"elbows" poems
I'll **** you,
If you want.
Cause I want it
Just as bad as you do.
But I also want to hear the rustle of the sheets
When you turn over in the middle of the night.
I want to feel your hot breath on my neck.
I want the stubble on your chin to graze my cheek
As you kiss me gently on the forehead.
And when I whisper "goodnight," you don't have to reply.
Just nudge me with your knee
Or poke me with your elbow.
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
He loved her and she loved him
His kisses ****** out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she ******
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and Sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains
Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Or everlasting or whatever there was
Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy place
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His word were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assasin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
Her glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall
Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop
In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage
In the morning they wore each other's face
17.6k
I've come by, she says, to tell you
that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's
over. this is it.
I sit on the couch watching her arrange
her long red hair before my bedroom
mirror.
she pulls her hair up and
piles it on top of her head-
she lets her eyes look at
my eyes-
then she drops her hair and
lets it fall down in front of her face.
we go to bed and I hold her
speechlessly from the back
my arm around her neck
I touch her wrists and hands
feel up to
her elbows
no further.
she gets up.
this is it, she says,
this will do. well,
I'm going.
I get up and walk her
to the door
just as she leaves
she says,
I want you to buy me
some high-heeled shoes
with tall thin spikes,
black high-heeled shoes.
no, I want them
red.
I watch her walk down the cement walk
under the trees
she walks all right and
as the pointsettas drip in the sun
I close the door.
15.4k
Eyes sliver open languidly, feel out the corners
Stretched, palms pressed against white walls
Pull the covers high above my head
Building courage to greet the day
Lungs fill with a familiar scent
Smile, reach and caress a glowing cheek
Next to me, he turns, all elbows and sighs
Find him in a second with tingling toes and fingertips
Untangle the limbs and sheets
Firm and nut-brown, coarse in the right places
Soft in the best places, he's flawless
Dare to disturb the rhythmic breathing
Wake up, I whisper
Coffee, he groans
May 31, 2011
May 31, 2011 at 11:25 PM UTC
I used to pray that I’d never be loved by
anyone I couldn’t love back,
but then I remembered how many mountains
I grew strong enough to climb when
you didn’t love me back
and I realized that
there’s no use in praying for
the absence of pain
because it will always find you
whether it be through sunburn or aching silence
and broken bones grow back stronger
so I won’t pray you’ll never get hurt
I’ll pray you clean out the cuts on your
elbows and learn to not pick at
the scabs on your knees
and that you’ll stand up more times
than the wind knocks you down
And that you’ll find ways to appreciate
the circles beneath your eyes, but
still hold onto the hope that one day
you will count your scars and smile because
you are proud of how far you’ve come
and how much you’ve grown, and
you’re not just surviving, you are alive.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
How do I ignore you when
you're right next to me?
God ****** we keep bumping elbows.
I can't blast my music
loud enough to tune out
your presence.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
I saw my toes the other day.
I hadn't looked at them for months.
Indeed, they might have passed away.
And yet they were my best friends once.
When I was small, I knew them well.
I counted on them up to ten
And put them in my mouth to tell
The larger from the lesser. Then
I loved them better than my ears,
My elbows, adenoids, and heart.
But with the swelling of the years
We drifted, toes and I, apart.
Now, gnarled and pale, each said, j'accuse!--
I hid them quickly in my shoes.
9.1k
This is not a breakup poem
This is not me liquifying when I open my eyes in the morning
This is not my furious animal tearing at my chest to control the thrashing inside
This is not the bile that burns my throat
And this is not the hollow in my abdomen
This is not a breakup poem
This is not your static sobs and back-breaking voice cracks
This is not your acid apology
This is not your deadly uncertainty
And this is not the jagged shards of yourself
This is not a breakup poem
This is not the blood bursting from my scraped elbows and knees
when I went head over heels because you promised you would catch me
This is not my pavement-smacked stinging palms
This is not the gravel in my wounds from when you let go too soon
This is not a breakup poem
This is not your whiskey bottle on the shelf at the foot of my bed,
a gentle reminder that now I have nightmares alone
This is not the toothbrush and the hair gel and the speakers and the things that have more staying power than you
And this is not a breakup poem
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
Loneliness is a pain,
Not the pain of a knife cutting through skin, sinews, muscles,and drawing blood.
Not the pain of a tooth in your mouth throbbing and sending shocks of horrors through highways of swollen nerves..
