"faucets" poems
so you're disappointed
that you're disappointed
and maybe that's to be expected
some folks make beds
out of their catharsis
differently than others
it's this list
of things you lost in the fire
or how jealous you are
of people
who never came back up for air
you're crying
so the faucets leak out of solidarity
& someone asks you
why the floor is wet
so you tell them
"we've been weeping here forever"
then they want to give you
a mouth full of presupposition
by saying
"are you going down with the ship?"
& you look them in the mouth
like Leo is handcuffed to a pipe
five decks down
you look at them
like you just woke up
from that dream everyone has
where all their teeth fall out
maybe it's an intervention
a hearse vs station wagon origin story
a clearance sale
& everything's gotta go
or maybe it's the dream
where you're at the docks
from your childhood
and there's a little girl
unmooring all the ships
because she thinks
they'll float away
but every time
she unties them
they just sink
they just sink
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
Many believe they know the law
Because they were arrested;
Others know how to teach
Because they too were tested.
If you have a religious question,
They attended church;
Mention you've an ache or pain,
They diagnose your hurt.
Should you bring up politics,
Republican or worse,
They'll explain Democracy
Cause they've been free since birth.
Admit your car is pinging,
Your faucets aren't behaving,
The oven isn't cooking right,
Your fridge is warm and shaking,
The air conditioner's out of whack,
Your furnace has turned blue,
They'll tell you what to do:
Change the thermo-coupler.
It's always their one answer.
Say you like this stock or bond,
An investment that's appealing,
They'll discourse that all agents
Are cunning conniving stealing.
On Monday mention the big game,
They'll re-play, play by play,
As if you slept right through it.
If you hear a rousing band,
Attend a movie or a play,
Know-its are informed critics,
Once they were stagehands.
They pose as friends and family,
Waiting for an opening,
To disrupt with diatribe,
To display how much they know.
I know what I'm on about,
So let me advise you,
I'm a Know-It-All poet,
All I write is true.
So,
*Never miss the opportunity
To keep your mouth shut too*.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics
fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,
at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?
Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the
outrageous misfortune
of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.
Enough whining:
*I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering*
3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
please, i beg you, take care of yourself. when your stomach rumbles, eat. when your eyelids droop, sleep. and when your voice quivers, find a comfortable spot and cry, cry your little heart out. but when you're done, dry your eyes, occupy yourself, and know in your heart that you are better than that. do not be sad, be angry. become a roaring fire and burn the memory of all those who have wronged you.
do not let the leaky faucets **** you. do not drown in a bucket of tears. light it on fire. pour it out. throw it. scream **** you" to sadness because you are so much better than it.
let it out, let it out, let it out, then be done.
because yes love, right now your sadness feels quite heavy but the truth is that it is just a paperweight. learn to turn the page.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
Amnesia like leaky faucets swollen drain ventilates vapid powdered portrait
At least smiled.
Blood slightly warmed manicure and smiled in forgotten garden
Such lovely font. All wanted
Mini clouds surrounding shrines backlit green in ritual.
Smiles speak but of the wet smell of pollen and the sweat collecting in his hand behind the small of her uncrushed spine.
Curing chlamydia the straight—A fairytale. Conned alive, clumsily and bitter.
Nurtured cotton uprooted attempt. Scrubbed stains to shreds
Not even the green light merely aftermath so of course when shaking egg shells sheltering in “cold hands warm heart” chests receive the song I sing but never knew
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
Even when your eyes are closed, the colours of the world surround you,
Your imagination keeps you awake.
Sounds, everywhere. The ticking of clocks, the drip of faucets;
It forces you to stay awake.
A flood of thoughts and memories come to your mind,
Turning each into monsters, clawing at your emotions.
The sound of them are overwhelming;
The colours splattered everywhere.
You decide to listen to some music, your favourite song,
the one you have listened to probably a hundred times this week.
You hit repeat because that's what would calm you,
Even though you’ve listened to it so many times you think your ears will bleed;
The sweet sounds an addiction.
You continue, to drown out the sounds your mind provides.
The constant, deafening yells of danger,
The vivid memories of all the times that you’ve failed.
The music gets louder to drown out the terrible sounds your mind provides,
To cover the ugly colours in sweet melodies.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 1:35 AM UTC
My brother finds comfort in calculators.
He assigns every number a name.
He believes that they add up to certainty and he is upset with fractions that remain.
So I examine these maps with my eyes, and at best I can trace with my finger
all the way to that town where she went in an attempt to forget the cracks and the lines of my face.
So Jetsabel cleaned out the closets for me and she piled up the boxes in the hall.
Tomorrow when she wakes she'll come take them away and they'll never haunt me again;
but it is still hard to sleep with the moon's heavy beams.
I run barefoot to the backyard, just to freeze in my place by the rod iron gate;
too afraid and ashamed to advance.
Today I walked through the snow and found a field of headstones.
They were in rows like the weeks in calendars where each box is a day you can never escape
without pills or the poison of sleep.
These memories leak from these faucets that weep.
Hot tears splash against the shower floor and I stand in the steam as if inside a dream--
I can see her again by the sink.
From behind the bathroom mirror she pulls a thermometer and places it under my tongue.
She said, "You're as pale as a sheet. You look awful, my sweet. Lay down and wait for the sun."
So I stayed in that bed. She brought me water and read each night from a volume out loud.
She whispered soft poetry. Her favorite was Anabel Lee.
And those words, like these drugs, comforted me.
But the clocks kept waving their hands
and she couldn't understand why temperature would never drop.
And though she promised with tears that she would always be here,
I heard truth like the sounding sea.
I said, "My Arienette, how soon you forget this house will never be your home,
and you will leave in the fall when the trees become graves and their colors lie dead in the grass."
Gold and green torture me like the lies I believe too easily.
Oh my Jetsabel, look at this hell that I have made.
If you want, maybe drop by sometime-- put some flowers on my grave
so that I will look beautiful in my silent sepulchre.
Yeah, that's fine. Throw some dresses away. I don't want anything of hers.
For the moon never shines and the stars never rise without bringing me dreams,
haunted by the ghosts of those bright eyes.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
Onetime I let a boy inside my ribcage
I warned him upon entry that the path to the space between my lungs was a oneway ticket
that I had never smoked a cigarette,
but the walls inside me were tar-filled
and sick
that sometimes my heart failed to beat with my brain and instead fell into
perfect
uneven
synchrony with the faucet
where I threw-up cherry red the other night.
Onetime I let a boy with a knife inside my ribcage
and I had seen the knife
and I didn't care
he climbed inside me so gently
like he belonged there and was just taking his place
like a missing *****
he made me his home
reassembled my insides
vital pieces of me now resting on his body,
depending on his body
one hand on my heart
the other on my throat.
Onetime I let a boy with a knife and a bottle of bourbon live inside my ribcage
he cleaned the tar off the walls
but didn't cure the sickness
I think he liked the smell of it.
One night he carved his name everywhere
spine
clavicle
esophagus
and I pretended to sleep
cut
nick
slash
he tried to claim me
he tried to clean me
but lost souls can't be claimed
and I'll never be clean enough
my heart follows faucets
not boys
and that scared the boy
so one night he poured the bourbon down the throat he held
and I didn't stop him
and I almost drowned
gulp, gulp, gulp
slash, slash, slash
cursive illegible sorry's
over every spot he had once cut his name into
and he kissed the wounds
and I woke up heavy.
Organs are worthless without their host but
Onetime I watched a boy tear his way out of my ribcage.
Knife and empty bottle in his place,
nothing's been working right in there since.
I haven't let anyone in there since.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 3:57 AM UTC
this old poet, one of the first, to see your wave,
when he was playing knick-knack paddy whack on his shoe,
the old poet then played two, and said,
yes, I will follow you
Please
imaging-imaging that old poet with a glanceable cursory,
a small smile whispered, with entourage of a nod and a wink,
stands, knowing he is in the delivery room, a witness,
to first steps of a babe starting a new life
marvelous miracle by touching a button, a new line written,
not crossed but connecting by pressing "Follow"
with a finger from a hand, a human fringe,
attached to a breathing mind and a thinking heart,
the first to follow you, a ceremonial gesture of
innovation magic incantation, a new moon blessing,
a living person believing, remembering, the longest ago,
his first own graceful acknowledgement and eyes speak,
yes, I will follow you
the new poet, astonished at this induction to the smallest
Hall of Fame that they alone own the only key, study that
number, that number 1, the first to follow, kinda looking over
their shoulder to make sure the old poet still there on the morrow,
sure enough there are now two, safe in the back pocket,
a tabulation of humans who speak volumes of trust, saying,
yes, I will follow you
the old poet, imaging-imaging the babe, dancing round
the room, invigorated, challenged and the faucets pouring,
can't write it down as fast as the trains arriving disgorging,
words unique in new combinations and the rush of blood
from heart to head to those newly literary fingers bleeding
happy creatures of creation as if they are Noah
setting sail to save us with verbs and adjectives
two by two all for now species unheard of
the old poet wants to send cautionary notes, the path strewn
with frustrations of no inspiration ditches and inescapable cliches
that sound fresh but just aren't, the disappearing satisfaction,
the inability to get it just perfect, and so many obstacles
to be prophesied,
but he does not, these things must be self taught,
today let it suffice the initiation, the first crowning of
**yes, I will follow you
for this the way of the poet
10/16/17 5:09pm**
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC
darkness extends its warm arms around
me and its fingernails trace the delicate
purple veins tattooed on my forearms
thin curlicues and tiny vessels of this very
thing-- this thing that reverberates and
reverberates and reverberates within
this tiny black knife makes its first vicious
forceful trace-- the curls becoming
faucets of this bluish purple liquid
a puddle which defiles the pristine floor
-- maybe this is a suitable cleaning
device-- a thin rod with this pointy
shiny silvery tip, collecting tiny mercury
***** from the puddle, as I rearranged
the puddle into the thing bluish purple
liquid curlicues just like that whence
they came
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
The men kept to themselves:
they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.
The women kept to themselves:
they were expecting the death of a boy on a Japanese schooner.
They all kepy to themselves-
dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,
the sharp parasol that punctures
a recently flattened toad,
beneath silence with a thousand ears
and tiny mouths of water
in the canyons that resist
the violent attack on the moon.
The boy on the schooner was crying and hearts were breaking
in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things,
and because of the sky blue ground of black footprints,
obscure names, saliva, and chrome radios were still crying.
It doesn't matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,
or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,
because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and
freeze you from behind the trees.
it's useless to look for the bend
where night loses its way
and to wait in ambush for a silence that has no
torn clothes, no shells, and no tears,
because even the tiny banquet of a spider
is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky.
There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese schooner,
nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs.
The countryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots
and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude.
The Moon! The police. The foghorns of the ocean liners!
Facades of ***** of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.
Everything is shattered in the night
that spread its legs on the terraces.
Everything is shatter in the tepid faucets
of a terrible silent fountain.
Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers!
We will have to journey through the eyes of idiots,
open country where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss,
landscapes full of graves that yield the freshest apples,
so that uncontrollable light will arrive
to frighten the rich behind their magnifying glasses-
the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat-
and so that fire will consume those crowds still able to **** around a moan
or on the crystals in which each inimitable wave is understood.
2.3k
My grade school
burned down
twice.
Once in the 1930's
then again in
the 50's.
They rebuilt,
there were two
large black and white
framed photographs
of the school houses
before both fires
hanging in the
main hallway.
At some point in
the reconstruction
someone had decided
on two boys
restrooms.
The one at ground level
was always clean.
There were small white
tiles and fresh blue paint.
It always smelled like
pine cleaner,
never ran out of
paper towels.
There was always
sweet smelling
liquid soap in the
shinny silver dispensers.
There were doors with
shinny silver
locks on the stalls.
It was a timeless
space,
pristine and somehow
preserved.
Free and unscathed
by the ugliness of
the world.
Then there was the other
one.
The restroom below
ground in the basement.
There were ground
level windows
with round wire cages
over them.
The view of the
***** untied
tennis shoes
attached to
saggy socks and
scabbed knees.
The children
ran about
with purpose
over every inch
of the playgrounds
hot black top
as I'd try
to guess who's
feet were who's.
There were no doors on
the stalls,
yellow stains beneath
every leaky
******
Smears of rust around the
faucets ,
a coarse hand soap
in the often broken
dispensers.
More fit for prisoners
than students.
It smelled like
**** and was always
cold.
I don't know why
one was always cleaner
than the other.
Maybe it was an
unwritten janitor
law.
Maybe they seen it
as somehow lower
than the other.
I always chose the
basement restroom.
It just seemed more
natural to me,
it made me feel strong,
made it all feel more real.
Now after so many
hardships as I sit with drink
in hand or lay down
while high on some drug
I can't seem to help
but look back and
remember.
Then ponder the question.
"Have I always been
meant to live in such a *****
harsh environment,
even way back then?"
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
I will not talk about my losses,
where I neither gave up nor tossed
in the towel,
and still did
not come out
a winner, the winner.
Maybe I am not built to compete, I have no grit
no edge to my way,
maybe life is fun,
and we are to just play?
Maybe when you feel sorry for your self, you lose,
your edges now, are broken bits,
that makes deep cuts into your pysche,
a vivisection of the visceral.
Maybe thoughts like this are best bottled up and
tossed in an ocean made up of the tears
that rain down and pour like a wash
filled with
every dream, every goal, every first step of last resort,
I ever had that never left
the space. the gray space above my ears, which heard
my cry and my eyes which see but have no handles to turn off
the faucets that they have become, leaking saline,
while I pretend to understand Einstein.
I write and that makes me a writer and a winner,
what pray tell, are you a winner at...?
I am listening.
©DWE112013
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
Cool white sheets. Blue
sunshine filtering through
my hand learning your skin.
Dreaming of angels.
Empty shadows on
quiet streets.
The city breathes in,
grass blades quiver.
A drumming echo.
The hasty steps of
belatedness.
I shift my hand.
The faucets, dripping.
The sunrise pulling
your skin into alps,
but you’re not cold.
A high-rise drips its
concrete breath.
The sky breaks.
Exhale and return.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
Part 2
The old man sits upon his chair and speaks words slip with spit they drip - drip drip - he speaks but no one’s there. From thought to speech the old man speaks, his words released hang in the mist formed out of air so thick and dense it ebbs and flows and dances with a constant freeze brought by the breeze thus when he speaks the old man sees the sounds that slip from his own lips...
...Each word a sound each sound a note encased in ice the words take form; his thoughts comprised of merging chords which morph into the words whose form is slick and round, encased in ice, shine like a string of flawless pearls.
A burden air can never bare the string of pearls falls from mid-air. Pearls hit the floor with such great force that impact shatters words like bones upon a field where battles roared, souls ripped from form thus die his words; remains of thoughts the old man spoke, words torn apart reduced to chords in piles litter scatter wasted cursed forever to be words unheard like treasures lost, no! never found or heard, his words the unearthed pearls of thoughts he thought and dared to speak though fate he knew would have them be forever lost beneath the sea where words from chords and notes will never see the day nor know the heat when they would shine under the sun though smooth and round their form once was when once the shattered chords were words.
There was a time his words had form their form was round like pearls or drops of water dripped from leaky faucets drip they slip from rusty lips into the sink and down the pipes which snake throughout the secret house, they drip the words words slip his thoughts from lips are lost drip drip the words in chords thoughts drip are lost in sinks forever gone the old man thinks…
Drip drip he speaks words slip drip drip from lips words drip their form drip drip so round the sound from chords which merged and formed the words he thinks and speaks and let's thoughts drip released expelled he sees the strings of pearls his words afloat drip drip the words the sound he hears or heard he thinks once there he sees or saw he saw he knows he did let words drip drip from lips but then drip drip he knows he sits he rocks on boards within drip drip a house where secrets drip, the words, drip drip the sound, they slip forever gone as if they once were sounds which maybe formed the maybe thoughts he may have thought the old man thinks that maybe he just never spoke the words which maybe never were the thoughts he thought or did he think he didn’t know now doesn’t know not like the sound he knows he hears the drip, drip drip drip from rusty lips of leaky faucets down the sink...
The End Part 2
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 7:54 AM UTC
I want to write you a poem concerning how I feel.
It has to come across as meaningful and real.
So I wrote a little bit about my gratitude for plumbing.
Praising pipes and faucets just sets my fingers strumming.
Then I thought this wasn't good and to this make amends.
So I started out on lust, counting down my favorite sins.
What am I? A charlitain? A purveyor of filth and ****
Someone who speaks of things he wants to stick up in your ****
No my dear tis not the case at least not this time around.
I'd rather set your mind to ease not run your ship aground.
So let's start by whispering something soft meant to ease.
You can use my sleeve to wipe your nose should you ever sneeze.
Wasn't that not good enough? A little gross for your taste?
Let try to redeem myself I promise I'll make haste.
She approaches draped in honey surrounded by an amber glow.
Knowing things I can assure, you may not want to know.
Like the sun was to Icarus it is her smile that melts my heart.
Without her works to inspire I wouldn't know where to start.
So it's her you have to blame if it's this line you do not like.
I gotta warn ya, if she likes, I'll put your head upon a spike.
Lips like fire smoldering under eyes an emerald green.
Yes I know I got it wrong Todd my eyes aren't so keen.
I'd like to say in closing a great many things.
To spout a song so beautiful like the first few days of spring.
But alas I'll fail you and end this ridiculousness.
By saying I adore you and I need to take a ****
So tis here I leave you but never for much too long.
I'll cross your mind again one day when you hear my favorite song.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC
The expectation,
Of you to accept the inhalation,
Of the evaporation,
Of someone else’s waste.
Make it make sense,
How the walls of stalls,
Fail to reach its maximum highs and lows,
For all of us to share what we release.
We listen to the air,
That flubs between *** cheeks,
Just as the **** projects deuces,
Into the bowl that cups the sound of wind.
We hear the moans and sighs,
Of relief, constipation and strain,
As we urinate nearby,
Adjacent to the incomplete **** shack.
Make it make sense,
How tasting the gases,
Of Joe Blow, blowing out his insides,
Is a customary to our community.
A sociological experiment,
Deemed to generate sociopathy,
As we laugh at the flatulence,
And giggle at one’s vulnerability.
Merely a forgotten fact,
That we have been there too,
We go there every day,
And pretend that others don’t do the same.
And without a mere act of courtesy,
The space is left filthier than the last,
Because why be considerate for the next?
Someone’s job is to cleanse my waste.
Furthermore is the neglect,
Of faucets, soap and towels,
Aimed to **** bacteria,
That exits biological passageways.
Why oh why,
Must I be forced to study,
Why this is simply unacceptable,
This concept of oversharing?
Recurring stage fright,
Readily apparent,
When forced to **** beside men,
More than double my size.
I’ll simply never understand,
How by design,
What we wouldn’t do in front of house guests,
Is something we are urged to do in front of strangers.
Bonding,
With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.
Nov 13, 2023
Nov 13, 2023 at 9:41 PM UTC
i've been watering dead plants for so long
i hardly remember what they look like
when they're alive,
and maybe this means i'm
losing my mind,
but the truth is,
we all want a miracle.
i think i've just been
counting too much
on mine.
i wanna believe
that my love & loyalty alone
can turn a withered pile of
prickly dirt into a strong
and stunning cactus,
once again.
i wanna believe
that if i count you every
time i count my blessings,
you'll bless me with your presence,
but it feels a bit like a child's
impossible dream.
i am a dreamer though,
even in a one bedroom apartment
with creaky doors and leaky faucets.
so, i'll continue to do these things
that don't make sense to you.
i'll wish you a happy birthday,
just cause i mean it.
& i'll visit your mom in the hospital,
so she knows she's never alone.
and i'll give money to your friends'
"gofundme" page,
because you know,
i want ryan to get well too.
and i'll pray for your safety,
even though i have no religion.
and i'll sit here,
on my bathroom floor
thinking about dead roses
while you lie with your
face in a pillow
that's forever stained
with the scent of my shampoo.
and i'll hope that you still love that smell
as much as you did when you still loved me.
and i'll hope that your heart isn't
prickly and pathetic.
i'll hope that it's
stunning and strong
like a cactus.
and if they call me crazy,
you can tell them they're right.
but i'd rather be the one who
waters a dead plant,
than be the one who misses
the magic only found
in fallen petals.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
I am a cloudwatcher. I am a listener of dripping faucets.
I used to be a dream catcher. Now my dreams are cautious.
Lame and mute and easily trapped.
A re-run of nothing lasts.
-But nothing.
That always hangs about.
Nothing.
I’ve found a generous amount.
Of nothing.
Thanks for always being there.
Nothing.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
Have you ever milked a goat?
well, I have not
But I've read about it in books
Before this bookish knowledge was bestowed upon me
I had mistaken goat udders for faucets
Imagine my surprise upon opening a book,
to see that the milk must be extracted by hand, by machine
but not once was the handy faucet turned
so I ventured to a goat farm
and there I was mistook
for the most crooked of humans
apparently I had that look
in my humble opinion
I was merely forsook
for the look of a nooked crook
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:09 PM UTC
poetry comes and goes
opens and flows
spills into streams of prose
amidst the musical rows of my thoughts.
forms and rhythms
which melt and morph and sing into being
the abstractions of synaptic connections,
write into existence
the chemical signals of neurotransmitter gossip,
and transfer to the Symbolic
the electrical impulses of the Real
scratch and peel the caulk
from the edges of The Faucet,
turn and wind the wheeled handles open,
open, open.
Past lefty loosey and into
the outpouring of pent up pressure;
raw, and juicy.
Poetry is *** death and magic.
The art of training the mind's faucets
elastic.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
White snow covers the brittle branches
Of the sage brush beside them
The birds song of the Nevadan January is gone-
Not even the brisk wind moves this scene
Her car pushes through the stillness
Then the clicking of her engine stops.
Silence speaks again
Through clouded windows she hears him shouting phrases unknown
Then his stumbled pacing sounds nearer and nearer
He stops at the sight of her
Still sitting in the drivers seat she looks forward aimlessly
With a tug at the door handle she follows him into the road
He's looking at her eyes turn into faucets
longing for her to say something to break the silence
She's staring at the emptiness surrounding him
They almost meet eachothers gaze,
He tries to pull her in, she refuses
Then as the silence floods between them
She rushes into him
The brittle branches are nourished
By the tears that violently crash down
Grasping on to him,
She wills to always be held by him
And then he pulls her off
She tries to speak, but feathers fill her throat
Their eyes meet and search rapidly for secrets
His pupils swallow her face
With the shadow of the sun behind her,
she sees herself within his gaze
He asks her "What do you see"
And she looks into the car window beside her and croaks " Me. I'm Pathetic"
His reflection scrunches his eyes and brings his hand up to his ear
He begins to disappear
The silence surrounds them once more
And she turns around and looks into his eyes one last time
And sees two tears racing to the ground
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC
wake up, feel terrible
for all the right reason
it is all too easy
this augmentation
this grandeur of emptiness
it is silent
a car traverses
another road
humans are out there
alive and breathing and asleep
still asleep
eyes open
the humans are just
as empty
in seventeen years
they will be as empty
in paris
or new york
or moscow
their eyes will still speak
as their mouths curl
and their children cry from
their cultured gardens
the unfixed faucets dripping
in their marble slate bathrooms
in the shower
they still wonder
what happened to their lives
their dreams
and how they'd changed
with every pivotal moment
they'd passed up
for comfort
or a new dream
conveniently forgetting the rest
they'll think back
to the faces of lovers
they lost to the road
or to chance
or to themselves
and cry
in the shower
if they haven't
forgotten how to
recollecting
how once
long ago
in a dream
they had learnt
dreams don't mean anything.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC