"gargoyles" poems
The napalan man in a violet cape
descended the stair with a lopsided gait
a wretched procession, subscribers in cue
rattling off as they stream from the pew
sounds and smells from a shadowy place
a catholic priest to gin up base
lanterns strung from bolted doors
cobbled streets and wooden floors
stepping stones and iron bell
fortified by the citadel
hallowed halls and sepulcher
dragon cane for the horse drawn tour
castle turret, archer holes
centaur scribed in chamber bowls
garden columns in courtyard view
the blood ballet and hullabaloo
ancient tombs on warrior grounds
gods and saints who made their rounds
goliath still with battered scythe
knelt in prayer and mummified
battle fires and crowds that roar
gallows, caves, abysmal war
gargoyles flock the terraced slope
pearly gates to bring on hope
serpents, snakes and burning ash
lava bombs and trident clash
mariners drift in absentee
as neptune rises from the Tyrrhenian Sea
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
and gargoyles
v v v
> an <
> angel <
### down ###
###### from ######
########/heaven sat on\########
#######/a gargoyle's wing\#######
#####/said she, "too bad youre\#####
###/hideous! such an ugly thing!###
###\the gargoyle said nothing/###
so the angel said, nonplussed
"too bad you have to
stay on earth and
cannot fly with us"
the gargoyle just sat
there. The angel left
alone. the gargoyle
shed not one tear
for he was made of
///////*stone\\\\\\\\\\\\\
////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
///////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
///////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
/////////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
V V
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
Hailstorms with big winds, trees writhing in breezes
Coyotes howling in moonlight, dogs when they sneezes
Alloys and carved toys, stone gargoyles with wings
These are a few of my favorite things.
Skunk smells carried gently on nocturnal breezes
Sly double entendres and tickley teases
Beautiful salmon colored sunsets that make my jaw drop
Smell of pine 'n cedar in my sauna and wood shop!
Dolphins and doggies and toddlers and mooses
Saunas and cold plunges and honking V-flying gooses
Small mutts and storytellers and Pixar cartoons
Crazy call of the Maine dark of night loons
These are some of my nurturing tunes!
Volcanoes with lava and magma all oozing
Cross country skiing just gliding and cruising
Receiving massages unwinding and unbruising
I love my collections of adhesives and strings
These are a few of my favorite things!
So when the wasps sting
When the bored people whine
Wen I'm feeling dispirited and sad
I just think of a few of my favorite things
And I don't feel…so…bad!
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
ALL I can give you is broken-face gargoyles.
It is too early to sing and dance at funerals,
Though I can whisper to you I am looking for an undertaker humming a lullaby and throwing his feet in a swift and mystic buck-and-wing, now you see it and now you don't.
Fish to swim a pool in your garden flashing a speckled silver,
A basket of wine-saps filling your room with flame-dark for your eyes and the tang of valley orchards for your nose,
Such a beautiful pail of fish, such a beautiful peck of apples, I cannot bring you now.
It is too early and I am not footloose yet.
I shall come in the night when I come with a hammer and saw.
I shall come near your window, where you look out when your eyes open in the morning,
And there I shall slam together bird-houses and bird-baths for wing-loose wrens and hummers to live in, birds with yellow wing tips to blur and buzz soft all summer,
So I shall make little fool homes with doors, always open doors for all and each to run away when they want to.
I shall come just like that even though now it is early and I am not yet footloose,
Even though I am still looking for an undertaker with a raw, wind-bitten face and a dance in his feet.
I make a date with you (put it down) for six o'clock in the evening a thousand years from now.
All I can give you now is broken-face gargoyles.
All I can give you now is a double gorilla head with two fish mouths and four eagle eyes hooked on a street wall, spouting water and looking two ways to the ends of the street for the new people, the young strangers, coming, coming, always coming.
It is early.
I shall yet be footloose.
5.6k
Gabriel whispered in mine ear
His archangelic poesie.
How can I write? I only hear
The sobbing murmur of the sea.
Raphael breathed and bade me pass
His rapt evangel to mankind;
I cannot even match, alas!
The ululation of the wind.
The gross grey gods like gargoyles spit
On every poet's
holy head;
No mustard-seed of truth or wit
In those curst furrows, quick or dead!
A tithe of what I know would cleanse
The leprosy of earth; and I -
My limits are like other men's.
I must live dumb, and dumb must die!
5.3k
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space...
(attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...
ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections.
A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and
whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed...
for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs.
Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled--
fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook.
...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed
absentia...holy and bovine.
Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore--
eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers
and sisters.
As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease
of interstice...off-world amorousness.
Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady...
live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling.
Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots
enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary
correspondence of authored and Author.
...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push.
Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth.
LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE
CORNERS OF PERPETUITY.
NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
The moth with newspaper wings sat under the arrow lungs of the eyeless
blood dripped falcon, more whole than the super-glued roman sculpture.
Next door a 50’s con held up church with a roulette table in the kitchen,
and boarded up the massage parlor
downstairs.
The eye of the man was a centrifuge of ducks, mallard and hen, spiraling
outward into evaporated roach-ground
asphalt.
Next door, slits in the picket fence displayed perfectly formed **** & broach,
empty shoes made of feet below, blending
fields.
The marble foundation formed from twine lollipops and fuzzy candy tabs,
ice-etched to the frequency of splintered seashell
angels.
Next door through the forest of knives a spaceship bearing gargoyles peaked
bodies through collages of faces in technicolor sepia
mitosis.
The heiress molted into tiled pieces, her own dog and sunhat caught in blizzard
cuneiform, kaliedescoping again to fractalled inchworms cemented in motion.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
red lights yet, seeing
signs in the green.
are you friend or fiend?
may we both come in peace?
crop circles get dusted off.
all curfews must dissolve.
if our virtue is up to par,
please let us be.
upheld laws
will get disregarded.
cops caught off guard
by gargoyles gawking
at dawn's sweet offspring,
this broad's in a stand still.
villains chill alleys
these foes just can't ****
as the girl cops an anvil
ready to drop her mans
onto a large canvas
full of hurt,
red paint and tequila
as her quills dry up does she
still see city lights as freedom?
curbside dances in the moonlight
earning keeps for a teen son.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 1:27 AM UTC
Broken Boy, Broken Boy, Please do not cry!
Your eyes is filled with terrified tears.
Can you see your father is nearby?
His eyes burns with the fury of Ares-
Causes your spirit to whimper in fear.
Like fragile porcelain dolls been shattered,
He brutally beats your bruised body-
Leaves your spirit broken and battered
Broken Boy, Broken Boy, Please do not cry!
Oh be a sweet darling good boy and listen!
Can you hear the sound of your father’s fist crunch?
Drowning in deluge of emotional distress,
Your eyes has lost its innocent glisten.
With each punch,
Your aura of gentleness gradually dies.
Your heart cold like gargoyles in fortress
Broken Boy, Broken Boy, Please do not cry!
The Broken Boy has now become a Man.
His haughty handsome face sneers with disdain.
His soul now barren as the desert of Afghan.
His subconscious mind haunted by past pain.
Lost in the wilderness of his own wrath,
His breath is drunk with the taste of violence,
Has he grown up to be a psychopath?
Broken Boy, Broken Boy, Please do not cry!
You have become a man of vendetta!
Following the footsteps of your father-
Belt your boy till his skin turns magenta-
His affection for you begins to languish.
This abuse is a never-ending cancer.
Like you, your son shall wear a mask of anger
To camouflage his heart’s suppressed anguish.
Broken Boy giving birth to another Broken Boy
Will the curse of Broken Boy ever end?
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 10:53 AM UTC
Unapologetically Human
I am **** on the mezzanine
facing the darkened wet road
illuminated with acrid yellow tube light
better reds and blues surround towering palm trees
wooden fingers of ancient giant hands buried below
growing leafy green nails stretching skyward
little things, orange ribbons, endless cricks and dollops
bobbles and winches
Spirits
Play among the windmills
climb to the top of trees and sing into the warm wind songs of *** and heartache
as the universe ruffles along
Dive head first into the opponents forehead
grind the sand into his flesh with ram like resolve until the skin is red,
determine to die
This life is worth proving,
the stars are worth gazing,
and this body is worth bathing in the Maui air with naked delight
The ocean calls to my heart
water is a true lover whispering, kissing
inescapably feminine
I submerge my soul in joyful waves
always the tides follow the moon
like my silly heart, eclipsing
both light both night both day
simultaneously cycling
fully the light shines and our eyes perceive shadow faces in the dark blanketed clouds
the mountain gargoyles stand as titans, forgotten creatures
shoulders and heads, waiting for the moon ball
the ocean moon, tranquil bays
the air is sweeter with you near, a distant thought
cast about the horizon, the sun melting easy golden into my dreamy eye,
bless my drunken lips
dripping doltish songs into the friendly night
Wrestling with bulls of men
we kept our shirts on this time, yet blood was drawn in the sand
we madly danced in the moonlight to clapping hands,
kicking feet and knees
the ceremonial struggle toasting the stars
bottles were shared, some puffed on cigars
Come surf with me in the morning
or anytime the sun shines
even under moonlight would I meet you and we could paddle
come fill your heart with life and lust and romantic passions idyllic as freshly fallen snow undisturbed by worldly concerns
be not abashed for this embrace is a natural wonder of the soul,
join me,
forget what words of yesterday the prophets of doom chant,
we make our own tomorrow
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
I was a chaparone at the All Hallow's Eve dance.
Listening to the band play Halloween faves,
and watching the eyeballs floating in the punch.
The background decor, seems made for Doomsday.
Grungy, haunted house theme, hellish ghouls,
Gargoyles gone mad, witch's brew, and bats all aflutter.
Here and there between the goth and the empath,
a psychopath roams, silently stalking his prey,
amongst the frightening selection of costumed kids.
The mental resilience to survive such horrors,
depends on your grasp of reality. Realizing the lights,
the music, the garish dress, meerly decor for this night's festivities.
And yet, underlying this ghoulish fun, a sense,
a sense of doom, and ********** by something
otherly, stalking its prey, seeking that single moment.
To bring to light in the dim, ghostly haze,
a wickedness yet unknown to those attending.
That ever vile teacher, bent on making those around her suffer.
We have all seen her, stride the halls purposely,
Giant mole on her chin, Ruler in Hand.
Striking fear in the strongest of souls.
That authoritarian of witches, Ms. Nasher the Head Basher!
Run for your LIVESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 4:53 PM UTC
scarecrows seek
fashion make over;
gargoyles crave
beauty care.
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 11:45 AM UTC
she wanted to find something that made her passion hang
like a human from a tree somewhere in the late thirties
a silent hand pressed against her sponge mind
making her leak her tongue all over the ill surface
years have passed like a seamless tomb
with eyes that scream please, hold me here for more than just two minutes
I am bored with the 1 hour love meetings and the detours
that lead me to the lions cage
the forbidden conversations and the numbed movements
stone tongues of gargoyles limping on the edge of
Gothic cathedrals in Prague
an animal somewhere in the wild dies slowly
a snake gives its venom to prey
and then you stood timid at the bottom of the mountain
as I struggled to make my way down
I thought of how my mother would be proud
to see me in a wedding dress, letting go of the only daughter she was able to drench out
of her body
surrender I thought never come in the form of bliss
till I realized I would hold out against all odds with no mercy
I'm not going anywhere
I stand right here in the corner
with my poetry spiraling down my thighs
in hopeless patterns
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC
My biggest fear has nothing to do
with monsters, the dark, death,
or any of those usual frights.
No, my most intense scare comes
from the anticipation that one day
you may see me the same way
I see myself.
For you see I'm not the girl that guys
conjure up in their daydreams.
I could never hope to pass as one
of those flitty girly-girls who know
of quizzical things such as
make-up
cute hairstyles
or fashion.
My blemishes show, and honestly
I haven't a clue how to hide them
anyway.
I look at braided hair, beachy waves,
and effortless updos with envy
My hair has two styles: up or down.
I've never in my life looked casually cute,
and am obviously uncomfortable
in a dress. Please just pass me
my jeans and t-shirt back,
I'm much more myself in them.
How does one even walk in heels?
I'd like to think I'm one of those
"cool" girls that guys claim
they love, the low-maintenance
type chick, but I don't think
I'm "cool" at all, really.
When guys describe those chicks,
they do things like
play video games
quote Star Wars
read comic books
like some ideal gorgeous geek.
Well that's **** sure not me either.
I **** at video games,
love Star Wars, but
I'm terrible with movie references,
and have never read comics.
Does manga count?
I'm kind of starting to get into that...
I'm not the nerd's epitome of perfection
either, the everyman's ideal.
So what am I? I'm just boring,
little ole me.
I love to read, and would rather
spend the night reading
or watching something than go out.
I'm shy and self-conscious to a fault,
so don't try bringing me around
friends, I'll just bring you down.
Honestly, I'm basically a child. I love
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Gargoyles
Tom & Jerry
Animaniacs
and cartoons in general.
I'm quiet and contemplative, often caught
writing in my notebook,
detailing my observations
about the world around me.
I have a ***** mind and a messed-up
sense of humor, giggling
of the worst times occasionally.
But all in all, I think of myself
as pretty boring. Laidback,
but with the most capricious of moods.
I'm both low and high maintenance.
I don't know why you think positively
of me, but I anticipate the day
you realize I'm really nothing
special at all.
The day you discover the truth
I already know all too well.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
Inside…
Preachers, teachers, sleepers
Ponies, cronies, phonies
Murders, murmurs, lurkers, tearjerkers
Sexes, hexes, Pseudo T-Rex’s
Splices, spices, identity crises
Chasms, spasms, *******
Tongues, songs sung, smoke-filled lungs, décor hung
Confessions, obsessions, strange blessings
Gargoyles, rich spoils, no mortal coil
Rose windows, ruddy elbows, emperor’s clothes-
A place of chaos and a place of hope
Outside…
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
It's a painful stretch to re-loving
Gargoyles in clusters clutch at my heart
Talons pierced and locked wings wrapped upon layers
Pulling each one away takes insufferable self violence
Just to clear a small space to let you through
Too many years of inequity
have placed needs burning in my heart
you struggle to relinquish your control,
Your gift of consideration is noted.
Your changes have exceeded my expectations
Though we are nowhere near even.
Still, I play it peachy,
Your tenderness, your keeness to please me
Is unnerving,
too little, too late
Your heart whispers squeal like whistles in the hunt
Unsettling the watchdog beasts
Growling and snarling
Clawing tighter at the leather pith of a stone heart
Your own needs are barking
Your expectations are going to be laid,
I'm letting blood Before your debt is even paid
It's going to be different this time...
Claws tighten, wings gripping tighter
Artehoke heart,
just another set up
I keep anticipating the fall.
I go on pretending in the hope It will become real
Your darkness permeates
your dark love kills
Still, there's something about you
I can't live without.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
Of story-telling gargoyles with guns
Shooting blanks under a sky with no sun
But sun flowers, there happy faces stare
Up, from the field.
I found salvation under a tree
But I swear this rain brings out the best in me
From here I lit my fire
Burnt the tree
I'm hanging from the branches of that
same tree
And now I lost it
The text reference from the fire breathing dragon
But I did catch this:
Skate across the black river press
To a headline that says, "Put to Rest"
Laying down in my bed
I can't help thinking
Maybe she is the one for me
And what, really, is ****** reality?
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 5:13 PM UTC
Guns on the battle lines have pounded now a year
between Brussels and Paris.
And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on
the great arches and naves and little whimsical
corners of the Churches of Northern France--Brr-rr!
I'm glad you're a dead man, William Morris, I'm glad
you're down in the damp and mouldy, only a memory
instead of a living man--I'm glad you're gone.
You never lied to us, William Morris, you loved the
shape of those stones piled and carved for you to
dream over and wonder because workmen got joy
of life into them,
Workmen in aprons singing while they hammered, and
praying, and putting their songs and prayers into
the walls and roofs, the bastions and cornerstones
and gargoyles--all their children and kisses of
women and wheat and roses growing.
I say, William Morris, I'm glad you're gone, I'm glad
you're a dead man.
Guns on the battle lines have pounded a year now between
Brussels and Paris.
1.9k
Sixty years ago, you could have loved me
- a sailor, - a trophy wife, - an 'okay, fiancé' in a sarcastic legacy
A turn of the century turns you around and turns you into a (skate! jam! live in a van!) type of person that I am vastly uninterested in but just tryin' to be sad about somethin'
- I am sad about your big feet, your cuffed trousers, all the places I didn't want to run into you at and not letting that stop me from carting my coffin to Kansas City art museums
(Your love poems to me must be dried in caked-on mud from tires pulling away)
Did you know you're an accident?
- The whole crowd laughs, someone get me a microphone!
(Someone! Get me anything your mouth has touched!)
- I'll bury a vial of your organic germs in my hometown backyard to find later, when you're dead as your dangling doorknobs and disguised by giggling gargoyles (you are welcome, by the way)
Ultimate hide 'n' seek warrants a worthless existence and a holy trinity of the same name(s)
(The dog is under the bed)
(You are locked out on the back porch)
(I am fetal position in a parked car)
- Can we put this on the Christmas card?
Happy Twentieth, Darling! I Love You Very, Very, Very, Very Much.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 5:02 PM UTC
a guy sits here
hair a twist
no ordinary man
but a case
whatever prefix fits
he knows no limitations
seeks no thrill but fear
holds no memory dear
brains grasp simply too frail
such a broken outside
and gargoyles pier
however
he tranquilizes them
anytime someone comes near
yet the people abstain still
no shame, no cheer
they simply cannot see what purity
he has in his crypt
intimidated
severe
so let us move forward and glaze over the thick
move towards the misery which anguishes him
nonsense is sensical, whimsy at best
rational is of logic and dreary
detest
********* and thumbing
he frantically does his best
pulls his hair out
pulls his hair out
closed fist
punches chest
"where is she
where is her
name i cannot confess
for it escapes me...
not because
but rather-"
due to his distress
he stopped and sighed
violence
cried
broke down
then bled
red from his eyes
i want her
the sad one
shy
hurt inside
abused, accursed
diseased but undisguised
she'll love me
she will
there's nothing there to hide
she'll make me forget myself
sing or dance or
romanticize
"i want her...
a baby's friend
the neighbor's newborn daughter
the baby friend that came over
as an infant, i saw her
i kept the same heart
but its been through a lot
and now its done with slaughter
i kept the same heart
its growing apart
i need the neighbor's daughter"
it seems as though convinced
he truly had the heart of a newborn
ambivalent
knowing no complexity
purely hurt or comfort
either way's a shoulder
diamond or dirt
seemed to be bipolar
so he seeks the same
not the opposite
that would be a shame
because no one else can relate
to someone who feels the world
has turned its back on fate
he seeks out this girl
overlooking
all the beasts in his way
with evil colors they mask their face
appear to appeal, they may
but he knows better
their defenses fragile
they attract a plethora
to which they expose
like a sinister rose
the black rock in frame
the black rock so hard
shapely carved
to which its "blacksmith"
inscribes no name
a black heart
he sighs
which holds no light
might as well not exist
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 3:39 AM UTC
the galleries of independent machines
are put onto display in the gilded halls of long corridors
bleached away by
anti-
bacterial soap.
and we say that we are the universe.
and we are the ones that tell you what to do.
preachers of mephistopheles,
creatures of indetermination.
and indeterminate
origin,
the goat-footed gargoyles treat us as play-things.
and the winged seraphs as day-things.
but we know that we are night-things.
and night-things fly away.
she wrote her number in red-lipstick, hit the high-notes like a whisper,
and whispered.
she got under my skin
and she crawled around while she was in.
she bat her lashes
and bit her lip,
she tasted her painted
fingernails
as if licking her claws clean
and threatened -
to swallow me whole.
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
Pleasing primordial instincts: to blame
Odious constructed mores, or simply
Raptures dwelling within?
Numbing sensations cry out to
Omnipresent nicotine screens;
Gargoyles perch on the ridges
Retching earthly filth and heavenly blessings
Across my fragile conscience.
Paradox in the words I speak,
Harboring images I dare not peek; perpetually ashamed by
Yearnings to please the body and punish the mind.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 11:54 PM UTC
I'm so happy,
I could dance on the moon
To an a cappella symphony.
The shine in my face
Could give starlight
To a galaxy in billions of years,
And that will be my memory.
I'm so happy,
Mona Lisa will grin in return.
Gargoyles in Gothic cathedrals
Will cease their snarling stares.
I'm so happy,
And you are in the background.
I can dance to a cappella,
But not to the white noise
You emit.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
1.
I heard the sound of your crying
from a bird.
Animals have souls, too.
Like the moat round Mont St. Michel
The size of the soul
Shrouded by
Accidents of life.
2.
Cobwebs and wax round the candles.
The woods are alive
Pariahs have eyes thrown at them.
Why **** the floor so?
Don't sit with your back to the doorway
Monkey's monocled eyes stare back,
glass orbs, while
Empty chair a-rockin' - a-rockin' - a-rockin' - a
Puppets dance
No solace in the shades
Don't follow the shadows
Which lurk and lead...
Marionettes and tin soldiers
On pedestals long forgot
A dead child's toy chest
A lion in a tallish glass cage.
Little drummer boy, rusted
Plays agitated drum
To match heart beat of......fear
Of drying sweat ....on upper lip.
Dusty frames on the wall
Interfere with flow
Handprint on window frame
Dog barks warning.
Spectre's trudge in mud
Closer...closer...from grave waters
Scream in windowpane: a figure holds
A face of anguish, trapped eternal.
Letters on the wall
Writ in heavy blood
Silhouette of an axe
Windy.....Branch tap on window frame.
Brass door handle turning
Staircase winding up to forever
Gargoyles leer
Leaves on the dry floor....wet footsteps.....
3.
Who knows who dwelt in this place?
Who's hanging from the ceiling?
Whose body....felt that pain?
4.
Then, into head flits one 'I love you'
Of gentle memory
On the lap of the mind
Of a lover
Of a friend.
Grey skies, musky odour.
5.
Then...
Wielding weapon to defend
Against....
The....
Self.
6.
Stop SCREAMINGGGGGGGG!
Star Toucher, 28 March 2013
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
I've stored myself away in a proverbial zip lock
Stained with nicotine, filtering what little sunlight may shine through
Sequestering any resonating laughter my soul may have once contained
In Tupperware from the late eighties
Filling the cracks in my belief system with nail polish
Trying to heat the icy corridors of my being with a cigarette lighter
And a curling iron
Any beauty I may have once possessed I gave to the gargoyles
Who flew it far out of my current zip locked reach
Holding vibrations of strings from a thousand miles away in holy regard
Salting my unadorned misery for better preservation
So that I may taste it once again
On the tip of my sailors tongue when the thought of a smile crosses me
My greatest current pleasure resides in tiny, fake, resin beings With wings
That will never flap
And I am obsessed with what may, Or may not happen in the tiny fake place
In which they dwell
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 8:24 AM UTC