Not a fatal pain of a dying cell being devoured by a cancerous growth that thrives on the death and the pain of the very cells that produces its been.
Not the pain of the prisoner s body been tortured by men who see no wrong or feel no shame as they insert sharp hot instruments into natural and man made orifices in their captives helpless, hopeless bodies.
Not the pain of age as the body's functions start their natural march towards unreliability , Hips, knees knuckles, elbows and all the other joints as they begin to slowly dry up and rub against each other like stones rolling down a hillside.
Not the pain of hearts slowing, livers hardening,lungs wheezing like ripped accordians bellows .
Not the pain of childbirth.
Not the pain of accidents that show no fairness to the person in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Not the pain of self inflicted wounds that can fool you into thinking that that pain is the answer to your problems.
Not the pain of the young healthy times when the body, and mind could accept it and overcome it
Not the pain of hunger or thirst.
Loneliness is the pain of the soul .
Loneliness is the pain of dreams that are dreamt when your asleep and when you'r awake.
Loneliness is the pain of memories . Some half forgotten some that are so clear you could almost touch them.
Some you'd rather forget.
Some you would spend the rest of your life reliving over and over again.
Loneliness is the pain that at times can be part relieved momentarily through the bottom of a whiskey bottle or a point of a syringe filled with a concoction of juices from plants poisonous to both the body and the soul.
Loneliness can never be cured by earthly things. Loneliness is a pain that can only find peace through a kinderd spirit.
Pat Rooney 2013
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
Blue Monday
BY DIANE WAKOSKI
Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts
and clacking together in her elbows;
blue of the silk
that covers lily-town at night;
blue of her teeth
that bite cold toast
and shatter on the streets;
blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens
hanging like tongues
over the fence of her dress
at the opera/opals clasped under her lips
and the moon breaking over her head a
gush of blood-red lizards.
Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and
Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and
Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling
California fountain. Monday alone
a shark in the cold blue waters.
You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl.
I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name
is still wedged in every corner of the sofa.
Monday is the first of the week,
and I think of you all week.
I beg Monday not to come
so that I will not think of you
all week.
You paint my body blue. On the balcony
in the softy muddy night, you paint me
with bat wings and the crystal
the crystal
the crystal
the crystal in your arm cuts away
the night, folds back ebony whale skin
and my face, the blue of new rifles,
and my neck, the blue of Egypt,
and my ******* the blue of sand,
and my arms, bass-blue,
and my stomach, arsenic;
there is electricity dripping from me like cream;
there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or
jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.
Love passed me in a blue business suit
and fedora.
His glass cane, hollow and filled with
sharks and whales ...
He wore black
patent leather shoes
and had a mustache. His hair was so black
it was almost blue.
“Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Mr. Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street
Love passed me on the street in a blue
business suit. He was a banker
I could tell.
So blue trains rush by in my sleep.
Blue herons fly overhead.
Blue paint cracks in my
arteries and sends titanium
floating into my bones.
Blue liquid pours down
my poisoned throat and blue veins
rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip
and are juggled on my palms.
Blue death lives in my fingernails.
If I could sing one last song
with water bubbling through my lips
I would sing with my throat torn open,
the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse,
and on my lips
I would balance volcanic rock
emptied out of my veins. At last
my children strained out
of my body. At last my blood
solidified and tumbling into the ocean.
It is blue.
It is blue.
It is blue.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,
Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off
Before it has a chance to go two blocks,
At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth's Garage
Is on the corner facing west, and there,
Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.
Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps-
Five on a side, the old bubble-head style,
Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low.
One's nostrils are two S's, and his eyes
An E and O. And one is squat, without
A head at all-more of a football type.
Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.
He was good: in fact, the best. In '46
He bucketed three hundred ninety points,
A county record still. The ball loved Flick.
I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty
In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.
He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,
Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,
As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,
But most of us remember anyway.
His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.
It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.
Off work, he hangs around Mae's Luncheonette.
Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,
Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.
Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods
Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers
Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
8.4k
drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
poesy
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young girls in this
dwindling twilight
liver gone
kidneys going
pancrea pooped
top-floor blood pressure
while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my toes
no woman will live with me
no Florence Nightingale to watch the
Johnny Carson show with
if I have a stroke I will lay here for six
days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, wrists, head
the radio playing classical music ...
I promised myself never to write old man poems
but this one's funny, you see, excusable, be-
cause I've long gone past using myself and there's
still more left
here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from
the typer
pour another glass and
insert
make love to the fresh new whiteness
maybe get lucky
again
first for
me
later
for you.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
7.9k
Hi, my name is female.
I might not fold my hands the way she does
Or flip my hair the way that girl does.
Hi, my name is female.
The width and length I am shouldnt define if I'm qualified for Vogue.
The way I lick my lips may not be as attractive as the next female,
How my eyelashes flutter may not appeal to you.
Hi, my name is female and I like mashed potatoes and Thai coconut.
They say “eat less, its prettier. Where this, it shows more.”
Why?
I shouldn't have to balance myself on misleading scales that does nothing but swallow my pride up.
Hi my name is female.
Because one chicken breast is smaller than the other….it's not the same?
Because another person's peach is plumper than mine….its better?
They're still the same and we should treat them the same.
Words get thrown at us everyday and its expected of us to pick them up and change the way we are.
No.
Hi, my name is female and I shouldn't be talking this way just for a guy.
I shouldn't be crying for this guy,
I shouldn't be kissing up to this guy,
I shouldn't be changing for a guy,
I wasn't made for a guy.
Because I can't reach my toes like the next female, shouldn't mean a thing. Because my palms may ash more or my bones may creek more, shouldn't define how pretty I am.
Her hair may reach her elbows, her hair may touch her neck.
Her skin might love the sun, her skin might hate it.
Its still beautiful.
Hi, my name is female and I like mashed potatoes and Thai coconut.
Just because you may not like it, doesn't mean Its gross or Im repulsive..
One female can say, “I am” while the other girl across the street can say, “I is.”
“No I won't”
Or
“No I ain't”
I can still smile just like the next female,
I can hold a laugh,
Cough,
Sneeze,
Wink,
Eat like the next female.
We're all one conjoined masterpiece.
One cannot make me feel low of myself.
One will not tell me she's better than me.
One will not let me cry my eyes out.
Hi, my name is female and I have a name.
My name defines me.
I am beautiful just like the next girl who likes mashed potatoes and Thai coconut.
Embrace your beauty, honey. You're gonna have it forever.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
There are some people who drape themselves across others
like rugs,
who beg for physical affection
like a dog waiting to have its belly scratched,
who hook pinkies and elbows and knees
with their best friend from childhood while huddled under blankets
in the middle of the night.
I am not one of these people.
I sit on the arms of couches,
feet turned away from the pile of mismatched body parts
that occupies the cushions.
I am not used to being touched gently.
But something about you
makes me crave contact.
Hand to hand
Hip to hip
It doesn’t matter.
All my life I have been balancing on the edge of
fear and desire
in a world without all of my senses,
and I think
one touch from you
a brush, a spark
would send me falling.
No, not falling.
Flying.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
The glow of a city night comes in through my window
And keeps awake my always-empty stomach and heart
Night skies look sick with green
And don't take well to light pollution
Sleep doesn't come easy to someone so restless
Though I need the fullness of oblivion now more than ever
There is no right way to lay a restless head on a pillow
To twist a hollow body under sheets
That it will lie still in comfort
Because emptiness folds painfully in on itself
And I untwist, I unfold
To accept defeat
Propped on elbows,
On a yellow legal pad in the yellow light
I hold the sign of a night spent slowly:
All forms of unhappiness are, on the inside, loneliness
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 3:12 PM UTC
library books;
the musty smell floods me with
thoughts of its past readers
did a girl like me
run her finger across this line
as i have?
will our lines like vines
ever intertwine?
rainy nights;
while the tip-tap and dribble of
droplets hit my windowsill,
i imagine gusts of wind
dancing with one another:
carless and free
and without destination
light touches;
the accidental bump of elbows,
the awkward entanglement
of fumbling phalanges,
a gentle squeeze of the hand,
a comforting gesture that says
“i am here.”
now reverie this:
you and i,
the spines of our books broken,
our shoulders barely brushing,
the sound of soft and subtle raindrops
all things i adore in one simple
and seemingly endless moment
books, rain, touches, and you
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
Two teens with too much time left to themselves
Both experiences represented by flat lines on hospital machines during sad times
Flipped on it’s *** end quite literally
My youth is my virginity
Finding religion suddenly
Praying in my head “God, if you exist, don’t let the ****** break”
Her face in angst
I begin to flake
Spine reverberates
Elbows Shake
Bedside table vibrates
Text message
Receiving
Mom: When will you be home
Response: I won’t, I’m leaving my old self on these bed sheets
Send
My youth is my virginity
Time becomes an illusion
Not knowing how long we’ve been doing this
Minutes become seconds
Seconds to years
Years are months
Months.... minutes
I alone finish
Quickly getting dressed separately
Previously so ecstatic to slowly peel each others layers away
An eternity of silent eye contact jam packed into countless repetitive heartbeats
A mix of misinterpreted expressions cross our minds as we sink into the realization that we are no longer children
Our youth is our virginity
Your inner thighs have defined the ending milestone of my childhood
In return I thank you and grace you
No other person I’d rather have that connection with
Though we’ve long departed, our current standing is disheartening
Let’s give birth, not to children, but to friendships
I want to to represent my life with a cobblestone road
Being able to get to the end to find success, not regrets
I hand you the first stone
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 7:36 AM UTC
A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plactic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn't work.
Then there was life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched-
though touch is all-
but I grew,
like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,
the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
and all of that, saws working through my heart,
but I grew, I grew,
and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I'd say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyebal,
but I am rowing, I am rowing,
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat insdie me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.
As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
take somewhere else and let some return to me.
This story ends with me still rowing.
7k
I am in levels. Past levels. This deep, intrinsic wonderful lost, the lawlessness of its fascinating expenditure of excite. Pushing through the wild and feral snow-dusted plains and timber ridges. Like red-spotted dots breathing through the cylinders called the spine. This descends into a narrow channel of scantly clad greenish scenery in a time-soaked visionary wilderness of snow,
Our crab legs dancing down wiry purple highways, our heads could not even look backwards if we had wanted.
Furious, love-latitudes, stalking breaths thwacking fork-ended tongues into a pinkish knot buried into the first layer of organic membrane on this railway of miniature canals, showing. And their pride snuck into the elbows, shooting down each vertebrae as it stepped with great precision every ledge that the currency emphasized. The raw accumulation of stolen heart-beats rattling between the interstices of new fuel careering these red engines. Crashing with exquisite pleasure into one another.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
i.
She's beautiful. She's an angel. She's everything we asked for. I cried for the hopes and dreams of a future that was never mine. I didn't know any better, so I kept crying.
xiv.
*You can't run around like before anymore. Don't get your knees ***** Elbows off the table. Grow up.* I brushed my hands of the dirt and picked myself up, because ladies weren't supposed to pick earthworms out of the grass. I picked up eyeliner instead.
xvi.
I'm trusting you. Don't get into trouble. Don't do anything dumb. There's something satisfying about hearing the roar of an engine at the start of a July evening. With the wind in your hair, freedom at your finger tips, I could have done anything. But I shut off the car and went inside.
xviii.
You're grown up now. You're an adult. You can't afford to make stupid mistakes anymore. I was composed of keg stands, one night stands, roommates, 2am Taco Bell runs, first dates, caffeine, prayers, tears, insecurities, heart to heart talks, "just try it, it's fun, I swear", friends that turn into bridesmaids, broken promises and broken hearts. I can still hear the train's whistle.
xxi.
I told you not to do anything dumb. I told you not to make stupid mistakes. I don't know what to tell you anymore. Here's a standing ovation to being immortal; hats off to the teary drunken nights and the existential crises. These are the days that we'll look back and wish we never wasted and I'll wonder why I let you wipe your muddy shoes on me.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
Flossing more often because of you
Kool-aid blue cold condensation
Wiping my brow drifting dreaming
Biting my bottom lip until bruised
Fantasies of you being used
Objectified with warm honey eyes
My popsicle melted on your lips
Elbows dug into my mattress
Give me some sugar, ******
My pixie stick sweetheart
Indulging my sweet tooth
Flossing more often because of you
Jun 7, 2021
Jun 7, 2021 at 12:17 AM UTC
There's nothing left in you
For me to love
Not because
You're rotted
But because I've
Managed to love
Every part of you
From your split ends
To your hairy toes
Your scabby elbows
And scarred knees
From falling over and over
Your ice blue eyes
That have a talent of hiding all your lies
I even love the way
Your voice gets
When you shout
And you're angrier
Than I've ever seen
Because I've yet to find a part of you
That I do not love
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
He slowly assembles his rifle on the barren rooftop as the
wind blows through his light blond hair.
His long overcoat ***** and wraps around his thin long
legs.
He places his elbows upon the short wall in front of him,
firmly kneeling on both knees.
Glancing into the rifle's sight, he focuses sharply through
its cross hairs; he sees hundreds passing through the sight,
men, women, children, and as he sees it, a maze
of mass hysteria.
He thinks of his current desperate situation and with each
passing thought, his heart pumps more hateful
adrenaline through his expanding veins.
What am I?....He wonders.
"I am the orphan child too ugly to adopt!
I am the spit in the street you step in and curse!
I am the cockroach so many crush beneath their feet!
I wish to love and beloved, for I am ever so lonely,
so empty.
I wish to give my whole self to someone to make them
eternally happy!
To sacrifice all I possess, including my life, for the one
I love,
but I am thoughtlessly branded a stalker!
I am the void in all broken hearts.
As a child, I only wished to be loved and appreciated,
but I was raised the invisible child.
There's a painful sore in my throbbing brain, the lethal
virus of society'd disdain.
I'm insane!....I'm insane!...Give me peace, God if you exist
Give me peace!
He glances once again through the sight's cross hairs,
catching sight of a young boy standing alone, mouth wide open
with tears rolling down his cheeks.
He pauses.....envisioning himself, his blue eyes cloud
with tears.
He pulls back back his loaded rifle placing it against the
short wall,
realizing at the moment this wasn't the way to end his
unbearable pain.
Reaching into his deep overcoat's pocket, his long fingers
catch grasp of the cool surface of a 9 mm.
Pulling it slowly from his pocket, he raises it to his temple,
slipping his finger upon its tight trigger he whispers once
again,
"God....if you exist,
Give me peace."
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
Chereè, Chereè...Her mommy cried and warned her to be careful, 3 months ago she left home for L.A in hopes for becoming a star. Five foot five, dark green eyes, skin complexion as a beige princess, at a pool party in the hills she met the producer to both whoms sparked interest. She had a voice of gold, a personality so bold, and he had the fill to her mold. So she thought, So she was told, Chereè was gullible a young 19 years old. She moved in with Jazzy, fell in love with him, and his savvy, way of making her feel so **** and strong. For three months he lead her on, head and *** every other night and she never recorded one song. Then he came to her and asking, "Baby do love me…Baby do you care." Thirty minutes after she finished her makeup and hair, they stared into each others eyes, he gave her a tender kiss as he caressed her thighs. "I love you girl, and I always will." As she strapped her heels, he uttered a comment about how love doesn't pay the bills. North Hollywood, for weeks the pay was good, until the night she climbed in the SUV. "What's your name sweetheart." "Whatever you want it to be." She hopped in the truck, and he had something tucked, he turned and flashed L.A.P.D. Just do me this one, and I'll let you go…and she prayed to just get back on the stroll. They went in the back seat, the ***** cop was a freak, he used his cuffs to tie up her hands and feet. She waited till he was weak, he came and then she beat, her elbows into his head and felt for the keys under the seat. He whipped out an 8 inch blade and slit her throat. He kept stabbing, and he ever choked her.....looked at the body, and rolled it over, took his cuffs and gave her a soft kiss on the shoulder, he wiped tears and blood from his face with her thong, because he told her……that'd he let her go. He dumped Chereè on the side of the road, and took off for his Beverly Hills home.………And her mother told her to be careful.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
I am at the fire as I would likely be, come the chill
hours of inactivity, having gathered up the dead
detritus from the yard and put to match some old
wood rested on it. The lifeless pile took flame
with greed, as if surprised by need of it,
and gratefully gave itself to be consumed by fire.
For a time the world is all ablaze, all red
and yellow hot upon my face, flush with pregnant
sparks giving birth to ever greater iterations of fire.
Then I think let it all burn, all that is useless;
let it burn, all that is cast off and idle; in my mind
an eternal flame, even as the wood before my eyes
melts to ash and climbs to heaven on a pillar
of smoke. Ash settles down to earth with me,
ash in the air darting through shadows, bitter
on the tongue, gray in the hair. The universe
is cold; the space between the stars blank.
The bodies of the universe are all ash.
As long as there is flame I stay with it. I inch
closer as the cold elbows in, jealous of my place.
I stir. Chars catch a breath and come to light,
soon fading, embers weary of their work, blinking
heavy eyed, nodding off to sleep. When at length
all that can burn has burned, refined to its last
remains, glowing scarlet crystal, intensity wanting fuel
denied, I leave it to its vultures, satisfied
all becomes at last what does endure.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC