"fidgets" poems
You call me
She, Her, Daughter, Girl
Shhhhh...
You speak with a blind mouth,
Look at me, see me
She isn't me,
Only a fantasy that you clutch till your knuckles grow pale.
I am not broken, I am free
But you hide behind a veil
Afraid to finally let go of...
Long hair, Lipstick, Lace dress
You question each time I show you my truth,
"Are you trying to hide your femininity?"
No, my femininity is simply not my definition.
Spend a day in my skin, in my cage,
And don't cry when the words start to pierce you like daggers,
Shhhh... Stay silent, don't worry, it's just a phase.
Now do you see that "She" just doesn't make sense?
You speak to me but your voice seems distant,
Bouncing off of me and echoing
Like I am the hollow statue of the girl you used to see.
"I am right in front of you, you know"
But my words are only heard when they come from her lips.
Do you see me now?
Mother, Children, Wife, Woman
A silent prayer each night for all the things I am not,
Stomach swollen, hair to my waist
The glow of an expecting mother on my face.
Curves, not edges,
Pink, not blue.
Delicate hands grasping the man who stands in my place.
Do you see me now?
Pants swollen, hair to my brow,
Along my jaw,
Down my legs,
Sprouting from my toes.
Do you see me now?
Bulged, Buzzed, Boy
Blood on my sheets, not between my legs
Stained by the girl who lies in her place
Fresh coat of gel and cologne,
Swirls of shaving cream.
Bare chest, Burning skin
Twitch of an Adam's apple when breath comes short,
Nervous fidgets with a tie,
tick tock,
"Pick me up at eight"
"Treat her right" "I will sir"
"Will you be my..."
"You're going to be a father!"
"You are the best daughter we could have asked for"
...."Son" I whispered.
But you didn't hear,
Please tell me
Do you see me now?
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
Widgets and gadgets
gizmos and apps.
Whatever happened
to cause the collapse
of my simple world?
What happened to the
simple pleasures?
The joy of simply living;
the joy of simply loving?
All consigned to the limbo
of a thousand electronic
gizmos.
I used to love a lass.
I gave her all I had
in time and space
and multiple delights.
But it is not enough
to satisfy her nights.
Without apps
she snaps.
That *****
needs her gizmo.
Without widgets
she fidgets.
She must have
her gadgets.
I’d like to bury hatchets
in her gadgets.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 7:02 AM UTC
For lust is a tightrope,
soldering fickle hearts, sewing passion.
Fade at its end,
or tumble into love.
Some hope woos smother,
contemplates the fall
To stir a velvet landing,
and dances slow.
She in her unbidden trance,
her golden hair littered,
sits in prayer, fidgets;
snuffed from the fall.
Forlorn, for an indulgent sliver.
Now lies a cold lover,
in her morphine bedlam.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
I play with these words out of boredom and habit.
There's so many of them! From "Aardvark" to "Zoo".
And then you add in all the odd punctuation
Like semi-and-hyphen; And Oh! Exclamation!
(and poor little Comma: He hops like a rabbit...
He's never quite sure if a Colon would do.)
I play with these words like a cat with a twitching
Small mouse in his grasp all squealing and itching
(the cat... not the mouse... for the mouse is a wreck...
With pussy's teeth grasping the small of its neck.)
The cat is quite happy! It just takes its time...
While Comma allows the Ellipsis the rhyme...
I play with these words and the dots and the dashes;
Parenthesis [brackets] and to/or/from slashes-
With all of the keys 'neath my ten little digits
"Somewhat like the cat with the mouse as he fidgets".
I've learned to write well from my Pa and my Momma:
Yet still I feel bad for that poor little Comma.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 6:13 PM UTC
I am one of three –
Shadow, skin, and light.
A triplet split from the same egg and *****
**
Make it 3 and you’ll have me
Explicit.
It’s so ****
Being cleaved into thirds.
A ********* with myself –
The shadow is morose.
A needy, demanding *****
Begging to be cut up.
I want to,
So I can see the blood wring around my –
Her
Wrists like shackles pinning her
To my bed.
I know it’ll shut her up
But I can’t bring myself to do it.
I’m not that *****
The skin is boring.
A virginal flower
Dreaming of understanding.
She’s too wholesome,
Always waiting for the right
Version of herself to come along.
Saving myself –
Herself
For the right time.
My tastes aren’t quite so
Vanilla.
The light is adventurous.
A psychotic, brilliant ****
******* herself into the ground.
Necrophilia just got a whole lot hotter,
Bodies piling up thanks to her STDs –
Stupid, thoughtless decisions.
Protection? Ha!
That’s for normal people.
There’s no need for me –
Her
To slow down;
We like it fast.
The skin doesn’t participate.
The ***** virtuous ******
Fidgets as the others 69 –
A disgusting yin yang
Of low and high.
The shadow drinking downers
Until she can’t remember
All the bruises covering her heart,
Too distracted by the bile
Smeared across her lips.
The light popping enough uppers
To strip herself of her
Consciousness,
Naked and raw
She often wakes bitter
Of her restored senses.
This ********* takes place
In a womb,
An amniotic ocean
Swaying toward the shores
Of existence.
Two will drown –
Vanishing triplet syndrome.
Only one may be pulled from
Mental waters and placed on the sands of reality.
The labor takes 33 hours -
Finally I emerge.
Who survived?
There is no way to tell.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
I know a girl that piles on the necklaces
“Makes me look pretty,” she says
She’s all nervous, high-pitched laughter that jangles
as she fidgets with her armored collarbones
Rose red rashes bloom around ivory flesh,
She scratches at her skin inflamed
Ring ring ring around her pretty little neck
With those posey necklaces and gemstones
She smiles fondly at each reflection
of chains and rocks entangled
Wrung wrung wrung of beauty is she
Bitten so fiercely to her ivory bones
Her laughter hacks into little cough spurts,
and the metal winks dully as it strangles
Ring ring ring around her rosy little neck--
she piles on more necklaces.
Jan 16, 2018
Jan 16, 2018 at 1:31 AM UTC
A puppeteer, you may call it,
the master of manipulation.
All his fingers hold the knots,
to the cracks in your foundation.
Hidden by your tall, lean shadow,
he lurks behind your back;
forward, with every move you make,
warlock takes his attack.
Each digit fidgets suddenly,
and your body seems to twitch;
the hands of time stop ticking now,
trapped in by the witch.
The only sound that you can hear,
is the crying of the dead;
a mournful, sad melody,
that plays often in your head.
You think, "maybe, i'll get a break",
he's tricked you into believing,
the more you do for him,
the less that you'll be breathing.
He takes you in and ***** you up,
and you would never know,
the strings in which he has you tied,
lets him be in control.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
Sit down,
the nun says,
bringing Magdalene
into her office,
pointing to a chair
opposite her desk.
The nun eyes her
seriously, her face
framed in a black
and white headpiece,
her hands on the table
in front of her
palms down.
Magdalene sits
and stares at her shoes.
Do you know why
you are here?
the nun says.
You asked me
to come in here,
Magdalene replies,
lifting her eyes
to the nun's face.
The reason why
I asked you
to come here?
the nun says firmly.
Magdalene shakes her head,
fidgets in the chair.
The nun sits back
in her chair
and stares coldly.
Silence fills the room
and Magdalene moves
back in her chair,
crossing her legs
at the ankles.
There have been reports
of you and Mary Moran
being seen entering
a toilet cubicle together,
is that true?
the nun says,
head to one side
as if her neck had snapped.
Magdalene shakes her head,
no, who'd say such a thing?
What wormy ****
would say that?
Magdalene says.
The nun eyes her colder.
Sister Bridget saw you,
the nun says.
With or without
her glasses,
Magdalene says,
she's a bit short-sighted,
she often mistakes me
for the Murphy boy.
The nun stares
and shakes her head
and says,
you should show
respect to the nuns,
and not try to score
points off of other's
disabilities.
Magdalene looks
at the nun's hands
on the desktop,
tapping away
on the old wood.
I was not with Mary Moran;
I was on my own,
and why would Sister Bridget
be spying on me
going to the bog?
Magdalene says.
The nun slams her hand
down on the desktop,
and says,
DO NOT BE SO RUDE
AND TELL THE TRUTH.
Magdalene stares
at the slammed down hand;
once it had slapped her thighs
as a young girl in R.E,
for not raising her hand
to leave the room
for a *** now
she just stares at the nun
and says,
that's the truth
after all said and done,
cross my heart
and hope to die.
The nun rambles on,
but Magdalene
no longer listens,
recalls the kiss
on Mary's lips,
and the spark
in the nun's eyes
that glistens.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 2:50 AM UTC
She sits, emotionally bland,
Speaking mechanically;
Her right jaw, slightly misaligned,
From calcifications of former fractures;
And he is left-handed.
Lime-green circles about her
Distant, blue eyes indicate
That she has pleased him
This past week.
She believes that she
Is Improving, is better;
As the distance between
The necessary corrections
Is elongating, and she doesn’t
Nap as often.
He seems to love her more;
And frequently resorts
To audible amendments,
Or is too fatigued, himself,
To properly intervene
In her enlightenment.
She inhales, fidgets, re-adjusts,
To breathe without pain;
Calmly expressing accolades for
The strength, perseverance,
Of her son who doesn’t fail;
But weeps, in anonymity,
For her daughter who must
Have inherited her propensity
Toward weakness, malfunction.
Perhaps, over time,
He will see fit to guide
Their daughter with
Identical acts of love;
And she will be well.
She stares out the window,
Toward the windswept willow;
Catatonic, citing that
Past years, learning years,
Were resonating like the
Dry-fire echo of the
Empty Chamber in a game
Of Russian-Roulette.
The sound, repeated and
Sustained in dull memory;
The clicks that fed
The ugly tomorrows;
But her eyes sparkle as
She admits to a yearning,
For the strike of the pin
To fresh primer;
And she may only regret
That she will not hear
The Sound
Heralding her freedom.
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 5:27 AM UTC
Don't ever tell me that
I need a man to ground me,
To stable me, to protect me,
To reign me in;
A man to be the bit in my mouth,
The collar at my throat,
The bars of a cage
Like I'm some wild animal.
If I did need a man,
I don't need to feel
The weight of his control
Crushing down on my ribs,
The incessant ticking of his
Calculator mind
Playing overhead like muzak.
For the love of all good,
Do not suffer me
The cautionary tales told from a lover's lips.
They slither down my throat
With their false slimy sweetness,
"I tell you this for your own good,
Baby, I promise, I love you."
But their faces twist with the words
And their hands clench,
And you know they're really just
Waiting for you to shut the hell up,
You're making a scene.
You can't pair a poet
With a grounded man,
The same way you can't pair
A lily with a flytrap,
A rhinoceros with a lapdog.
I was not meant for the life
Of a housekeeper,
Bound hands and feet
To the homestead,
My sole purpose in life
To cook and clean,
To serve and produce
Squealing piglets succeeding
In his pigheaded line.
I need more than that, so
Don't try to force feed me my "man,"
Mr. Sensibility, Mr. Every Woman's Dream,
Mr. Right,
I don't want him.
Give me a man who writes,
Ballads and sonnets and epics
With words handcrafted
By decadent Grecian gods,
Who spends his nights bent
Over an antiquated typewriter,
Rushing to get the mid-dream thought
Down on paper.
A man who paints his soul,
Turns a blank canvas
Into an emotion,
Raw and real and ravaging,
Who will wait patiently
While his model fidgets
Just so he can get
The slope of her neck just right.
A man who plays music
Sweet and soft and slow
Serenading me to sleep
When the night is cold,
Who hears songs in
The rustle of rabbit's feet
And the whisper of slumbering breath.
I don't want a man to hold me down,
To show me how to act.
I want a man to create with,
To fight with and play with,
A man who loves with encouragement,
And not reprimand.
I am not a mistake to be corrected,
And I don't need a man
That will convince me otherwise.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
Walking back barefoot
through summer's empty barracks
on the outer, upper edge
of my homework home.
Feeling the freedom of my feet
beneath a damp and gentle breeze,
the moon reveals the room
through which I let them roam.
With solitary silence,
I can pause and light a fire,
watch the ember enter in,
setting thoughts ablaze.
Holding a holy ounce of hope
below this tightly guarded soul
that there appears a stair
between our summer days.
The dancing dewdrops
sparkle and coat my feet anew,
and splash my every other over
with the starry skies.
Taper the tales where I'm detained,
creating paths to doors and gates,
to find a place to shine
like glitter in your eyes
a million little mirrors that flash and blink
and capture my imagination
as it floats on the clouds of a single flutter
and flies away through the river breeze
bringing all at once a peace and a fervor
and a reason to believe in the feeling
for this beacon before me
we frolic through flocks of freaks
to find a vacant space between them
and create our own vibrations
between the mad machine music
alive with beats and fidgets and dripping sound
bravely bouncing to blips and whirrs
to find our bliss within the instant
you stand there bopping smiling glowing
shining brimming sparkling flowing
rattle my heart like the limb of a tree
the girl on the rope swing attached underneath
and as witness to your swaying grace
it just can't help but palpitate
one by one i count the miracles
you
here
beautiful
and beside me
i am with you
my pocket's treasures are intact
and you're enjoying them
the music is masterful
the weather is wonderful
and there's a smile pasted on your face
and everything comes easily
and nobody's ruining our fun
and there is nothing that stands between me
and my hope
that someday
you will see as i see
our paths intertwining
like strands of dna
encoded through our souls
a beautiful future
worth risking a thousand lives
just to brush my fingertips against
worth the worst hurt in the world
just to try and climb for the summit
and even if i collapse en route
and even if you shoot me down
and even if a landslide unites me with the ground
i will rest in peace
because this time
i *******
tried.
I'm not in love.
But I am in love
with the idea
of being
in love.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC
dear friend,
I sit criss-crossed on my bed, trying to
think of a way to start this poem my
mouth fidgets like some nervous kid's
fingertips right before a test. Or like a
coke addict inside an elevator. I don't
know how to say it. But
I hope we're friends long enough I'm
the first person you call when you get
a boyfriend. When you're waiting for
the bus, or as you're walking down the
construction jammed block, I hope you
want to tell me first.
I hope we're friends long enough I can
watch you evolve. Cutting your clean cut
corners and bending every straight edge
in your book because you love him, I hope
I see you lose your mind and find it in him.
Irrational or emotional, up or down I hope
I'll be there. In the corner of your peach
room, scared as hell.
I hope we're friends long enough I can
watch your music change. Your hair, the
way you do your make up.
I hope we're friends long enough to see
more presidents be elected,
I hope we're friends long enough we share
more Christmases, more birthdays, more
first days of school. Like a timeline of
pictures hanging from a clothespin, I hope
our memories extend around the equator.
I hope we're friends long enough I'm there
when you're dog dies, or when there's
another hurricane or tornado. Play card
games through the phone remind ourselves
all we have is trust.
and if not,
if time, or distance, or other people or even
just ourselves get in the way. Stretches us
out like an orange rubber band rusting to
snap. If we can't survive the grip of fate.
I hope through all your boyfriends, all the
hair cuts, all the make up experiments, all
the hard times and especially the best
times, if I couldn't be there
I just hope someone is.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 3:42 AM UTC
Jennifer didn't get enough sleep last night. She was up until 3 AM writing a book report. She just finished her fourth cup of coffee with cream and extra sugar. She's starting to get the shakes.
Bobby fidgets nervously in an unnaturally comfortable seat in the waiting room of Dr. Stein's office. He got drunk last weekend and decided it would be a good idea to have *** with a girl who's known among as friends as "The Town Bus." She's a rather large girl whom almost everyone Bobby knows has had a go with. Bobby does his best to resist the urge to relieve the itch centered around his nether regions that introduced itself two days ago. He resists the urge successfully and continues to squirm in his seat. He's starting to get the shakes.
Ian looks down at the empty black garbage bag on the floor in front of him. He turns his head to his right and peers into his shadow-ridden closet. He thinks about the girl he met at the park last night. Her name was Mallory and she had such beautiful brown hair and blue eyes. Ian picks up the empty garbage bag and pushes back rows and rows of other bags, hanging neatly and silently in his closet. They're all filled, so Ian has to muster all of his strength to push them to the end of the rack pole. He mounts the empty garbage bag onto a hanger and hangs it next to the rest. Mallory, sweet Mallory wafts into his thoughts again. Ian runs his hand down the smooth black plastic, hanging solemnly, and empty, before him. It tells him it's disappointed. It tells him it's hungry. Ian hasn't killed anyone in three weeks. He purses his lips and looks down at his hands. He's starting to get the shakes.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
I read you quickly
Like little wavelets,
Fidgets, and rebounds
I should have read you slowly;
Patient and poignant
As the shoreline doth prolong
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
And t'is is truthfully why I am here, my love:
I belong to thee, sacredly, entirely, and soulfully
to thee-yes, only to thee!
My eyes brighten at every sight of thee,
my mind delights at the thoughts of thee,
my pulse fastens at the views of thee,
my blood curdles at the scent of thee,
my veins rustle at the gaze of thee-and hark!
Hark now, dearest-how my heart leaps,
sheepishly yet excitedly-when'ver I recall thee!
Ah, and how t'is feeling trembles and fidgets
as always, as thou stareth back-gladly and
with a smile so handsome yet animated and playful-
sweeping straightly back into my soul.
Like t'ose stupefying, sentient glazes of summers-
blowing silently with the rustic gallantry
of t'eir ruddy oaks, my heart is elevated
with defiant, but affectionate branches
of terrific, terrific love for thee!
Oh! And t'ese thou but needst to know-
t'at both my virtuous-and vicious lusts-crave only thee,
as well as how my pure joys rely on thee!
As despairingly as how
my soul was born for thee,
my life was crafted for thee,
my hands were paired with thee,
and thus so graciously are my young feet-
my toes, my ribs, my lungs, and the very limbs
in which my spines might dwell, and be celebrated
by thy gentle, manly breath.
Oh, how thou, my Western prince-so delicate
and blessed with all the might
of my very being-thou hath, my love, since the very first
been my gem, my bronze, my silver, my gold,
my charm, my pearl, my diamond, my light,
my fire, my treasure, and my lifelong dreams-as thou
shalt always be!
And so art thou the perfect accord
to comply with all such of my mine;
as thou art but the freshest bloom
of my ****** years,
as innocent as t'is nature's peaceful labyrinths-
but youthful and starry like the fruit of my most curious-
yet ardently succulent imagination.
And how I am so devoted to thee, my love!
Just like the stars are to the moon above.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
The pair of sad eyes
I remember so well
as she leaves the room
leaving behind her hopes
A real life mannequin
dressed to ****
in expensive outfits
bought for... what a darling..
day in and out
struts up and down
in five star hotels
drowning in her hard earn dollars
that only last for a day or two...
I remember her hands shaking
as she holds a glass of whiskey
taking quick puffs at her cigarette
you can tell... she isn't a beginner
so what with that pair of sad eyes?
but her body violently trembles
she fidgets, panting nervously
another greedy hands wraps her waist
a knowing nod, mutual agreement
another ride .... another night...
she walks with him....
leaving behind her dreams...
her eyes are sad .... you can tell
another journey awaits her
on this wild hungry night
no one bothers of her pair of sad blue eyes eyes...
only the heat of her naked flesh....
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
The day breaks and the morning comes alive
The down and outs leave their luxurious trappings
The shop doorways are hosed down
The rush hour rushes by
Shop girls display tomorrow's must haves
Perfume lingers over the first hit of coffee
Gossip travels at high speed
Numb minding work begins
Old lady fidgets with new generation card
The war was easier she sighs
Kids try to sell you tomorrows version of yesterday's wheel
No catch up it seems in the technological world
Only the race to the bottom
Traders popping uppers invent the ten day week
Live for today, dollar tomorrow
Gold and sharp suits can’t hide the body crumbling
Clinics battery charge the fading hopefuls
New lease of life, the temporary meltdown
One born every minute
Evening drinks ***** the day from hell
Home time sets tomorrow's doom alarm
The night people emerge
Shop doorway heaters blowing, provide luxury
Last weeks paper catches his eye
He immediately goes to stocks and shares
Things are looking great
Just as he predicted
The twenty four year old drifts off to sleep, smiling thoughts of yesteryear
Those were the days
Those were the days.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
The Lady with long jagged digits
that bend so strangely when she fidgets
beacons me to come and play
a game of self involved rage
The man with the gentle hand
who can not seem to understand
why I cry for smiling faces
and laugh with those obsessed mind races
Stress induced land of OZ
no reds shoes to click me home
so on I spin without a cause
Twisting,twirling, fighting alone
They yell for more of my soul
I shall not repent
For the time they feel so ill spent
I dance alone within the rain
while the rest think I am Insane
I throw my head back
and give out a howl
To hell with the vultures
That wait for my fall
To hell with their sanity
the spirit it robs
To hell with their visions
To hell with them all
May 23, 2011
May 23, 2011 at 3:51 PM UTC
We sit under the raspberry tree
On the deck behind coffee-purist haven.
The sky is grey and the coffee is black
And the raspberries bouncing off our heads
Alternate between new green and blush pink.
Blush like the cheeks of two people who held hands once in middle school
And meet again as 'adults' with cars and college credits.
The chubby boy from music class went punk in a hurry and smokes.
The loudmouth girl with a bowl cut read far too many books and fidgets.
Our paths diverged through no fault of our own --
Only to touch back briefly when the snow melted each year.
Yet there we sit in the raspberries and in the promise of yet more rain,
And fill the gaps in our lives with stories
Of times between summers --
Heartbreak, hobbies, tattoos, awkward kisses --
And there's one of those too, at the end.
A long-time coming, heart-stopped second between strangers and best friends.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
Scaly ******* shudder with a gutter-gray cleaving.
She misses the calming touch of her breezy paramour,
and their nostalgic days vent in pitched-white whispers.
If I could breathe back those mists, I might lessen her sorrow ...
Too-rigid muscles slide into aqua spasms.
She fidgets at the lack of fuss her fragments show,
and the brittle hours snap at the metallic-blue cracks.
If I could massage those bursts, I might slacken her worry ...
A caustic blood simmers up vermilion bubbles.
She whiles ways for the weakly spotted to crumble,
and languishing minutes dissolve with yolk-yellow pops.
If I could stomach those boils, I might keep her from breaking.
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 2:10 PM UTC
and thats the thing,
i still love him.
i really do.
i love the way his cologne smells.
the way he fidgets when he gets nervous.
the way his eyes are so, so beautiful.
but, i do not feel the need to
go past your door anymore to catch your
attention.
all i need to do is sit at my lunch table or
hangout with another teacher for you to
magically come in, flustered and handsome,
for you to make a conversation with me.
and thats it, huh?
all i ever needed to do was to
tell you i was happy for you
for you to realize that you need
me in your life as well, just as
much as i need you
in mine.
i can see it in your glances
at church and in the
way you smile at me
when you pass me by or
in the way your voice gets
lower when you
speak to me.
do not hide your love for me,
its highly illogical and all it
does is wear the both of
us out.
sweet dreams darling.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
I wash my hands till your smell no longer clings to me
And I keep my head held high to redeem everything you took from me
And I hum MY anthem
Of sweet revenge
To avenge what I couldn't see
My thumbs twiddle and body fidgets
As a glare at my newly twisted image
My bones stick out, and my mouth remembers no taste
You did this to me, you made me this way
It's not that my heart has died, it's just learned not to cry
And it's not that I don't miss you
It's that you never cared, and you'd never dare to
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
Lying there
lights off; her body
dark and abstract
no words no touch
cold cold cold
Lying there
I feel his eyes;
His fidgets and twitches
warmth unwanted
embrace me night embrace me
Goodnight everyone.
Goodnight.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
Freight rumbles by
While sweat drips down
And the crackle of a speaker
Still sounds;
Echoing through the tunnel.
A body turns, fidgets, moves
And itches with the heat.
The feet they tap
And dance with boredom
Wishing *** had a seat.
A woman leaning upon a beam
Aggravated by beads from pores
Moves to take a walk, it seems,
But soon she leans some more.
Too hot to move, til a breeze is felt
Coming down the rails
A beam of light, first one than two
And not freight, but silver and blue.
The cool air flows like whiskey at a funeral
Sour, but necessary, to make it through the ride;
And you sleep through stops instead of wondering who the hell had died.
Thumbnail clippings float down the car from conversations had:
Comfy chairs, squatter’s nation, opiates, and ***** mags.
Subtle "sorry"s linger in stale air from bumps that people make
While ******* suits, stiff as cadavers, snoot and snivel of mindless drivel
And look around in shame.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC