"dressers" poems
Now let us pray.
May hellfire rain down
on us today, on all those who
offered pay in
full metal change to watch
the life sized lights explode
& wicked witches
hanging by the throat
from a tenth floor window
it was all so cool.
so cool.
demon induced
dementia cemented in
an underground parking garage
sleepover
sleepless
starry eyed orphan
**** princess-
apparel section
regressing to an
oral fixation & a
need to keep the
fingers busy.
pink **** carpet
heart shaped atrocity
rotten thing.
you ain't the boss of me
paleface
scarab angel
seraph snake
made up cheap
heart tarnished
purely
black comedy
legs like a limousine
keeping company with
the holy cross
dressers on the
local drug scene.
oh how special.
yesterday
I fed my
edificial fetish
& I could not
stop thinking.
these high
arched ceilings.
could not contain
my feelings,
if they tried.
drive by advertisements
remind me there's
not much
to be excited about.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
Nina Simone, occupying ears singing about bed and dressers.
Sparsely populated
young couple
Interrupted by saying amusements.
Only two stops
I know where to get off
I knew to mind the gap
I'm a responsible citizen
Voter with a valid railcard
Only two stops
Purchased a ticket
Only two stops
I can not throw up in that time
I can not clear my system of over-priced beer
A niche in the market
Exploited in the name of money Making let's just raise them
let's charge extortionate rates for an autoimmune disease
Paying to support a normal drinking culture embedded into the narrative
Growing by in the western world Listening to Nina Simone
Only one stop now you'd never know what life would be like
Without loud pop charts entertaining a few leaving the others yearning the return of ABBA when times were simpler and people cared about Eurovision and illegal music was your own
“Tickets please”
He seems awfully jolly for a late night shit-shift on Arriva Trains Wales
Who's making him work and why's he So ******* happy about it
Real extra effort! Soul sapping in my opinion
Last stop gotta get off.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
Prosecco cocktails, être pour la danse,
cassis pour moi avec limoncello,
madame, passion fruit, and blood oranges
très grownup, breakfast at Tiffany's,
she is all sunglasses and Audreyfied,
me and George P., struggling writers,
checking if i got enough cash
or have to exit smooth, just in case,
maybe we leave our
coats behind, as ransom?
lincoln center plaza cross-dressers,
past the opera,
the sun, a balmy thirty five degrees,
laughing at us teasingly,
cause tonight and tomorrow,
*********** all the day,
winter kisses
in case we forgot,
early March
first belongs to the Ides of Winter
Afternoon of a Faun,
another ballet, origin,
a Mallarmé poem.
(you begin to comprehend)
yes quite so,
a perfect synopsis of the day,
Acheron imported from Scarlett Liam
who lives in the U.K.,
but comes to choreograph here,
for gloria Americana
sundown, soul cold back,
"lest we forget,"
but the dancers bid us adieu
with a rousing waltz, frenchified,
La Valse, une poème chorégraphique,
by Ravel, bien sûr!
aroused and heart gladdened,
return home for
for veal chop love
two hours of *** banging,
kitchen banishment, (Yay!)
chanterelles steeped in red wine,
coverlet for a non-vegan tasting,
English peas, red and purple potatoes,
and for desert,
a diet dream of verbal exchanged of detailed
I love you's
He: I love you,
She (happy), replies: I love you more.
(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal danced before)
He: Why?
She: Because you are kind and generous, to street beggars, my single friends, good and smart, love art,
and never let me down, and love my cooking, leave space for others when you park, go thru life making waiters and ticket takers smile and laugh, sleep for hours your head on my hip, write me crazy love poems about veal chops
He: What's for desert tonight?
She: A ****
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
I told the professor I loved beat literature and all the hippy consequences. He said they were such a small part of the population (along with Native Americans too apparently, he noted a different time. Because of what, you ******* I thought).
A pompous misguided thing, which either understandably or surprisingly, been teaching there since the 1960s. Five minutes of a winded attempt at putting anglophile humor into the lecture and you know the choice is "understandably" rather than "surprisingly." Been professing for the establishment, closed to other ways of thinking trickery.
A real square through and through. As if all change should come from appeasing the tyrannical bleachy supposed majority. Those in poverty, darker skins, gays, drug users, and all around flashy dressers ought to don suits for their one night Ed Sullivan performance. Get the folks on Bass Run Lane to be okay with seeing you in a glass cage in their living room scene. For just a couple decades. Then maybe they'll be used to seeing you in a grocery store. You'll always be laughable though, as they designed it to be so.
The hippies were a very small majority says the anointed professor.
"So were the suffragettes" snaps back a fiery thing sitting next to me. I should have talked to her more.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
I sit in front of my dressers mirror,
Stare at the plain adequate girl staring back at me,
Is she enough?
Can she walk out this door and hold her head up high?
No.
And so I pull,
And tweak
And brush
And dry,
I look at the girl in the mirror again,
Her hair is done up,
Pretty and well kept,
But dead dry and limp because of damage,
And I can’t help but think it represents my inner self,
Though dead,
I look substantially better,
But is she enough?
This girl staring back at me?
Can she hold her head up high with the confidence of knowing what she wants?
No.
And so I apply base,
Concealer,
Try to fix my uneven complexion and blemishes,
Eye shadow,
Then eye liner,
Mascara,
Lipstick….
And again I stop to look at the girl,
She looks like women now,
As every feature is defined and highlighted,
Her complexion even,
Blemish free…
But is it enough,
This women staring back at me,
As the make up smudges and rubs off,
She’ll become the drab adequate girl underneath it all,
I can put on beautiful clothes,
Amazing jewellery,
But I remain the plain adequate girl that stares back at me,
With her sad eyes,
Set jaw,
Lips that barely ever quirk upwards with a hint of a smile,
That girl who’s cried so many eyeliner smudging tears,
That girl who fears,
Everything,
Everyone,
No matter how much I do,
To hide her away,
Keep her from the world,
No matter how many layers of,
‘Happy’,
I try to mask her with,
She will come out,
As my clothes grow rumpled,
My jewellery loses its shine,
Its glow,
As my hair turns grey,
My make up smudges,
I become her again,
And is she enough?
I stare at her long and hard,
I notice the high cheekbones,
The strong set features,
I realize this girl is only adequate,
Because she believes it,
Only plain because it’s all she’s ever been convinced to see,
With all her wear and tear,
She is beautiful.
And so I grab my make up remover,
Wipe away the mask suffocating me,
I shake my hair out to its full volume,
I remove the jewellery that’s cold against my warmth,
And I look at this plain adequate girl,
Not so plain and adequate anymore,
And I ask myself,
Is she enough?
Enough to face the world proudly as whom and what she is?
Is she?
Those sad eyes stare back at me with a new found spark,
Those set lips quirk up into a hint of a sly smile,
And she winks at me.
Yes.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
Fingernails dug out of steering wheel
in the out door, not enough gin to ****
50 pushups. 50 more. Change my body
Maybe you won't ignore
Ambien, the lull of the ceiling fan,
the crowds of protestors disband --
the blanket warm, cosmos tease and can,
malaise, malaise, I'm trying to be active
and sane, sane for the next promise ring holder
and wine cooler queen, here comes the switch:
ether.
The night brings me back to you
by way of illusion --
you've got lingerie
I've got needs
You've got teeth
I've got shoulder blades
so it begins,
white knuckle, culling songs, strain on scalp --
I sing along, ancient melody, satin dirge --
precursor to your soliloquy and black venom urge
to scatter this bandaged man--
pieces in your hand,
collected and left on 100 dressers
for ill-informed future connivers
conspire
but I'm only tired of trying not
to look like a liar
so I blend into your blood
satisfied smirk from
transparent you
but what is the future
--a present hope
but what is the past
--a present memory
so we abolish each other now
betting on tangible mirages
in this delicious, miraculous night
the stars align
the planets collide
not an inch of you goes unkissed
not an inch of me goes without an itch
blackness and breath swirl and spit
me into a confetti end time without prophet or priest
only a skinny seed, and then the switch:
wake with a present hope of getting over
my present memory.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
A square, squat room (a cellar on promotion),
Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight;
Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware;
Scissors and lint and apothecary's jars.
Here, on a bench a skeleton would writhe from,
Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted:
Wait till my heart is lead upon my stomach,
While at their ease two dressers do their chores.
One has a probe--it feels to me a crowbar.
A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone.
A poor old ***** explains his poor old ulcers.
Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame.
1.7k
To begin with,
We have YOU,
And we have Me.
And we also have THEM, THEY, THEIRS THOSE, WE AND US.
As well, we have:
SOGIES
Asexuals
Allies
Intersexes
Bisexuals
Lesbians
Gays
Homosexuals
Pansexuals
Queers
Straights
Heterosexuals
Gender Binaries
Afabs
Amabs
Agenders
Androgynes
Gender Blenders
Bigenders
Cisgenders
Cross-dressers
Drag Queens
Drag Kings
Enbies
Gender Dysphoria
Gender fluids
Gender Non-conformists
Gender Queers
Gender Variants
Non-Binaries
Questioners
Transgenders
Transitions
Transsexuals
Two-Sprits... and
LGBTQIA+
(Flora and Fauna?)
Does Genesis have anything right?
Nov 30, 2023
Nov 30, 2023 at 10:35 AM UTC
Hist? . . .
Through the corridor's echoes,
Louder and nearer
Comes a great shuffling of feet.
Quick, every one of you,
Strighten your quilts, and be decent!
Here's the Professor.
In he comes first
With the bright look we know,
From the broad, white brows the kind eyes
Soothing yet nerving you. Here at his elbow,
White-capped, white-aproned, the Nurse,
Towel on arm and her inkstand
Fretful with quills.
Here in the ruck, anyhow,
Surging along,
Louts, duffers, exquisites, students, and prigs--
Whiskers and foreheads, scarf-pins and spectacles--
Hustles the Class! And they ring themselves
Round the first bed, where the Chief
(His dressers and clerks at attention),
Bends in inspection already.
So shows the ring
Seen from behind round a conjurer
Doing his pitch in the street.
High shoulders, low shoulders, broad shoulders, narrow ones,
Round, square, and angular, serry and shove;
While from within a voice,
Gravely and weightily fluent,
Sounds; and then ceases; and suddenly
(Look at the stress of the shoulders!)
Out of a quiver of silence,
Over the hiss of the spray,
Comes a low cry, and the sound
Of breath quick intaken through teeth
Clenched in resolve. And the Master
Breaks from the crowd, and goes,
Wiping his hands,
To the next bed, with his pupils
Flocking and whispering behind him.
Now one can see.
Case Number One
Sits (rather pale) with his bedclothes
Stripped up, and showing his foot
(Alas for God's Image!)
Swaddled in wet, white lint
Brilliantly hideous with red.
1.4k
The chatter in the room is almost mundane
The woman behind me has a dog she’s keeping outside who the neighbors aren’t too fond of because he’s a bit loud at night
I got to my hair appointment almost 15 minuets late as I slipped through the door of the I suppose modern styled ‘Yellow Strawberry’ my mother was on the phone
She wears this head set that wraps around your neck and never realizes she yells when she is talking to people and it makes me cripplingly anxious
The mirrors are tall and filled with unimpressed faces glaring at us as my marvelous royal purple polyester velvet skirt glistens in the sunlight peeking in from the dropped shades
I mutter out the time of my appointment apologize that we are late and give them my name
I know it is spelt wrong in the computer, and the odds of one of the people in here having a dog named bella are unbelievable high
As I’m escorted back to my hair dressers station I remember, I need to repaint my chipped glittery red nail polish before I pick all of it off and feel disgusting
But this particular nail polish is extremely difficult to get off and I regret every-time I paint my nails with it
But it looks so god **** beautiful in the sunlight and my lover adores the color against my almost porcelain like skin so I indulge from now and again
I am here to hopefully cut about three inches off of my hair, it’s getting too long it sits painfully at about an inch or two below my shoulders
Four months ago I cut off about 10 inches and I felt about 50 pounds of anxiety lift from my chest
I think my fears started to manifest in my curls and the knots that kept returning reminding me over and over again I needed a desperate change
And now I’m finding myself approaching another much needed change, it’s nice
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
pink dressers and
the way your eyes are tinged red after you cry
blue heart shaped boxes
i pictured purple
and saw the night of my first stay
shades of colors
sky yellow
sky orange
i prefer sunrises
i prefer sunrises
i know myself
better than anyone else
you will learn
my appreciation for the earth
you will see my ability
to whisper into petals
catch dragon flies with the stillness of my being
support a caterpillar in his journey for the perfect leaf.
i may be in space
but i can touch you from there
light-years away and i promise the sunshine stroking your face is still very much alive.
i wish to climb rocks and run my
fingertips over lichens
sing to a bird
click my tongue
chipmunks running into the palms of my hands
i am free
in the shifting of the leaves
forest floor and tiny frogs.
star light
comets
i am the universe
and you love me.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.
On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.
Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.
Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.
Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.
Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.
Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
Mar 19, 2024
Mar 19, 2024 at 6:54 AM UTC
"Now be witness again,
paint the mightiest armies of earth,
Of those armies so rapid so wondrous
what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
Of hard-fought engagements or
sieges tremendous what deepest remains?
W. Whitman
*all you scar freaks,
wound dressers par extraordinaire,
you won you lost
your hard fought
distraught
engagement,
the siege goes on
and on
so does those
curious panics
button down those long sleeves,
doctor's note, no phys ed needed,
the brain workin hard enuf,
fuming fking overtime,
rich parents say
take a vaca, go far away,
poor parents say
grow up, get a job,
wish they read Whitman,
wounded dresser,
come cover up my,
Curious Panics,
my scars reopen on their own,
especially those
deepest remain...
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
I am a teenage wasteland
a room packed to the brim with conflicting emotions
and mixed signals
Each of my thoughts contradict the next
and the last
and I own drawers in dressers
dedicated to broken hearts
The soles of my shoes are worn down
with running through past conversations
and visiting old promises
My clothes are strewn with angry bullet holes
left by words taken far too seriously
and my shoulders often ache
with the pressure to be perfect
I am a teenage wasteland
and my body is tired
with over dramatizations
and unspoken worries
the emotion of love comes far too easily for me
and leaves
all too quickly
-h.w.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
For the pale dudes who confront the wind
and try to push it back into its bottle,
and for tall girls with their datebooks
who can organize their dressers
but feel acid scorch their throats whenever
someone says the not-so-magic words
because disorder haunts them still--
For all the paralegal types
who had to rearrange their futures
for the kids,
and for the dryer locked in layaway--
I will keep the fire going.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
Beds;
I imagine how you'd pin me to one and kiss my eyelids to my kneecaps, the length of my body as your hands hold mine in place.
Chairs;
You could sit on one, and I'd straddle you while pushing your hair back and nibbling on your earlobe, feeling your hands become firmer upon the small of my back.
Tables and desks;
I sit upon them and you scoop me up into your arms, my legs wrapping around you as your lips mold to my neck and I tilt my head back.
Dressers;
Press me up against one as you peel off your clothing that just won't make it back into the drawers because we're too busy folding our hands around waists and necks, too busy tasting lust and angst as your lips touch mine.
Couches;
Spoon me on one and draw circles along my hip bones and I'll roll my fingers down your inner thigh, pull me closer and bury your face into the crook of my neck.
Stairs;
Kiss me up them, tentatively feeling our way around the banisters and walls so we can continue interlocking lips as we climb towards the bedroom.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
Do you know that feeling
When unexpectedly
A friend or family member
Exposes their bigotry?
Well, I can be very out spoken
Bigotry after all is
A cognizant distortion
I recall last summer
In the marketplace
The sun rays
Blessing the day
Children laughing
Parents smiling
My voice welcomes all
Some of the kindest people
I have ever met
Mexican migrant workers
Such a pleasure to appease
Used tables, chairs and dressers
And used shoes on their children's feet
A Muslim man his wife and daughters
All greet me with kind words
The gleam within their shopping eyes
While on guard to be reserved
Native Americans I do respect
Their culture and their lands
For after all upon their blood
Is where America stands
And with this beautiful tapestry
Hanging upon my days
I'll stand against the hatred
America's oldest plague.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 6:58 AM UTC
There's this Polaroid you have of me
in your room l'hiver dernier , you can't see my face
Sauf pour my eyebrows and the dark shadow of my lips
it's snowing in the background and
everything is white, I can feel the cold of your room
and the candles you burned, yankee
McIntosh Apple, where your dressers were scented like laundry detergent
Christmas lights strung across your ceiling, the nudes tucked inside A Clockwork Orange
Our time happened in the winter, beneath the street lamps glowing
Always within walking distance, you'd tread through the puddles
8pm to play chess in the dark living room of my house
Or when we played monopoly beneath your sheets, drenched
where Kaitlin and Miranda weren't people and only taboo
I still played video games inside your arms and you still acted gay
I enjoyed your bashful tendencies and the roughness of your skin
but now
but now
as much as i would love to revisit those times
i recall that i'm older, that i'm older
that we're different and the snow would
not be the same, but that picture of me
in your room last winter, where you can't see my face
I remember
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
In life you are a total nobody if you aren't:
A "socialite superstar" who sacrifices moral for popularity
A tech freak
A work-a-holic
A married man or woman (opposite *** only!)
An insensitive "cowboy"
A confederate flag sympathizer (incomparable to ****** I guess)
A religious fanatic
Someone who is so open minded they are open to bad or EVIL
Rich as hell
Extremely violent or purposefully "unaware of bullies"
Anyone who graduated with honors (3.5 or higher, please!)
Certain everyone should work and/or drive
Covered by expensive life insurance
Popular with dozens of "honest friends"
A gun owner who doesn't believe in the need for regulation
A cigarette smoker (but *** is a "bigger devil!")
Hating cross dressers
A nudist hater
Built with a six pack
Absolutely certain that every hippy is "the devil"
A nature hater
Willing to **** anything that moves (they are the pests)
Giving away all natural love for money
One who loves to go to war, a.k.a. "gung-ho"
Gifted with perfected teeth
One to ignore the "little lower people" at work/school
A "brown noser," trying to even out-do your mentors
A cheeky person obsessed with being manager (I'm #1!)
Poised to kick someone out on a moments notice (no hustlers here!)
Always on "mommy" and "daddies" side, even if they went too far
The list goes on and on, but you need to be most of these to succeed!
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 4:27 AM UTC
Hi my names Lauren and I love things that can't speak.
Hi my names Lauren and I love things that break their own bones and choke on their teeth.
Hi my names Lauren and I see kids with bruises, kids with no excuses, kids with cuts, kids howling at the moon like mutts. They're begging to get out of their skin and into a more feral suit, they want their bite to be worse than their bark, hang themselves in the park, finally be noticed, glowing smiles like that of an alley cat, spat out blood last week, "must've been the pills, that **** kills."
Hi my names Lauren and I forget my name a lot. I write it in the hearts of heartfelt hoodlums, not so brave victims, mothers' worst nightmares, mothers who don't care, boys who dare set themselves on fire, light it up ****** you aren't getting any brighter.
Hi my names God and I ****** up.
Hi my names Lauren and I talk to the dead. They tell me about the papers they keep under the bed, poems no one reads and suicide notes with things unsaid.
Hi I'm Lauren and the dead can't dance when they speak. They're not too steady on their feet, dangling from rafters with chairs beneath.
Hi I'm Lauren and I ****** up, you ****** me up. You won't talk to me, and he won't look at me, and dad can't stand me and mom tries her best to understand me and I once hit my head so hard on the wall I fainted. Yes mom, it was on purpose. I thought we painted that pretty picture in my blood months ago.
Hi I'm Lauren and I write poems that don't lie about the truth, I write poems about depressives, lost boys, starving boys, ****** boys, and my boys. Those all go hand in hand. I write poems about heartache, bone break, undertake, and personality fake. These are all the same. I write poems about things I've seen, things I've done, things I've ****** and threads that were spun into ropes tied into nooses and put behind the pile of ***** laundry on the floor. I write about pills in dressers and knives in scabby skin and how much I hate god but love his children and how my brain is broken and I'm still stuck hoping I'll be left with something to write about next time I forget my name but can remember yours.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC
and bed and closet
and solid wood dressers
and mirrors
hung on each wall
so when you stood in the middle
you could see who you were,
four different views,
spin quickly in a circle
and all four become one
dizzy smear of fleshy skin,
dark strands of hair
and constant brown pupils,
trying to focus. Spinning
and getting nauseous
this room's walls inch foreward,
closer, the ceiling lowers
the jagged plastered lines
and edges **** ceasessely
forming a cube condensing
and swallowing your form
up with it. A diamond
shaped prism with your
twirling reflection bouncing
off glass and your life
beaming from their lenses,
out from the geometry
and from the fake wooden beams. underneath white socks
as you fall back
through claustrophobia,
anxiety and time
and lie with your back
on the bed,
reminded of its emptiness,
with the room still circling
you, as a cube
with especially pointed edges,
and you think the dizziness
and headaches would stop
if only he was in that same
shrinking bedroom as you.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
Now let us pray.
May hellfire rain down
on us today, on all those who
offered pay in
full metal change to watch
the life sized lights explode
& wicked witches
hanging by the throat
from a tenth floor window
it was all so cool.
so cool.
demon induced
dementia cemented in
an underground parking garage
sleepover
sleepless
starry eyed orphan
**** princess-
apparel section
regressing to an
oral fixation & a
need to keep the
fingers busy.
pink **** carpet
heart shaped atrocity
rotten thing.
you ain't the boss of me
paleface
scarab angel
seraph snake
made up cheap
heart tarnished
purely
black comedy
legs like a limousine
keeping company with
the holy cross
dressers on the
local drug scene.
oh how special.
yesterday
I fed my
edificial fetish
& I could not
stop thinking.
these high
arched ceilings.
could not contain
my feelings,
if they tried.
drive by advertisements
remind me there's
not much
to be excited about.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC
i don't feel very
whole these days
that specific sticky
dusty feeling all over
my palms neck tilted
sideways running the
tips of my fingers down
rows of plastic cases
"oh are you over
there looking at
music again?" you
sigh but it's not
the kind of reproach
i need to defend
myself against because
you know i always do it
and i don't think you
really mind how long
i take because once in
awhile i'll find one that
you like or that i'm so
excited over you can't complain
and then we wander
through rows of
scratched dressers
winding our way
around old doors and
molding strips that had
a better life once
chairs and desks
dinette sets and hutches
a little bit of this
a little bit of that
a little bit of something special
laughing over
strange items
ugly clothing
even art pieces
and for an hour or
two i can feel the
stuffy secondhand air
between us clear
we usually don't
buy anything or if
we do it's not much
because neither of us
happen to have very
much extra cash
but once in awhile we'll
find a fifty cent mug
potato coasters
a solid wood end table
or a nice cd rack
a piece of someone else's past
and i'll load the
furniture into
the van if you let
me keep the change
i like thrifting
because looking at
items with unknown
history puts the
present into
perspective
gives us a reason
to go out something
to laugh about over
the dinner table
to agree about how
nice that cabinet is
or to disagree about
how ugly wicker is
instead of what
the other is feeling
because everything
is subjective whether
it's trash or treasure whether
it's mine or the next person's
and i don't feel very
whole these days
but on the other hand
i'm not yet in
the attic of the salvage
shop on the corner
and neither is
our relationship
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
Childish churning chickadees--
chastened
in the dark denim confines of the bulging pocket.
Chatting urgently only in touch,
when their bodies grind together
where two or more gather--
like prayers, like lips do like hands do--
Uncomfortable shape-shifting;
feeling tense as legs shake loose the bunched up mess--
digging into skin like silver teeth or a silver bullet
encroached within a werewolf's flesh--
Musically: creating new timbres accompanying
suddenly aggravated gaits--
Ching ka-ching ka-ching ka-ching--
Fumbling in the darkness.
Ka-ching ka-ching clawing incessantly,
as the forlorn children of burdensome currency.
Soon, their captors retire to worn couches
to engage in aggressive loafing--
growing sluggish and torpid,
legs slacken and jeans loosen--
their lips at the captor's hip bones
spilling out their shiny contents like dripping saliva--
and down, down the children go,
choking between the cracks of the worn cushions.
Bodies shift, aching for comfort,
the farther, farther down they go--
their cries drowned drowned
by pillows acquiescing to mushy bodies.
Those that survive the dreadful encounter--
clinging to their prisons--
feel once again the stifling hands of death
reaching grasping groping in their huddled fretful presence
to be tossed loosely carelessly onto bedside dressers;
for a fate unknown to themselves, nor the hands
that toss them absentmindedly.
It is rare that they are brought to the light of day again.
(It would have been better,
to have sunk acquiescently,
down into the bulbous stifling purgatory
alongside their unlucky kin.)
There is worse; for those who are left in their denim prisons
are thrown--cage and all--
into the jaws of Poseidon's mechanical canine,
who sits on its hind legs patiently and consumes ravenously.
They amass at the bottom of its belly,
until intense gurgling acids arise,
reaching higher and higher til
all are submerged.
They are tossed in voracious waters,
twisting and churning and gasping and drowning--
holding onto each other like prayers;
feeling pulled ****** into the vacuum--
cries lost in the gaping pores of the gargling volatile beast--
lost, lost, lost,
in the cries of forever longing.
Goodbyes: *Goodbye,
dear friends.*
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
The weary day was slowly ending;
A long bus ride had started;
A hundred thoughts were whirling
Down to settle in my tired head.
The driver's day was half way done;
Day was slow...several rounds to go.
We made small talk about the dying sun
And watched the traffic moving slow.
Four stops down and deep within
The concrete canyons...another stop ahead
I stopped mid-thought to gaze upon
A man standing, suited all in red.
"Now, that's a suit!" was all think I said.
"He's always in a suit like that,"
The driver smiled, "Sometimes in purple,
Sometimes in blue, or in this red."
We chuckled as we passed vermilion man;
The driver mused, "He has a business case...
Waited here for years at this bus stand,
Dependably in style, standing in his place."
The driver's words became a check to cash
For dressers-up in gray and blue and brown:
Standers-out must add persistence to panache
If would-be standers-out intend to hang around.
"Best be out-standing if
You're planning to stand out!"
Published November 23, 2012
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 8:13 PM UTC