"junkmail" poems - Hello Poetry

So I’m sitting in this dark room, smoking cigarette after cigarette after cigarette. Staring at the pile of mail on the table. Left behind junkmail, junk that I have to answer, his junk. But then again I am wearing his clothes, his shoes, Christ, This might even be his bathrobe. Moved in on another mans turf, or am I just keeping the seat warm? So he can go sow his oats, sleep with some secretary or ****** do fat lines of whatever, never having to check in while checking out . I remember I think , what that used to be like, to be free of things, things like commitment, things like meeting your obnoxious co workers at the bar, And not the cool downtown bar with its dim light, backbooths and jukebox full of blues, The uptown one with the yuppies and their bluetooths and never ending vain chatter. Things like love, things like forgetting that your favorite color is yellow, not mustard yellow but bright ******* canary yellow. The yellow that reminds me of bathroom stalls and jailhouse walls, and all those, late late night trips to the E.R.. Things like time , Remember that time when You said “lets take it slow “ Then the next morning you wrote I love you on the mirror in Red lipstick. Should have been a stop sign, a flag ,god **** warning, right there. Things like Freedom, The freedom to fly away, To escape, to set sail. To be free like that B.M.W. on the autobahn, in the commercial, aimed at the friends, with the Bluetooth surrounded by yellow walls that sing those blues, To be free But then who would be wearing our clothes ,our shoes ,Christ, even our bathrobe, Hell who would even answer the mail.

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Jan 2, 2013

Jan 2, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC

ryan-mckenzie

Junkmail

So I’m sitting in this dark room, smoking cigarette after cigarette after cigarette. Staring at the pile of mail on the table. Left behind junkmail, junk that I have to answer, his junk. But then again I am wearing his clothes, his shoes, Christ, This might even be his bathrobe. Moved in on another mans turf, or am I just keeping the seat warm? So he can go sow his oats, sleep with some secretary or ****** do fat lines of whatever, never having to check in while checking out . I remember I think , what that used to be like, to be free of things, things like commitment, things like meeting your obnoxious co workers at the bar, And not the cool downtown bar with its dim light, backbooths and jukebox full of blues, The uptown one with the yuppies and their bluetooths and never ending vain chatter. Things like love, things like forgetting that your favorite color is yellow, not mustard yellow but bright ******* canary yellow. The yellow that reminds me of bathroom stalls and jailhouse walls, and all those, late late night trips to the E.R.. Things like time , Remember that time when You said “lets take it slow “ Then the next morning you wrote I love you on the mirror in Red lipstick. Should have been a stop sign, a flag ,god **** warning, right there. Things like Freedom, The freedom to fly away, To escape, to set sail. To be free like that B.M.W. on the autobahn, in the commercial, aimed at the friends, with the Bluetooth surrounded by yellow walls that sing those blues, To be free But then who would be wearing our clothes ,our shoes ,Christ, even our bathrobe, Hell who would even answer the mail.

1

let me take it in the morning as sleep is wrenched free from magic and dreams spill away when my fingers go seeking, dark around the moon hells and the sift calamity around the air in your kiss watch with smug freshly shampoo’d dig can you tell the distance between the under door and beyond? A giraffe at the window, staring through the blinds Bees in the mailbox, trying to escape the flapping junkmail Beneath the basement, a loud squealing, won’t go away A creature that fell through the cracks of a scalding nightmare Into the floor, seeping through every layer Feed it hemlock, but it won’t go quiet He who drops a cell onto a moving floor Will find a young boy’s poor mother, dead at his feet With a neat handful of blood, seeping onto a well-manicured lawn take me in your palm, hide me there, in your wrist keep me safe in your pulse and maybe one day my wings may mend when you feel a life pulse change and less of a seeping away

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Nov 12, 2013

Nov 12, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC

s-e-l

seep

let me take it in the morning as sleep is wrenched free from magic and dreams spill away when my fingers go seeking, dark around the moon hells and the sift calamity around the air in your kiss watch with smug freshly shampoo’d dig can you tell the distance between the under door and beyond? A giraffe at the window, staring through the blinds Bees in the mailbox, trying to escape the flapping junkmail Beneath the basement, a loud squealing, won’t go away A creature that fell through the cracks of a scalding nightmare Into the floor, seeping through every layer Feed it hemlock, but it won’t go quiet He who drops a cell onto a moving floor Will find a young boy’s poor mother, dead at his feet With a neat handful of blood, seeping onto a well-manicured lawn take me in your palm, hide me there, in your wrist keep me safe in your pulse and maybe one day my wings may mend when you feel a life pulse change and less of a seeping away

19

Spinning, Spinning, Spinning, Around the water goes Pinning, Pinning, Pinning, The Crap to the toilet bowl It may slip It may slide But it never lets go Oh, Crap of this world, Go down the toilet hole!

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Nov 28, 2012

Nov 28, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC

katie-hogan

The Junkmail of Life

Spinning, Spinning, Spinning, Around the water goes Pinning, Pinning, Pinning, The Crap to the toilet bowl It may slip It may slide But it never lets go Oh, Crap of this world, Go down the toilet hole!

9

1 I don’t like people who come borrowing books They sniff the paper and ink on my shelf and they ask to borrow as if they’d ever read anything beyond junkmail and cut-out coupons; and as if they’d ever return my books if I don’t bark, hound and remind them and re-remind them… 2 There is my friend Sam who recently took a fancy to one of my books on my shelf: “Make a Billion, Loser” “Can I borrow that?” Sam asked And he looked like a loser so I said, “Yeah, you can borrow it” And he took the book off the shelf and he said, indignant: *“Hey! The first 100 pages are here But pages 101 to 200 are missing!”* And I said, ****** off by this imbecile: *“Hey, the first 100 is where you read; the second half is missing cos that’s where you go make your money, you loser! Now go read the book and then make your Billion!”*

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Mar 5, 2012

Mar 5, 2012 at 4:23 PM UTC

raj-arumugam

half a book

1 I don’t like people who come borrowing books They sniff the paper and ink on my shelf and they ask to borrow as if they’d ever read anything beyond junkmail and cut-out coupons; and as if they’d ever return my books if I don’t bark, hound and remind them and re-remind them… 2 There is my friend Sam who recently took a fancy to one of my books on my shelf: “Make a Billion, Loser” “Can I borrow that?” Sam asked And he looked like a loser so I said, “Yeah, you can borrow it” And he took the book off the shelf and he said, indignant: *“Hey! The first 100 pages are here But pages 101 to 200 are missing!”* And I said, ****** off by this imbecile: *“Hey, the first 100 is where you read; the second half is missing cos that’s where you go make your money, you loser! Now go read the book and then make your Billion!”*

32

this poem is for you remember all those nights no remember all those days that you spent with your head towards the sky? when you met the mailman at the door knowing it would just be junkmail with an eager grin on your face anyways? every day is a reason to make the best of the small things because remember when the small things kept you alive and out of the hospital? you can’t say no to a lover who keeps persisting so i’m calling you out of your darkness the light is always on this one is for you

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Feb 7, 2015

Feb 7, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC

raingirlpoet

this one is for you

this poem is for you remember all those nights no remember all those days that you spent with your head towards the sky? when you met the mailman at the door knowing it would just be junkmail with an eager grin on your face anyways? every day is a reason to make the best of the small things because remember when the small things kept you alive and out of the hospital? you can’t say no to a lover who keeps persisting so i’m calling you out of your darkness the light is always on this one is for you

17

The morning begins with another bottle. Her broken mirror has already spoken its lies, crucified her with a stranger's face invading her bathroom. Later the stairwell does not echo her footseps as she descends, carefully, one foot, then the other, the exact placement of each step thoughtfully considered, planned out and executed with a grace that is almost Procrustean. She leaves no shadow behind herself, throws away words into the deep green silence. They fall. I could get a job, she tells herself, listening to the silence of her footsteps. I could blunt the stings of honeybees, gather the nectar of drones. Her feet sink into the softness of the stairsteps. At the bottom, she opens the locked door of the mailbox hugs junkmail to her breast. Her fingers leak tiny drops of blood over the sealed envelopes. Her mouth is full of dust. She eats her memories.

0

Aug 6, 2018

Aug 6, 2018 at 3:35 PM UTC

Mnesia

Untitled 2

The morning begins with another bottle. Her broken mirror has already spoken its lies, crucified her with a stranger's face invading her bathroom. Later the stairwell does not echo her footseps as she descends, carefully, one foot, then the other, the exact placement of each step thoughtfully considered, planned out and executed with a grace that is almost Procrustean. She leaves no shadow behind herself, throws away words into the deep green silence. They fall. I could get a job, she tells herself, listening to the silence of her footsteps. I could blunt the stings of honeybees, gather the nectar of drones. Her feet sink into the softness of the stairsteps. At the bottom, she opens the locked door of the mailbox hugs junkmail to her breast. Her fingers leak tiny drops of blood over the sealed envelopes. Her mouth is full of dust. She eats her memories.

24