"hearses" poems
1
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation;
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride;
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his grain;
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.
2
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets:
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in those beds;
No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—Would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.
3
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley—stop for no expostulation;
Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer;
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.
4.8k
Random mortar shells in the afternoon.
Sparkling, steel jacketed rain drops,
Glinting rainbows of reflected sunlight.
Plastic explosive seat cushions upon which passers-by,
Rest their weary bones.
C-4 candy bars, nuclear toothpaste,
****** for dessert.
Orphanage flambe', hospital hash, blood pudding.
Human burgers sizzling on a smart bomb bar-b-que grill.
Finger food, toe jam, baby-back ribs.
Bureaucratic double talkers,
Sugar coated body counts,
Colateral stew.
Really deplorable, awfully sorry,
But it was their own faults trying to put on raincoats.
They declined our invitation to the cook-out.
Bad luck to open an umbrella in the house.
Remotely piloted funeral processions.
Radar guided hearses.
Televised in real time.
Precision, surgical,
neutralized, deterrent, disarmed,
Deactivated, stand down, eliminate.
Living pawns on a battlefield checkerboard.
Strategic, defensive,
Dominate, annihilate,
Acceptable loss, public opinion pole.
Listen to the tinkling of sabre blades,
Rattling windchimes,
In the warm breeze of the shockwave,
Accompanied by the drumbeat of detonation and concussion.
Rock...
...and heads will roll.
Holy, blessed,
Patriotic, brave,
Courageous, dedicated,
Heroic, dutiful,
Self sacrificing...
******
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
FIVE geese deploy mysteriously.
Onward proudly with flagstaffs,
Hearses with silver bugles,
Bushels of plum-blossoms dropping
For ten mystic web-feet-
Each his own drum-major,
Each charged with the honor
Of the ancient goose nation,
Each with a nose-length surpassing
The nose-lengths of rival nations.
Somberly, slowly, unimpeachably,
Five geese deploy mysteriously.
1.6k
I had a dream--a strange, wild dream--
Said a dear voice at early light;
And even yet its shadows seem
To linger in my waking sight.
Earth, green with spring, and fresh with dew,
And bright with morn, before me stood;
And airs just wakened softly blew
On the young blossoms of the wood.
Birds sang within the sprouting shade,
Bees hummed amid the whispering grass,
And children prattled as they played
Beside the rivulet's dimpling glass
Fast climbed the sun: the flowers were flown,
There played no children in the glen;
For some were gone, and some were grown
To blooming dames and bearded men.
'Twas noon, 'twas summer: I beheld
Woods darkening in the flush of day,
And that bright rivulet spread and swelled,
A mighty stream, with creek and bay.
And here was love, and there was strife,
And mirthful shouts, and wrathful cries,
And strong men, struggling as for life,
With knotted limbs and angry eyes.
Now stooped the sun--the shades grew thin;
The rustling paths were piled with leaves;
And sunburnt groups were gathering in,
From the shorn field, its fruits and sheaves.
The river heaved with sullen sounds;
The chilly wind was sad with moans;
Black hearses passed, and burial-grounds
Grew thick with monumental stones.
Still waned the day; the wind that chased
The jagged clouds blew chillier yet;
The woods were stripped, the fields were waste,
The wintry sun was near its set.
And of the young, and strong, and fair,
A lonely remnant, gray and weak,
Lingered, and shivered to the air
Of that bleak shore and water bleak.
Ah! age is drear, and death is cold!
I turned to thee, for thou wert near,
And saw thee withered, bowed, and old,
And woke all faint with sudden fear.
'Twas thus I heard the dreamer say,
And bade her clear her clouded brow;
"For thou and I, since childhood's day,
Have walked in such a dream till now.
"Watch we in calmness, as they rise,
The changes of that rapid dream,
And note its lessons, till our eyes
Shall open in the morning beam."
1.6k
love love me do
the reply, of course,
feed me tea and oranges
that come all the way from china,
meet by the river,
meet me by the marketplace,
meet me at
the railway station,
we'll pretend to be
strangers in the same compartment,
long lost
combat buddies,
exchanging SOS's,
duelists hidden in plain site,
you'll say I like that tune,
the reply, of course,
it's a memory I haven't had yet,
it's sad and it's sweet,
someday, I'll know it complete,
when I wear an older women's clothes
puzzled,
he will try to be impressive,
trading rhymes for freedom,
verses of hearses mourning distance,
but there are no secrets
the eyes can keep,
or others cannot read,
and if freedom is longing,
then these children are free,
not at last, but to long.
They are the
children of the morning
leaning out of windows,
looking for love,
will they lean that way forever?
there are twenty eight new moons
in the month approaching.
there is a reason for every day,
plus one.
sand castles get washed away,
but
dreams of waves and days
yet to come,
continuous and connected,
the cells and words
that transverse water bodies
built from the long lasting kind of
defiance,
the kind that states as its premise:
love can and should,
perhaps even,
will,
conquer the spaces
between the letters of their
exchanges and trade
whole words for
actions.
but what do I know, little,
for I am but an observer,
a driftwood beetle from another ocean,
a linesman of a different kind,
who only know how to hum
on a long distance line,
a single tune,
she loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah,
an eavesdropper of their voices
that are neither muted,
nor common.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
Remember that one time when I asked you if you remembered what happened way back when?
I forget what your answer was then,
but I remember how much it meant to me to be reminiscing with the Queen of Forgetting.
Remember when you used to care about memories?
And we went careening down streets while screaming in a mix of anxiety and exhilaration.
Each day blending with the next; driving past every chance we had to turn back,
living as if we were on a never-ending vacation.
Remember when you used to have fun? When fun was number one and everything else was boring?
How to Keep Running After Falling Flat on Your Face
And when the Duchess of puking tried to kiss the Archduke of Douches.
Our toes a familiar sight while seeing double.
How we used to recite unrecyclable verses while climbing into the back seats of hearses.
Remember when we used to actually talk about things? No, not like this. I mean, passionately. Remember when we used to get so heated about a topic that we'd practically be screaming at each other?
How To Keep a Straight Face After Scraping What's Left of It off the Pavement
And swinging through trees that we'd climbed against better judgement;
passing under streetlights that painted haloes around our dark heads.
Remember when you used to laugh in a way that didn't sound frantic? When your grin didn't look so much like a grimace?
And going to public places in broad daylight just to read the faces of those who couldn't see beyond their own noses?
How to Focus on Obtaining Goals That You Don't Believe To Be Worth It
And looking at our toes and hitting pavement but then bouncing up again to get caught in the hurricane of everyones' perceptions of what was happening
How to Board Up Your Windows After They're Already Broken
Remember when you used to make genuine human connections with other people?
just to find ourselves in the Eye of the Storm, staring at each other, grinning in a way that isn't frightened or frightening;
Laughing in the way that isn't desperate or forced, but hearing it get warped by the howl of wind surrounding us.
Remember
How to
Wind that's closing in.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
The lamp will burn the longest as we watch,
blood to pavement in the form of a breathing heart.
Plastic flowers sigh within these annotations,
the cement can only hear what we create.
Voices unheard of from those running into the dawn,
hammered out by ignorance.
Moon craters shift toward fingers
that pierce the sky dripping sobs
and curses and faces white as chalk.
Tombs laid by hearses,
not with haste
but, a decent taste of prayers and monstrous mourning.
The flowers today keep us here, the constellations keep us high.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity and a tragedy.
As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a brave warrior's jawbone or armor.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Appeared to be a normal day,
At our University of the Third Age,
Grannies and grandads writing epic lit.,
Forgot our hearing aids and blankets...
We walked away from the class,
Drank our coffees on the grass....
One old moll began this thing,
We cast off inhibitions and wedding rings,
Decided to have a greys' love-in,
One last winter's love fling,
Before hearses the morticians bring,
We were all senile, obese and ga-ga,
Our grey scrawny ***** made us ha-ha,
We gave those grandpas some thrills,
We all forgot our cardiac pills,
The old boys were gasping for breath,
Moribundi, close to death....
So, appeared to be a normal day,
On the grass, after class, at U3A,
Love-in amongst the greys,
It was grey liberation day!!!!
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
Words carried on ears in hearses
dead and deaf headless on the back of horses
carrying axes stalked by a lumbering mob armed with torches and pitchforks
hunting for sport. hiding among the herd different but not by much
reality and fiction blurring and becoming lucid leaving me clueless
It keeps coming down this way breaking over in intervals and phases
breaking like the waves of a tepid and unenthusiastic ocean droning
bloating and lurching then slinking and retreating,
bringing lost thoughts back to me caught in a fit
of Cognitive Dissonance
restless and oppressive
Spread and Sprawled out on the floor surrounded by animated bones
swirling through the night air and coalescing into skeletons
dancing through draculas dining hall
stalling my fall with wandering thoughts suspended in air by a fanciful imagination
fleeting as the floodgates open and it all comes back full circle again.....
I can't keep hiding behind my dreams like this anymore.. it's time to face the real world now.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
there is a vastness here
where a small breeze,
the size of a decaying sorrow
wakes the cold again
which may be all that’s left of me.
where a diamond pale haze of stars goes on eternal
like sound that has found a final silent shape
on a black sky where it means everything
It cannot speak off.
it’s empty out here, and cold.
cold enough to reconcile
the frozen cries, the kidnapped voices
and the silences that move
with certain cadaveric contractions
along the frozen emptiness
and In the morning when I look out
the previous evening remains
in its blank, cold, unforgiveness
even though I sang for them in
the eternal extensiveness of
the freezing cold, the stones
still cry with mouths opened wide
while the small icy wind and unsympathetic
moon subdue the apricot flowers,
Now the piercing cold day Is no longer enough
For all comprehension escapes me
suddenly jumps with fury hurling terrible hostilities to the sky,
as wandering ice spirits without homeland
begin to groan with a vast and vacant voice.
And frozen hearses, with muffled drums
and tragic music, slowly pass in my being
conquered, weeping, freezing
this atrocious iced and despotic place
plants its black flag in my soul
Now I do confess through boreal breath
I don’t think I will ever see the
Red Tulips again
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 3:36 PM UTC
O fog,
shrouding the busy highways
softly
muting their resonant roar
to distant growls
Unfurl your smooth fury,
crumple these cars,
shatter their frames across
and beyond their concrete tracks
that separate forests and hills
and thicken the air
with acrid smells
from exhausted horsepowers.
Embrace them,
O fog,
and guide their screeching tires
over the embankment
roaring hearses
unreigned
by your moist arms
* * *
&) Discovered recently among H. D.´s unpublished papers at Yale University Library, malevolent scholars take this poem as proof for the poet´s befogged imagination during some of her post-imagist periods. More englightened critics, though, point to the stunning topicality of H. D.´s mythopoetic mind in its accurate presentation of mankind´s archetypal struggle against nature. There is as yet insufficient biographical evidence that the mature H. D. possibly had a short but intensive attachment to the infant Ralph Nader, who later became head of the U. S. Environmental Protection Agency. – For serious information on the poet, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H.D.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
Lord forgive me for I'm about to sin my wickedness has yet to begin better line up those hearses cause I'm killing mother ******* with my verses this world is so ****** a cops defends by shooting a black guy and everyone loses there **** mind they riot and fight for there right but when you say our soilders have to live on the street they won't help and never make a peep learn before you speak and don't pretend to defend the weak
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
splendid anticipation twisting sapling towards skyroots again
porous attrocities absorb all happenstance toward equilibrium
prance in trance, dance enhance
the words are subtle still and vague
privy to thoughts portrayed by strays, mainstays frayed by microwaves
this cancer causing communication, new information trending towards midlifestations
I still see the spark, still taste the quark. yet improvisations on the fly are hindered
loquaciousness is all a hoax, jokes and folks hold this shaky oak
some still breathe for the trees
most still wish only to seize
but the smiles ring through all these trials all the whiles no reconciles
flies are gathering on this **** and still my feeling wont equit
where is the man from the sky? the one who wont shell our eyes?
was it a woman within the weaves, the stars unfolding
remolding us as lumps of clay and changing the meaning of the word geigh
sleighride with me onto the seas, now frozen by your cold wilting weeze
rhymes and verses traverse like hearses picking up where my thoughts stop short
clicking and twisting, familiar sorts sing songs of us between retorts
it all points to that familiar end, when i cower away and wont defend
the points of light in pupils stares
between this line nothing impairs
tear away the peeling, reeling and the chewey center within
its not a sin to mend the seams and come forthright
steal from my mind just one last kiss, an idle embrace you've never held, grasping
at least that's what the clouds are hissing, evaporating what ive been missing
mix it all in one big *** stewing all the things that i am not
you label me a fool in vain, for i have danced between the rain
impossible sorts of things i've felt, callussed noses refused to've smelt
whisper all the words in pairs, double the potency of stares
climb up the rungs one by one and suddenly the songs i've sung
will bellow in through the wind and you'll wonder if there's time
to find the reason within this rhyme
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
She scrubbed the floor each day they say
She scrubbed on hand and knee
She dug and plowed and washed and cried
She cooked but not too well I say
Among the brushes and the thrushes
and the hollows and the hymns
Despite the fickle and the wicked
from swirling men to swishing gin
It is bad in this world they say
It is not worth a lick or stitch
It gets all sad with pain and pain
It drowns not washes with its rain
We aren't poor with the Lord they say
We will walk on streets of goldest gold
We will sing and know no loss nor death
We won't really get old though we get old
Among the verses and the hearses
and eager beavers praising praise
Despite the sinners and the winners
with the sermons' end of days
He told the truth they said he said
He told the hardest heard of things
He gave the liars all the fires
He thought he knew the truth I say
Don't leave don't go don't move they say
Don't run away from here your home
Don't think there is a better place
Don't wait up for me at night I say
Among bitter breaths to smell and taste
and just crickets to hear just stars to see
Despite snakes and roads down ***** dirt
and scratchy gravel and hurting hurt
I left them here alone they say
I went and did though I was warned
I drove away at breakneck pace
I long stopped believing in this place
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
The careless page on lamp-stand resting,
With pure white the glow reflecting,
Catches the sore wand’ring stranger’s eye,
And keeps it there without a sigh.
He reads thereon a poet’s verses,
Sore reflecting many hearses*,
That should have rightly never rolléd,
Bearing corpses cowl- and hooded.
“Oh, the manner that he writes in!”
Thus the words that cross his cracking lips,
While tears run down to fill the rips.
Then eye, though dimmed, still struggling onward,
Next reads words that turn him upward,
Looking to the bright heav’nly places,
Where God with parted soul paces,
And—leaning down through clouds—soft touches,
Man’s heart so now again he blushes.
“What a manner that he writes in!”
*“What god-like genius inspires him so,
Such lofty heights to rise unto?
Do Muses bright surround him—ringéd
In fair halo slight and gilded?
Or warrior-like hews he his figures,
Out of flesh and blood by measures,
‘Til the beauty shining forth o’erwhelms,
All other mortal verséd poems?”
“Which the manner that he writes in?”*
Weary much from traveling afar,
The stranger sleeps him under star,
And as he dreams he sees the poet
—Yet in thought he does not know it--
Who sitting desk-bound looks about him,
Searching for poetic fountain;
And ne’er receiv’d he supernal* aid,
But from this life poetry made:
That broad noble brow in thought contracts:
The genius broods; his mind he wracks.
Then eye with pure, clear light shines—spilling
Evanescent* light, so thrilling,
And lip with rev’rent murm’ring carries
Sweet words to ear and gentle lays,
While pen—by trembling fingers wielded--
Marks the page to make sure-founded;
This, the manner that he writes in.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
I'm not a deep thinker
I am a third tier character
Whom falls away
Never to say
Why he came this way
Non-entered this scheme
Non-spoke on his dreams
Clandestine parties
Someone help me
I'm so very cold
A sudden shifting
Has occurred in me
A sullen drifting
Among currents
Among currents
Behind steel curtains
I lie alone shirtless
Questioning what worth is
What is worthless
Or if worth is
Truly given to what deserves it
Curses upon curses
Hearses upon hearses
Hearsay
He say
She say
They say
Play play
Bang bang
Death upon porch steps
Alive, live, life wrecked
My life is a wreck
A shattered mess
With life signs unchecked
Warped beyond context
Third eye rests
For the next conquest
And again
And again
Heart break leaves us loveless
Or do we know what love is
Similar to how worth is
I need a point or an edge
Then again
I'm in
Trouble
Because I feel you
Because I feel none
Because I feel true
Because I feel false
Because I feel pain
Because I feel fine
Because I give all
Because I take mine
Righteous minds recline
In the face of brawny might
At least some say
As they fade away
Walking corpses
Four horses
With horse men
Gallop astray
High and dry
Like her mind
Like her tone
Like her eyes
That day
A day without date
For each is the same
Sane or insane
Disbelief or faith
I'm not a deep thinker
So why can't I sleep
I only want to feel
I only want to dream
Any ending to a thought
Seems so ill befitting
But who am I
To question everything
Oh wait I'm
A human being
I'm not a deep thinker
I am a third tier character
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
I just really need someone to talk to
Long days and nights are starting to get hard too
Spending nights alone was never really my thing,
You see sometimes I like awake and wonder what if my life was different,
But just like always nobody seems to listen,
So I try to channel my trials and tribulations through
Pounding keys, chipping graphite, or spilling ink,
I just want a sympathetic ear just like the females,
But that seems too homosexual for the heterosexual,
You see a lot times I’m told to hang out with the good people,
But the “good” people aren’t so good,
And the “bad” people are the ones who seem to really care.
I stumble and I fall sometimes I wonder when it will come to and end
And when the times is near and a new tunnel will begin
Inside the tunnel, racing from my death
I see the light, but the darkness seems to suppress
And it seems as if the clock never stops.
The chime is to loud to block out,
The alarm rings and I hear roars of different sounds
Noises in my head I try to keep quite
But they scream and shout, looking to get out
My thoughts never cease to roam, my mind always wonder
I ponder when the tears will stop, when will they dry up and my thoughts rot
Maybe when I have that person, maybe before they will see the hearses.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
Everyone knows
I’m a nice guy,
but underneath
the underside
there is a darker sky,
storms set to thunder
shocking lighting
firing from my eyes.
Heartbeat bursts
facing those
who are worse,
corpse kings,
killing the innocent
line of little children,
tiny kids
riding in hearses
while a state dupe
steps up and rehearses
how to serve the greed
of the already wealthy.
I am
the classic
good guy,
but you will see
the shivers
of angst
and anger
rise in me
even when
I am stifling
said rage.
I bite my
gums so hard
that my teeth
chip and crumble,
I watch fools stumble
as I rave and rumble
ready to fight,
but just before
my otherside
comes to
take your life
I let the hate
subside,
and give you
the gift
of insight
and one more night.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 10:06 AM UTC
Hi, my name is Cole.
Grab a shovel and we'll deepen the hole where I've buried my goals.
They try to blame my soul for the peril untold,
Though, great fortune most of their lives do hold.
Molded after my father I was destined to be cold.
Alone, broken, I folded.
Unspoken moments in silence are just like King Midas,
The opportunity’s gold, but there's still violence way down, deep inside us.
When tribulations unfold, so does my situation.
Find me by myself, impatient,
On a narcotic vacation, wasted.
Taste the medicine I force upon myself on a daily basis.
This explanation only strengthens my self esteem’s annihilation,
So pray damnation is what I need to keep some kind of exhilaration.
Drawn away from elation, I take the bait and go on strike against my ****** up creation.
When I was 15, the world ended around me,
Cops and medics abounding,
The sight surrounding my plight, pathetic,
Regret was surmounting.
Twelve scars on my throat, they said the odds were astounding I made it, but who's counting?
(Plus the one on my stomach where the blood geyser was spouting)
Jaded.
Like intimate sentiments, death attached to me,
I learned how to live with it.
There was a time that this soul had a temple, now, just a tenement.
The second time I played God I succeeded in my ill intent,
Pronounced dead at the scene, my funeral was finally imminent.
Til I opened my eyes and the room was one I'm familiar with.
I was sure eleven Ambien would work for my benefit.
Why am I being kept alive?
It's like there's no possible end to it.
Multiple reasons as to why I am so sick of this living ****
It's a given: derision and treason purged me of innocence.
I'm immersed in this intricate curse,
Coerced into impotence.
Teasin’ hearses became a profession,
Hurting became obsession,
Depression’s the path I traversed,
Along with aggression.
So you may have a few questions concerning
The wrath I possess.
And when I rise from the ash like Sylvia Plath I'll confess.
When I emerge from disguise, the sociopath will profess
The explanation for suicide, and the urge to regress.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 8:59 AM UTC
~<•>~ ~<•>~
•
The day
Calling us out
Out of the hovels
••
The simple decencies have been forgotten
•
The train
Leaving at dawn
Shall be empty
Again
••
We are still lynching negroes
--
She said
" **** me "
NO ! WAIT !
We're supposed to tell each other
I LOVE YOU FIRST !
THEN **** me
••
All the ambulances
Going to the hospital
All the hearses going
To the morgue
(I see you here )
••
The pregnancy
The universe in its joy
Asked you for something
You said --- NO WAY !
••
So many promises to keep
So many claims
Of hearts being broken
••
She walks lonely through the town
Look !
A young boy
He joins her here
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Orpheus became king
From knight of sin
Future, to be determined
Of the arrival
Of the hearses.
Crown on his back,
Electric nerves squirming
In his brain
Like the jail
Of a hundred legs
Or at least,
That’s what we see.
Blood stains his eyelash
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 12:51 AM UTC
That first morning swig washes
away the stain on the inside;
the parade of hearses and the
lovers lost to the carnival of life.
A few more swallows and
memory becomes nebulous.
Cumulus clouds form in
the brain, and the thoughts
float by, all fluffy, like cotton candy,
and fun-house safe.
In this twisted mirror
I see the tired eyes of
a clown who's not funny anymore;
just a ragged costume and a
jagged soul that is hungry for
sleep and dreams, a moments reprieve.
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 5:24 PM UTC
A quarter used to be a bag of chips,
days eye level with countertops,
2000 is a big number
when 5 is all you know,
maybe there's a one on the end like those twin towers,
and the falling man on the TV,
Or maybe it was blow up furniture in the shed with the hose on,
and a neighbor with a hose too,
He was kind, a big kid I didn't know,
Shrek plays on the TV, Only superstars
break the mold,
Mold in the basement,
dirt floor and the smell of summer fills my lungs
but then I'm on the bed with her, and The people's elbow
makes me laugh,
but feeling something else too, something
shameful like what's on the TV, on the TV there are those dead babies,
Dead people from the towers, I hear someone say
at the store, and I have a bag of chips, but my pants are down,
She te telling me to just watch wrestling and relax, but I just
want to know why,
Why am I 25 now but the hose and the wrestling, and the people, all those people on the TV, the twin dead ones,
it makes 25 feel like more
than just a bag of chips
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 10:42 AM UTC