living in training and between the ropes in how he lives and how he wins when he swings
and he goes out with a record of sixty fights with eight losses and no contest, one of the most controversial champs to duke it out in those rings.

That they either are assured of success enough to retire, or to attempt a grander feat of death
I swear to ******* God I’m being followed ever since I left the last spot, it’s like the city knows I’ve been holding my breath
it started choking me, hands wrapped around my neck, I’m cut off from my office I can’t even cash a field check, I left my kids in the separation, this story is it, I don’t have nothing left
I’m chasing lights where there’s only flickering projectors, looking for the big picture at the point of origin
it’s never going to reveal itself to me, I hear the voices of professors trampling my voice again
the streets don’t just open up and take every killer, thief and ****** back, every assault charge and corrupt landlord, cop, lawyer and councilman
all the big fish swam away after the attack, like rats on a sinking barge, it’s their word full stop, against the everyman
but if the system breaks down at the point of their cogs, the people who do their ***** work, and witnesses all suddenly outnumber them with righteous indignation, armed and willing to catch a case then…
Who’s going to be left to clean up after that?
Three days, five days, eight, fully awake with the full realization, a health hazard with walls where I sat
the story of the century in my lap, I looked like warm crap, like something the buildings and streets formed teeth to chew up in their maw and back out they spat
figures not even the bones of this old gal would like the flavor of an emissary to the truth
I rattled my fist to the ceiling on the ninth day, kicked a rat of my mattress, pulled the story off my typewriter, and muttered “Let’s see how they like that!”
for the first time I saw daylight, I saw a kid standing outside waiting to rob me, hand in his pocket, he cocked a hammer and told me to drop it,
I stood frozen, sure everything was true if they were waiting to stop it going through the presses, I was ready to die when an old man came by, chased him off with a cane and yelled “Stop it!”
this boy dropped two rocks he clicked together to make a gun noise in his coat and ran, I was stunned and I just studied the face and thanked God for the old man
I interviewed him, a source for my civilian militia, and next week I was in a real bed in my apartment when they ran the issue.

Many months ago, something crazy happened, our family had a tight net over the whole city then it snapped and
lieutenants, enforcers, soldiers all turned on each other on the orders of opposing captains
we turned to our cops, sergeants and detectives, turns out their own were capped before then
cops were ******* with corruption and a lone gunman who hit their families and crossfire killed three kids, four men, rich thieves died poor men,
every single lawyer and city politician at that time was locked up with all eyes on the boxing commission and a homicide spree tied to a ******’ blues musician
it was like all the focus left and they let clowns just step in, meanwhile we were undermined by our own kind, greedy backstabbers and
they cost us the whole operation, cannibal rats, growing fat off our own hind end
in the confusion every two-bit hood and crook, every able-bodied gun and ******, every veteran and rookie, all the way from the bottom to the Consigliere got took,
I found the underboss hanging on to evidence that shut the Don out of the state from a firebombed butcher’s shop in the back by a meat hook, bullet riddled legs limp and falling off, a dozen dead thugs by a card game in the back, plates with cold steak and scrambled eggs
papers ran facts on the carnage, questioned the anarchy, only one washout journalist tried to explain
he must have racked his brain, put himself through so much pain,
in a blind spot there was just another crime, on a scale that looked insane
he said good people were out there, outnumbering the bad
that no matter the hard times, those breed helping hands from survivors who know what they’re like, because they see you having the same day they’ve had
his words were in print, but I felt them reaching out and the fingertips fell short of the grasp
he was a man drowning in senseless slaughter, coming up for air and that was what he saw in a gasp
I know they need hope, but they don’t know it like I do, it’s the environment that breeds the opportunity, otherwise we would never get away with what we do
people don’t make the city clean
you know what I mean
there’s a system, they operate it, a monolithic, twisted, broken glass jaw of a weaker species that spits spiteful and sick ****, it’s full of hatred, eyes red, bureaucrats that ******* cats to see them land on their backs, it only speaks the language of violent acts so it only understands you if you attack, everything in the string-pullers is the least of actual humanity, it’s forsaken because they are the most of what a person lacks, and we answer to their highest calling it’s brass tacks, it’s a blood tax, it’s a wish come true light the candle at both ends and wait until there’s no more wax,
the city isn’t *****, it was built by us, it wasn’t perfect when we got here, but we **** sure broke her trust, you either live the life you want or you die how you must.
write
please read and enjoy
Bo Tansky Aug 2018
Stale Cupcake  
                            
Appearances can be so deceiving    
When your believing
Perceiving
That it’s all true

“Dive right in”
She said
The water’s fine
The icing’s sweet
A personal treat
I made it just for you.

It’s somewhat stale
But hey
You can’t succeed
Unless you’re willing to fail.

You’re my muse
How amusing
Everything you are not
Is what I want- yet
If that’s true
Why then do I want you?

Like negative numbers
You count in the wrong direction
Spurning my every affection.  
Wooed with an air of perfection.
Courting your familiarity
Secure in your sanctuary

This is the last poem I write for you
I’m through
But hey,
I may write for me
Perhaps to see
Clarity

So, dive right in
Anytime you’re ready
I’ve prepared a cocktail
To go with your coattail
It’s the flavor you like
A recipe I discovered, uncovered  
Mothered and smothered
My childlike
Nature,

lover

At the heart of the matter
There’s an empty core
That only you can fill

You are the space that fills my dreams
The dreams that fill my nights
Ticklish afternoon delights
Butterflies and roses
Champaign mimosas
Overexposed prose
That never discloses

My sweet and sour song
An order of egg foo yong
I tried
I really tried

Lover

Don’t wait too long
The cupcakes gone.
Stale.
And nobody loves a stale cupcake.
(tongue in cheek
by this moldering geek.)

Thy marriage doth incurably ail,
even strangers would vouchsafe
     (with nary any cavil),
     and perhaps even avail
herself (sight unseen),
     with a moderate chance
     zee spouse might bewail
this bread crumb

     winner, chauffeur,
     bill payer latching
     on to mine tattered coattail
in an effort to
     sustain this misery loves
     company wedded
     harrowed distress,
     where future prospect

     appears dim (sum) mutt
     unlikely to curtail or halt
     this (mine button nose to the
     grind stone) pennilessness
     only promises inevitable derail
ment, since grow
     wing unflattering pessimism
     only harkens more (spiraling

     down rabbit hole re: abysmal)
     substantial hardship
     (possibly even homelessness),
     asper my remaining lifetime
     woeful struggle - as sigh exhale
before figuring out what to write
     for these ensuing
     lines, yet strongly anticipating zero

     lucky search for a female,
if this mister didst
     decouple from his caboose -
     whereat Abby Robin (the missus)
     will holler "VAMOOSE"
     as an opportunity to exit
     clear and present danger field
pinning optimism for a gal,

     who exhibits ambition,
     earns her own income
     (or per slim or fat chance
     might be independently wealthy),
     plus bing hearty and hale,
this chap communicates
     no outlandish fanciful
     general electric sponsored idea,

     which elaborate or general sketch
     for some ideal counterpart
     might immediately impale
any likelihood on
     a figurative crucifixion
hmm...maybe turning
     to a life of crime,
     and befriending a foul mouthed,

     heavily pierced, and
     tattooed in jail
professing pseudonymous party privy
     to access Swiss Bank accounts
     own much moolah - kale
as said in the narco
     world wide webbed trade,
     thus such laundered legal tender,

     would clearly evince
     natural "green thumb" talent
     in tandem with sharp (as a hawk)
     business acumen spiriting over
     financially choppy waters
     as doth a lugsail
with this aging
     baby boomer male

he generally steers
     toward straight and true
     analogous to an ace
     carpenter blindly hammering
     the head of a nail

pounding out frustration unsure
     if asking price over-scale
regarding negligible
     demand for preowned,
     housebroken, and domesticated fellow,
     whose demeanor pastorale.
jeffrey conyers Jun 2018
Oh, this selected memory that suddenly coming back.
You now can recall this or that.
Yes, the moment you allegedly was harassed.
Now you can recall it all.

The brave stand up.
When others don't.
Not riding the waves on another coattail.

Now you recall various detail.
But not the time you offered to play a part.
Even your own lawyer doesn't want that part known.

When you were unknown you went along.
Even when you were advised of their character.
Now it's a different story.

Many folks not famous or in public view can admit somethings we have done with just a simple agreement.
PoemsofaDad Nov 2018
Sometimes, when I entertain
for but a tiny moment
a memory of you – however jigsawed, fragmented, or cut into some chronological melange
I find myself treading water.
Lost in a cold black-blue baltic sea.
Bobbing hopelessly.
Shivering bitterly
from the sadness of your loss.

Other days, the memories warm me.
Like bright mountain sunlight
rolling down my cheeks
over my back
turned toward the light of your love
the space, your presence once filled
heating my clothing
leaving me toasty.

The sum: you haunt me.
But,
in all the ways, I could ever wish you would.

I see you
in the kids: their faces, their bodies, their personalities, their choices
in their little ***** grins
in the lines that dart
from their smiles to my heart.

I see you
standing, silently in the shadows
there around the corner
watching with that stoic focus
so common to your face
with the things that meant the most to you
contently smiling.

I hear you
singing late at night
in the ear of my memory
on that old well-loved
maple wood guitar.
And I wish I’d told you then
how much I loved it – and would cherish it
now that you’re gone.

In the firelight that flickers
licking its way to tender orange morsels
of a memory’s distant ember
slowly burning out within
this mind.
So fragile.
I’m just trying to hold on
so the kids might know you.

But desolately, you’re slipping.
Far further than you’ve already gone
– through the black coattail of death.
Now
through the fingertips of memory.
The haunting
slowly
fading…

I can’t scream loud enough!
Pray hard enough.
Curse strong enough!
To arrest the decay…
… just when I thought I’d gotten used
to losing you
once.

You were my love.
I, yours.
And I miss you
Mum.

(Check out more of my work at PoemsofaDad.com)
Check out my full collection of poems at poemsofadad.com, or via the ‘PoemsofaDad’ Facebook or Twitter pages.
CharlesC Feb 2020
Is sinking
Into silence..
Letting go of
That which appears
To grasp our coattails
And clouds the Identity
Of our true Self..

This is not to inquire
Into coattail attachments
But to directly recognize
That in which
We as well as our coattails
Make our stage appearance...
www.polarityinplay.com

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