"dented" poems
Once, monster feet were all you wore,
pounding its claws upon wood floors.
Well now the beast is walking in your skin,
that you have lived, and fought them in.
How much can a human body take,
When horns pierce your skull, to keep you awake?
People say faking's profitless,
while I'm choking demons back in my esophagus.
An intervention for dented hearts,
that were beats, you wrote apart?
Do they await indented bumps,
a heart, bitter, selfishness pumps.
Alert the shadows as I bow to them,
poetic, inadequate, I lost to them.
What worthy life have I built to live,
if pain is all I know to give?
------------------------------------
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 7:51 PM UTC
Dal Lake
I float on Dal Lake
Suspended
between the thick soupy crisp air of soldiers
water lilies, Kashmiri bread
and the Muslim prayers
that penetrate the hardness of war
chanting Allah Bismallah
Floating Islam
Holy words drenching the air
Drenching the green cloth of Hindu soldiers
Sliding down the cool metal of a rifle
9 years of war
1,000 houseboats lie empty
in the Himalayan fog
Intricately carved furniture
Thick with dust
and the powder of blood and bullets
Himalayan silhouette etched black
against the song of lotus gatherers
Foggy voices like cloud of moon
Lotus lake
Gray of war and desperation
Children beg
1 rupee
1 rupee
1 rupee
Endless monologue
Parched like lotus shaped paddle
They throw flowers to me
endlessly
I throw them back
endlessly
Time passes slowly
like smoke on a lizard’s tail
trailing in the thick, rancid air
of burning meat and maple leaves
Like a shikara
moving over the glass of Kashmir
The sound of a dozen Bangees
floating over the water
Hollow, solemn and mournful
Echoing against the hardness
of the surrounding mountains
The circle of Himalayas
Like a womb
around the prayers of Pachin
In the middle of the lake
I hear the call to prayer
Azan Nemarz Suba
Azan Nemarz Pashin
Azan Nemarz Degar
Azan Nemarz Sham
Azan Nemarz Koftan
From dawn till dusk
Azan
4 mosques
4 singers
4 directions
staggered by a breath
like an imperfect echo
Azan slips into the pockets of island soldiers
Waters the impatience of soldiers on the shore
Steals into the vacant eyes of soldiers in the Mosque
They want to go home to their wives and children
They want to leave the place of prayer, which is not theirs
The place of prayer, which has seen death
The place where God was pushed out
In order to not see the killing
To **** what they don’t see
The place, which was no longer a refuge
Outside
Dal Lake turns to the color of red lentils
cooking in a dented metal ***
In the Shikara boat we eat dal and rice
and throw scraps into the silver water
where it washes up
onto the ***** boots of a soldier
I hear the dull gray click, click of his rifle
as it touches the ground
The prayers have ended
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
Dented and newly used
my heart is set on cruise
Winning
Grinning
Never gonna give up
because I refuse
My heart may be breaking
but it is not the end
Dealer count me back in
I am on the mend
I am on a comeback
I am done being afraid
I am done being saved
Do not need another setback
I am on a comeback
*I believe in who I am
I'm better than I have been
I am not down and out
I have only just began*
Thank you HP and fellow poets for this great honor!!! Sorry I am so late to the party but my 8 yr old boy hijacked my phone from me.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
Do you remember me?
I am fed up, strung on night
And closed in by time.
When I dine with dearest
Friends there is always a place
Set for you, there is always
A story, untold to them,
But not for strangers
Who know even without saying
What you never said to me.
My eyes are cracked dams
Above the flood plains,
My heart is dented brass,
Bent, out of gear and turns,
Mournful, dried, pocked
As rust, tarnished red,
Petrified.
If I look at the diamond moon
I am hooked.
When the flower brushes my calves
The lifting scent caresses, teases,
Rising with my memory of fire and stone.
If I travel to the balm Paris
Of the southern hemisphere
La Belle Époque is wearing your
Dress, the pampas fires and undulates
Like your hair, the Polaris star
Points at me, dreaming
Of you, dreaming,
My jewel, my,
Little moon.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:02 AM UTC
a knight in shining armor is a man who has never had his metal truly tested.
I start off with a quote, that adds spice to the fish in the boat, who say that their knights in shining armor have fought, hard enough for the ladies who've put in thought, that the man that comes to sweep them of they feet is fit with an armor so glamorous that it shines all the time.
but then maybe they mean it shines with greatness, power and courage,,
shines bright enough for acceptance in her hand in marriage.
but no.
we all know a girl's best friend is a diamond,and according to girls these days nothing shines brighter.
a man with a dented armor is a man who has fought and fought well to survive the opponents in combat from depriving his life from him.
so, this man with a dented armor has been through hard Times,
he gained and lost friends l,had his heart broken again and again he might not look too good but his heart shines,
his love is sublime, for he has learned to love without hesitation,
to love with values and skips the division to think about the multiplication,
you can't get to one without the other but you know what I mean.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
Streaks
from worn out wipers
dented cans, plastic wrappers
the glow of a cigarette ****
lying comfortably
in the ashtray
white knuckles tight
on a weathered wheel
empty roads
cold and black
eyes tired but open
like trucker stops
or roadside diners
with the neons
still on
I keep driving
teetering between
my existence
and a sweet dream
I’d slip into that slumber
if not for the passengers
still fast asleep
in my back seat
So I keep driving
as quiet
and as lonely
as it may be
I keep driving
because
somebody
is putting
their trust
in me
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
You breathed your last breath from the air
in this room;
that threadbare Persian carpet
holds flakes from your skin;
hairs from your head
corkscrew the dented cushions
scattered and idly waiting on the sofa;
bed linen scented with your sweat
the goose down doona that stole
your last warmth;
sleep spit and tears
human moisture that permeates
the acrylic layers of your pillow;
an eyebrow hair wedged in the tweezers;
a clipped nail that flew off
somewhere out of sight;
that new toothbrush used only once;
your flannel and towel still drying out;
the wet press footprint on the bathroom mat;
the talcum powdered slippers
abandoned under the brass bed.
Each moment of everyday
we shed ourselves
shed dead cells and renew -
a cycle of shedding
until the last
shedding of ourselves.
© M.L. Emmett
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
Trash can, wastebasket;
the place we throw it all away.
Used tissues--soggy mascara, dried *****
or the babies that would never be,
and the heaps of food waste, human waste.
Wasted human.
Why do we take ourselves and the people we used to love,
toss people and our person deep within a hole of shame,
darkness, misery, guilt, worry, frustration, fear?
If someone only said to you, or to me, when we dig deep
into the ground and find the place no one will find us
or them, the people we are burying--
if they only said,
"You are not trash."
Our emotions refuse to become refuse, the remains of
being unwanted, as we perceive ourselves to be.
But we is just me, and even though I can't hear the voice
I long to hear above my own, the sounds reverberate in my chest,
next to my heart, where I heard them last.
The last time we spoke your fingers did not reach for mine.
Your jeans did not rip in the same one spot.
The dog that I picked that you picked after you went back,
his tail wagging all the way on the ride back to his new home,
did not kiss my face and my eyes and ears like he loves to do.
Even though you didn't still love me, you did before,
now thrown hastily, yet decidedly in the trash can outside your door.
I dropped off the last remnant of your physical being,
an old rabbit-eared antennae.
I didn't, couldn't look in your trash can,
or stand in the driveway longer than was needed to drop and run
the hell away from crumbling gravel, a window newly aluminum foiled, and the motorcycle kept under surveillance at all times.
I hope he looked on his camera screen and saw walking,
talking, feeling, breathing human trash gliding
down the sidewalk, feet pattering into a jog.
The grass licked my feet and tangled in my toes on the way
to the one place my sighs could sink lower than my feet,
deep into the warm upholstery of my car seat, the grandma car,
the dented, imperfect, but mostly reliable car
away, far away, to a place where someone would look curiously,
pick up the trash, my trash, me, and say,
"It's beautiful."
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
A head, gnashing and screaming
Forgiving my unknown hospitality
Pretty is weakening
I'm a fatality deemed
Obnoxious is my scene
The mocking and mimicking comes easy for me
No secret, I envy the earth's energy
Depressed, sitting in my fancy dress
Shoving and tugging with desirable credibility
I ravish my personality
Amused?
As I show my tender meat bleeding
Kissing, authentic generosity
A bit suggestive
Confidence in deranged descriptions making others nervous
Excuse me, I must leave my head is blistering,
Popping,
Gushing and oozing profanities
Dented durability, consume me
I love the fact I'm lacking
Becoming one with the barbaric queen
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 1:06 AM UTC
Amongst the raging tempest storms,
Dark clouds covered the world
When acorns fell;
Blown hither and thither,
Dented, battered, and broken,
Fields of acorns;
If just one could take root,
Nurtured by hopes and dreams of the many,
To grow from seed, to sapling, to mighty oak;
One acorn could shape the landscape forever,
Changing the views of many,
A memorial to fallen acorns.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
He belches verses of prayer
from the acidity of his gut,
staggering upright
on two toddler feet,
he trails drunkenly
to the fridge,
scarce with only a few dented beers,
a bucketful of ice to feed him,
till the next scroungers pay-check is due.
Cracking open a frozen one,
it hisses a warrior's cry,
loud in the stillness
then dies swiftly,
as he raises the carcass to his split lip
swilling alcoholic entrails
round him gums.
Wincing slightly,
the beer half-empty in his hand,
he twitches a pink eye
in pain
as something rolls
around his jaw,
the made-of-man pinball stage
has begun a game
without him.
Gathering his saliva
into a hard bullet,
he spits the foreign object
onto splintered floorboards,
where his last tooth lands,
a final casualty
of his handsome youth.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
We laid on the trunk of his car
Shivering backs against dented metal
I always look at the stars
But tonight you did too
You pointed out constellations
And they were all wrong
It was so cold
But it was everything
Next to you
Laughing
Freezing
We were stargazing like we did in my summer dreams
And now when I see a nightsky
This is what i'll remember
Even if it's just another thing you forget to take with you.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 4:14 AM UTC
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and tolled, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at "Buzzard’s Breath."
"The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la ****
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the Mother Lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, "Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! Boys, *** the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the Earth, and the heat increased by day.
"Buzzard’s Breath" became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
People are like apples picked from a tree,
The beautiful ones with no imperfections are picked first,
but that makes them bitter and unripe.
The bruised and dented are picked last,
but that makes them sweet and delicious.
But beauty is just a perception.
The second you bite into the sweet but imperfect apple,
you realize it is more beautiful than all other apples combined.
Beauty
is
just a
perception.
So don't hide your dents and perfect imperfections.
If you do, you may become bitter inside.
Beautiful is not a definition of you,
but you are the definition of beautiful.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet
Till day rose; then under an orange sky
The hills had new places, and wind wielded
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.
At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as
The coal-house door. Once I looked up -
Through the brunt wind that dented the ***** of my eyes
The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,
The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-
Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house
Rang like some fine green goblet in the note
That any second would shatter it. Now deep
In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip
Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,
Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,
And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,
Seeing the window tremble to come in,
Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.
3.8k
Soft shapes touch a child's finger,
Memories of their sweetness linger--
Helping grandma roll the dough
In her kitchen long ago.
I like the shape your cookies take
When they spread out as they bake,
Like the changing shapes of crowds,
Melting snow or summer clouds.
Oven-hot and placed on racks,
Lined up , lying on their backs,
Coming from a single batch,
But none of them a perfect match.
Toll house cookies, soft, convex,
Each perfection, like the next:
Chocolate chips their surface grace--
Freckles on a child's face.
Pecan ball aren't perfect spheres,
But they're gentle little dears:
Bottoms flat, sides dented slightly,
With white sugar sprinkled lightly.
Sugar cookies cold days cheer,
Shaped like angles and reindeer
Glazed with frosting sweet and white,
Decked with sprinkles all delight.
Santa's Whiskers, coconut rolled,
Long fat logs of sugared dough,
Cut in portions smooth and round,
Pecan bits, cherries abound.
Molasses crinkles' faces lined
Like old men's--the friendly kind--
With lines like back roads on a map,
Dunked in milk before a nap.
Oatmeal cookies, shapes amorphous
Juicy raisins budge enormous,
Semi-blobs, their texture rough,
Sometimes packed with nuts and stuff.
So many cookies through our life,
Since we became husband and wife,
In their sweet aroma and taste
Years rushed by like cars in a race.
Looking at their shapes diverse
Reminds me of our love at first:
We weren't sure just where we'd go
And all we had was cookie dough.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 11:05 AM UTC
coupon for Granny's Original 32% All Natural Oatmeal®
cart-to-cart down aisle 48 and this man's an affront to khakis
and this woman's brain runs off a child's complaints
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy 80 pounds of rock salt
from The Home Depot®, more saving. more doing.™
more rock salt. more doing
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy two-weeks-worth of tuna,
a pallet of Pepsi Max®, and four loaves of Baker Good's NeverMold Bread®
all for $21.99 with your Sam's Club® Rewards Card
BLIZZARD 2013
cart-to-cart down aisle 62 where once there was soda, now an I.O.U.
and I read on the internet that the preservatives in diet cola will keep
my body from decomposing and I read on the internet that these
dented, discount tuna cans will give me botulism
BLIZZARD 2013
one jug of water from a spring in Mountain View, Arkansas
one jug of water from a spring in New Iberia, Louisiana
picking between Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana
the pitter-patter on the warehouse roof reassures
time for eenie meenie miney mo
BLIZZARD 2013
and the intercom desperate for a cart wrangler
customer service now open for checkout
don't leave your toddlers alone in shopping carts
they're choking on free samples
with an echo, raindrops strike parking lot pools
just past the intersection an ambulance grumbles
BLIZZARD 2013
in a room with a view wishing the windowpane weatherized
beers bought by volume, candles forgotten, six months of
licorice, EverFluff® popcorn, and hand warmers of chemical kind
remembered
BLIZZARD 2013
will not be landing in the city, watch out for that rain though
if the temperatures drop below 32 degrees it could ice over
and if the temperatures don't, well, it won't
News 7's coverage of Blizzard 2013 brought to you by
The Home Depot®, more saving. More doing.™
and Sam's Club®, savings made simple.™
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
I'm damaged
Dented, torn and broken
I have wear and tear in all my places
from years of being built up...
...just to be hammered down
Years of emotional turmoil from someone that should have been a support
instead of the dynamite.
In places where I shouldn't have been hurt
I now have barbed wire up to protect
The things that were done to me,
said to me,
or put upon me by you...
...make me who I am it's true.
But some experiences are best not even told in horror movies let alone lived;
by someone who thought they were loved.
Words and phrases of endearment kept me there
Even through the pain
I thought I could fix it.
You leaving me hurt at first I admitt
Codependency is an awful thing.
But I soon realized that I don't need you, desire you or want anything to do with you.
My life is better off without you and your mind games.
I may be dented,
Hell I may even be infixable from all the crap you put me through.
But now that I don't care what you think I can live with my dents and tears.
Makes me a better person to know that while I am strong enough to deal with a hell relationship
I will never allow myself to be in one again.
I won't allow myself to be treated like that again.
I know now that I am too good for you
For where I offered you everything...
...you offered nothing except for lyes and cheating.
I moved on, something I was told you really hated.
I'm now truly loved by someone who I intend to share the rest of my life with
Someone who loves me for me and is working to repare the damage you left.
Good-bye to all your crap and pettiness
I don't miss you the way you wanted me to.
I'm happy and there's nothing you can do about it except for sulk.
You're not the one putting the smile on my face.
Never were and never will be.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
give me something you know I'll break,
tempt me with a toxic toy I'll tell myself to play with,
until it's sides are broken and bruised,
and you'll find me on the highest shelf,
dented, a disaster crying for a new devil to destroy me.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
Missing the whistle of the teapot.
A big tin thing, dented, spouting
Warnings, careful baby, I am
Really hot.
The hum of the microwave,
The machine noises of coffee being made,
Them noises just ain't the same.
There is no poetry in
Whirring hum, beans bump 'n grinding.
They don't talk to me.
But in the middle of night,
When I rise, get dressed,
Still put on mismatched socks,
My t-shirts inside out,
The same jeans been wearing for weeks,
Cause they are right handy,
Lying on the floor, feeling so good,
Covering up my old fashioned
Keds.
Someday, I guess there will be
A machine that hoses us down,
Shampoos the mind while your fingers idle,
Then becomes a wind Chunnel to dry us up.
Will it have octopus arms
To dress us, having looked at our daily schedule,
Taking into account the weather channel forecast,
Where n' when we gotta be?
I suppose that if I ask nicely,
The replicator will make me perfect coffee,
And even whistle if that's what makes me happy.
But as long it don't try help me write,
That ****** function, that ****** need,
Human,
And only I can
Whistle while I write.
6:13 AM
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 6:15 AM UTC
"Cash, Grass or Ass-No One Rides Free!"
reads the bumper-sticker slapped on the ratty Harley.
Its black leather seat is cracked, tattered and torn,
the headlight is busted and there's no friggin' horn;
with mismatched saddlebags strapped to each side,
the panhead leaks like a sieve, but it's still quite a ride.
The gas-tank is dented, scratched and coated with muck,
the chrome no longer shines, but who gives a flyin' ****
Its tires are bald, the spokes are all rusted to ****
and the frame is off-kilter from a cage-driver's hit.
The biker just puffed the last hit from his pipe,
slammed down the rest of the J.D. from the bash last night;
then he hops on his hog, kicks the monster to start,
the muffler-pipes blast flames and roar like a ****
Together they roll down the road like old pals,'
with nowhere to go, just obnoxious and loud:
the tombstone tail-light flashes bright red on this mess,
'though Cashless, Grassless and Assless, they couldn't care less!
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 1:34 AM UTC
dented but not broken
in the demon dark
the deep chasms
of the wilderness
and the forgotten recess
silence from tender slumber
has awoken
the synergy of temptations
on their merry dance
sip divines peach nectar
the naked flesh and heaving chest
unleash thy sporadic vital spark
the impressed intent
of thy chosen scent
fuels the interactive nodes
neon infused electronic spasms
that echo in the dark
a subtle jowl in latent jest
as twilights nimble fingers
unbutton what remains of carefree days
and the fallen angels
with such sweet caress
to touch the mystic
unfurl the arc of your rainbow
and shine your rays
on cobbled memories
of Paris in the rain
and Tokyo Blue
hustles in the backstreets aroma
blow the cobwebs a gentle kiss
on days like this
left unchecked and laid to rest
gathered in momentums voice
and uttered as a sensual breath
the nakedness of emotion
the arcane interventions
should not be left to fade
to fill the empty space
they call the void
these technicolour moments
we've made
stumble on the waves
the fragrances of youth etched
in unedited stop motion
the contours of discovery
sparkle in the ether
the azure eyes
and the open arms
of the ocean
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
Once long ago there was a small clan named Kah,
that lived in a cave up a draw, Who at that time,
had yet to discover even fire.
One among them, call him Shire was slightly
brighter than the rest, which is not saying much.
Bah the self appointed leader was a big strong man,
a hunter among men, a good provider.
But a fool in all other matters.
One day Bah returned to the cave with a large green
rock. A rock only different from all other rocks, by it's color.
Bah convinced most of the clan that this one rock was so
special that they all should worship it, get on their knees
and even pray to it, adorn it with bits of meat.
Shire too was a hunter, crafty and skilled, but also a thinker.
In the rock he saw no difference, to him a rock was a rock
and nothing more, although he did admire it's color.
"It's only a ROCK." He told the others and "nothing more!"
The clan was overcome by anger, how dare this one among
them not believe as they did? That night and the next Shire
got no meat, nor any pleasure from the women. Yet still he
pointed out his belief, that the green rock was no different
than any other and he refused to worship it.
The clan turned their collective backs to him, treating
him as if he did not live. Even his wife and children.
Still Shire did not relent, so sure was he in his own belief.
In a rage of Holy Righteous Indignation, Bah picked up the
green rock and smashed it into Shire's head, caving in his
skull. Where upon the green rock broke into many pieces.
As Shire lay bleeding, dying, he picked up a piece of the
shattered green rock and said, "See brothers and sisters,
it is only a rock, and not a very good rock at that."
Bah kneeled down beside his old friend and he too picked
up bits of the broken rock. Then said to his brother, "I am
sorry I killed you friend."
To which Shire's last words were, "I forgive you."
The clan was so inspired by these events that a new
religion was founded, in place of the rock, the dented
skull of Shire became their new thing to worship.
Many years later, one literate among them carved on
the rock alter under the sacred skull,
"He died for our sins".
And so among them grew a legend,
Shire became a God to his people.
Later still, another professed scholar calling
himself a Priest, carved a commanded message
in the face of the rock alter.
**** not a Brother in the cave,
before the eyes of our God Shire.
(Out side however is just fine.")
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
Waking breath ghostly frozen, clang of pot-belly stove opening, cedar crackles good morning, sap sizzles, pops, melting. Warmth finds children sleeping, humid air, mouth-breathing. Smell of boy sweat and feet, young women ripely sweet.
Cats purring, stirring, padding quiet down stairs, weave meowing through mom's legs. Dented percolator burbles better days, snap of toast burned haze, molten mush bubbles burst, fade. Birds early on the highway Paradise-seeking, time, flash-burned, fleeting. Cobalt jay mockingly complains, chickadee sings his own name, coyote wails, thin and plain.
Children rise, sleep in their eyes, squabble over bathroom prize, eldest wins, click, locks herself in. Hurry, hurry the bus is coming, ancient driver, annoyed and honking. Brown-bag lunches crinkled running, feet slapping, seats squeaking, lungs hot and bursting. Ride the dawn breaking, hearts aching for more than this, rural bliss.
Stop sign flashes caution, young lovers in the back seat, bodies in motion. Stop, start, sway on down the highway. Engine mimics hot blood lust, accelerated diesel rush, nothing can stop us. You grab my knee - young, carefree. Brakes sigh and hiss, sneak one last kiss. You mouth - meet me later, we'll sneak out, rush to a future we haven't got, ready or not.
The old road at dusk, frog song accompanies us, bike wheels on the asphalt hum, forbidden moonlight run. Feel your heartbeat on my spine, frantic drumming matching mine. Horned owl hoots, forlorn and bleak, a premonition we refuse to heed, reckless with need. In the clearing young love begins, forget-me-knots on burning skin.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
He creeps near to the foot of my bed
With that smirk
Oh he's come to cocoon me away to his army
Of dented men
With cropped souls
He asked
But never said please
To come with him
Where it's warm
I shook my head
He persuaded me
But never said please
To come with him
Where gems trickle down your face
I said no
He insisted
But never said please
To come with him
Where his home was
I refused
He forced me
But never said please
To come with him
When a comforting light pierced through my eyes
I couldn't see what it was
For it was far too beautiful
It sheered the man away
It was so modest
So against the beauty of living
Of looking, of tasting
It was a stoic;
Passionless
It was like the water
So against the grains of sand
Of dirt, of ink
It was a stoic;
Calm
It was so indifferent
So against the pull of pleasure
Of sin, of feeling
It was a stoic;
Strong
It was like god
It was god
For nothing
Would come close
To freeing the devil off the foot of my bed.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC