"flyswatter" poems
Some died in the Spring;
and some by the river, deep
in Winter beneath a bridge.
Some died alone by a tree
behind a repossessed house;
and some with their cats
at home, quiet as a mouse.
Some died reading bills
that come in the mail;
and some reading the part
number, reaching for a fan
belt hanging on a nail.
Some died with a flyswatter
in hand, toilet paper in a screen
door, dead flies on the floor;
and some like heat lightning,
fast as a sick baby’s breath.
Some died without a warm, caring
woman’s hand on a forehead;
and some sharing a last cigarette.
She, my old lover who loved danger,
died on the side of the road
in the arms of a stranger.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 5:59 PM UTC
greater than the sun and the moon
and the stars.. all combinationed as
amorphous telepathic diamond in
muttering schizo-cave... is the dirt
underneath a slippy fingernail. an
aching finger working overtime to
function the body as day-to-day
existence laughs itself back into
shape after universal disaster. when
it was younger, the finger began to
pick at silly things like dusty piles of
trash, heaps of dirt, and flyswatter dog
**** it later grew up to finger a girls wet
***** and tease her with the juice on two
-finger-three-finger in mouth as ********
shoved itself up and inside, natures tractor
beam - - - God's Great Throbbing Death Star(e)
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
the parents
have each
a flyswatter.
they are very worried
about their angel, about their boy
with flu-like symptoms.
in two locations
my son
is unknown
is achieving
a boredom
his disease
can’t reach.
my father is speechless
after
he is left. I write
about my mother
who is not pain
held
to the candle
of its possibility.
the timeline is rhetorical, is a deposit
of sleep
disguised as longing
in the heads
of single minded
repeat
abusers.
my son floats for the first time lame,
it is uplifting, a kind of sloganeering
to keep
hate
local.
I want to weigh it, what is used
by the typist
to see
loneliness
from above.
I want it to be the star
your sister needs
when her eyes
claim her hearing
and hear
for example
chicken scratches
medications
disown.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
Stingy bug of hate
Have you met my flyswatter?
Death can be sudden
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
I am a failure
I am the look your mother gives when rent can't be paid
I am the soul of an addict who has been clean, only to relapse
Tears flow up to my eyes and I can't help but wonder
Why am I always picked last?
I am the eraser of a pencil
So close to an object so good at creating
Be it dreams or mistakes
And I am the end piece
I cut away at mistake
I banish things people don't want to feel about themselves.
There I am
With a flyswatter and bug spray
Chasing away their depression like the little creature it is
Flies swarm around the dead bodies of my dreams
They feed on the tiny little pieces of hope I could ever recreate.
I am climbing up a hill of bodies
Each one in more pain than the last.
They grasp onto my clothing and look deep into my eyes.
My core shakes.
Yet I still clutch to the bodies my pencil, my sword, still in hand.
What is in the black orbs where their windows to souls should be?
I kick away their hands but can't block out the words being tossed to me.
So I open both hands to receive
Falling helplessly into a void
I see fields of failures
All human forms
Out of the darkness I am clutched by the hands of a tar demon
Carelessly I am thrown aside
Among the bodies of those still groaning out the bitter word
Failure.
In under a minute I am drowing
Head forced so violently underwater
I try and reach for the hands of other failures but
Even they cast a dark eye to me.
I reach now
For tiny streams of light in the dark deep ocean
Holding onto my last breath like a mother holds a child.
Right before my eyes roll back and my heart stops
I fall through the earth
Falling to the grassy dirt on my face
At once it is sprung upon me
The masses chanting the one word I feel burned onto the muscle of my heart
"Failure!"
They cry
Pointing a long accusing finger at me.
I am once again just a washed up freak of nature
I break my pencil in two and run into darkness.
Trying to mend the broken parts of myself with flimsy bandaids
Trying to stitch closed my deep emotional wounds with cheap thread.
In that darkness I see a shadowy figure
Something completely composed of depression.
I am handed a plastic mask
Beautiful, plain and generic
A perfect smile and happy eyes drawn on
And though I wear it to deceive the eyes of many
My chest still burns with the word
Failure.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 9:44 PM UTC