Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
howard brace Aug 2013
"A leisurely breakfast" their mother would admonish, "aids digestion and builds strong bones..." so what with the imposed inactivity every morning, boredom broken only by Sockeye the family Spaniel, whose want of table manners coincided very conveniently with mealtimes... as he paced restlessly under the table, slobbering indiscriminately in his daily scramble to devour every dangling morsel before supply and demand shut up shop for the night and went home, far tastier... he gobbled down the latest offering of egg white, than the remnants of his own dietary allowance, they just had to get the timing right that was all, or risk loosing a finger, or gaining one depending upon who was doing the dangling, or who was doing the gobbling... he gave an indignant sneeze, not so much a hint but more of a... 'what's with the pepper malarky...'  So that it was only with a good deal of snappy hand coordination, lengthy digestion and sturdy bone building that Rocky was finally able to extricate himself from the table and make the most of what little time remained until lunchtime, meagre time indeed for the Rocky's of this world to hang around with their dogs, leaving their little sisters to help mums do, whatever it was that girls usually did when they should have scooted out of the kitchen faster, when it would have been all so much simpler just to grab a handful of biscuits instead...  Meanwhile, laying in wait in the room above, flat out upon the bedroom counterpane, having recently had their insides stuffed to bursting with a full English breakfast's worth of beach and holiday apparal... and that was just the luggage.    

     The contents of which, up until a week last washday had been snoozing fitfully behind 'Do Not Disturb' signs, cautiously peeping out from the gloomier, more remote recesses of the bedroom dresser, or carefully concealed in cupboards and closets... and being in every other respect by no means readily accessible to public scrutiny of any kind... had been left to their own devices some twelve months earlier with a clear understanding to skip bath nights from that moment on and henceforth immerse themselves in the heady, camphorated pungency of mothball, vowing once and for all never to darken portmanteau lids again... but now, after many hours of arduous laundering and de-fumigation... were now being squeezed and unceremoniously shoe-horned into what had recently become nothing short of an overcrowded sanctuary for the dispossessed.  
              
     Meanwhile, all the luggage asked from life other than be detained under section four of the Mental Health Act, 1983 and be found cosy padded accommodation elsewhere... was to have their interiors vacated, their tranquility reinstated... and with a questionable wink from a dodgy Customs official, have their travel permits invalidated... irrevocably, for despite throwing a double six for a spot of well earned convalescence back on top of the wardrobe some twelve months ago, basking in the shade of a warm Summer Sun, striking up the occasional conversation with the floral decor, third bloom from the left currently answering to the name of Petunia, the still over extended luggage, seemingly with little hope of R & R this side of the letter Q, faced the perennial disquiet of vacational therapy, of being knelt on, sat and bounced upon and be specifically manhandled in ways that matching sets of co-ordinated luggage should not...
                                        
     Tina could be heard quite distinctly in the next street concerning her husbands lack of competence, whilst Red it appeared had become just as outspoken as his wife in that particular direction... as the local self appointed busybody, who lived well within earshot of the address in question would bear witness to as she put feverish pen to paper, writing to what had become a regular... and some would say hot bed of intrigue in the local tabloid concerning how vociferous the once tranquil neighbourhood had become of recent and how certain undesirable elements within the community were to be heard carrying on alarmingly at all hours, day and night... and as she diligently weighed her civic duty against simple household economics as to whether to send this latest block busting eye opener by first or second class post, their parents could now be heard broadcasting, if anything to a wider listening audience than the previous newsflash, some of the more sensational episodes of the previous twenty-four hours as to who was pulling whose suitcase zipper now... although in which direction it should be pulled, they both agreed, wasn't for public disclosure at that time... vowing to draw blood well before the day was out, as three lacerated fingers would later testify and that it was only because of the children that they were going at all... but God willing, they would be setting off very shortly with rosy smiles on their faces for the sole benefit of the neighbours, even if it killed them. 

     Spurred to fever pitch  by this latest 'stop-the-press' newsflash, the same public spirited busybody now threw herself wholeheartedly into further award winning journalism and for the second time that morning took to pen and paper, only now directed to the gossip column in the local Parish Gazette, followed by grievous lamentations of impending bloodshed to the incumbent Chief Constable as to how they'd all be murdered in their beds ere long before nightfall.

     By devouring his water bowl, thereby dispensing with the need for it to be washed and by its abrupt and mysterious absence, disposing of all further incriminating evidence as to where the abundant supply of liquid, now surging copiously across the kitchen floor had sprung from... the flash-flood was hastily making its own getaway beneath the kitchen units, leaving Sockeye to his own devices to carry the can on his own, ankle deep in what up until earlier that morning had been sloshing around quite contentedly in Eccup reservoir.

      Having inadvertently released the handbrake in a boyish gesture of bravado, thereby placing himself in sole charge of a runaway vehicle, Sockeye it appeared was not the only member of the Salmon family to have dropped himself right in it that day as Rocky, having unwittingly placed the following ten years pocket money well out of reach and back into the pockets of his parents dwindling resources, had to a far greater extent nominated himself for the same Earth moving experience as the one his mum would shortly be giving Sockeye...

      Having just been granted licence to do whatsoever it pleased, the vehicle began its leisurely rearwards perambulation down the long garden driveway and by way of small thanks for its new found independence took Rocky along for the ride where due to a certain lack of stature on Rocky's part, at no point had he ever been in the slightest position to influence the Holiday threatening train of events which now engulfed him, never thinking to reapply the handbrake... that would be too easy, he perched on the edge of the seat clutching the steering wheel and stretched out his sturdy little legs in an heroic, but futile attempt to reach the pedals as the family car, which up until any second now had been his fathers pride and joy, pitched backwards at what seemed to Rocky, breakneck speed and directly into a very severe and unforgiving brick wall.

     Almost missing this latest round of entertainment above that of her parents most recent exchange, River accompanied by Sockeye scampered outdoors and slap into what could only be described as the most fun she'd had all year as an unsuspecting "what was that noise" muscled its way through the open bedroom window and fell flat on its face in the garden below and which, if that morning to date was anything to go by, then the neighbourhood would soon be tuning in to the latest Salmon family's 'hot-off-the-press' breaking news bulletin.

     Opening her mouth River hesitated as she fine-tuned the speech centres of her young and delicate synapse into full vocal alignment, then adjusting shutter speed from f8 to automatic she closed her mouth... then opened it once again and informed her brother that if the tip of dads size 9 was an Olympic gold, then Rocky would be sure to take first in the 110 metre hurdling event with 'team GB...' and could she have his autograph... with those words of solid encouragement rattling around his ears like the last biscuit in an otherwise empty tin box, River went skipping back into the house to announce the latest newsflash of her parents next financial happening... which she felt certain would prompt further rounds of thought provoking front page journalism.

     A steady two hours drive away, over on the east coast, the inhabitants of a sleepy fishing community were gainfully employed, pretty much as any other, going about their daily business, one such denizen... a baby crustacean, currently marooned by the tide had taken up temporary accommodation in a beachfront rock-pool property of certain distinction, was as yet unaware of a completely different and obscure set of circumstances that would shortly be rearing his slobbering jowls and bring all four paws, the size of dinner plates, crashing down upon the unsuspecting seashore fauna... was determined while she waited to catch the next high tide home, that until such time that the right wave rolled along, would potter about in the little rock-pool, perhaps indulge herself in a leisurely bathe... and catch up on a spot of therapeutic knitting.

     So, placing the days events since breakfast into perspective...  [i]  the vehicle indemnity provider, henceforth to be named 'the party of the first part', who currently weren't cognisant of an impending claim to date, would shortly be laying eggs attempting to squirm out of all liability, due to  [ii]  the automobile, driven by a minor, fortunately for Salmon senior on private land and henceforth, the aforementioned to be called 'the third party, to the party of the second part...' which urgently needed rigorous cosmetic attention to the rear tail light cluster and surrounding bodywork so as to maintain a favourable resale mark-up price.  [iii]  Having been dragged kicking and screaming from the top of the wardrobe, the luggage had rapidly developed cold feet and cried sudden illness in the family, but were being taken to the Wake anyway.  [iv]  Wrapped around the hot water cylinder since the previous Summer, the various sundry items of holiday apparel stood united, resolute as a Union Picket line not be seen dead looking as though they'd never so much as seen the bottom of a flat-iron.  [v]  Both Red and his wife, Tina, despite wearing the same anaemic smile as the one show to the neighbours as they departed, travelling counter clockwise along the crescent so as not to unduly advertise their recent misadventure with the garage wall, were only going for the sake of the children, whilst  [vi]  River and her errant brother didn't want to go anyway dismayed at leaving the television set behind, were already missing their favourite programs, which only really left  [vii]  'mans-best-friend' who, when he wasn't actually hanging over the front seat giving dad big sloppy licks as though... 'are we nearly there yet' or perhaps... 'I need to stop and spend a penny... or you'll all know about it if you don't,' was more than content to be taking up the majority of the rear seating arrangements and with a delinquent wag of his tail, was deliriously happy to be wherever his family were.**

                                                        ­                             ...   ...   ...

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1862
david badgerow Jan 2017
when we found him barefoot in mid-july
he was standing on a four-day drunk
tap-dancing in shoe-horn colored chinos
rolled up to his cyclist's calves on the
sun-punched hood of an '04 nissan altima
with shot-out windows salt
in his skin hair & eyelashes
silver bubbling spittle clung
at the corners of his mouth
sparkling dry in the sun-heat

he laughed & said she had a mouth
like a grizzly bear or cheese grater
she was thin-shouldered dressed
in a curtain-and-couch-cushion ensemble
had yellow button callouses on her palms
& lacked the instinctive manipulative prowess
other girls her age possessed
the whole performance only lasted
7 minutes huddled in a bedroom closet
in a blathering forest of unkind giggles
he still has acid flashbacks watching
cutthroat kitchen because she had
alton brown's teeth & tonsils like spun glass

that night he was a heathen
on a mountian made of mandolin
stiff yearbook spines & shoeboxes
full of faded polaroid mementos
he was tank-topped but still sweating
as he stumbled & stood
on black stilettos & soiled blue
cork-soled wedges like
sharp rocks dancing underfoot
dodging the mothball heat-trap
of cotton blend blouses
& corduroy coats overhead

joy division warbled slimy through
the white wooden slats of the closet's pocket door
as she knelt demurely &
took it between her thumb & finger
brought it up to thin lips pursed
above cleft chin & ****** it in
like a big thick j-bird
but she never exhaled the expectant
white plume of smoke he said
when she grabbed ***** as they
swung like pendula below his navel
he almost pulled out a swath
of her honeynut hair
his injured impatient breath
cracked like thunder
in the cashmere sky
above her undulating head

when the mighty chasm fountain exploded
she said he was the flavor of a blue sky burning
her throat sounded shallow & grunty
as she spat him out into a pair
of her favorite aunt's imitation
jimmy choo pumps &
enjoyed a brief nosebleed

when it was over finally he forced a sympathetic
fistful of tramadol down his saharan throat
& tried to stay hidden under the tarpaulin
in the moving blackness wandering alone
through the waning moon's ceaseless maze
behind the perfumed aphasia that kept him high
biting the brittle tassel of a graduation cap
like an adolescent ocelot
feeling like fleeing

& when i asked him
i said well these experiences probably
helped you build some character right

he laughed & assured me of the
isolated nature of this watercolor
snapshot event & said
one day david

he said maybe one day you'll
learn to not measure your self worth
against the traumatic mouth mistakes
your pants have made
mark john junor Nov 2013
this dim light room
you protest the error
which must be why your here
but not even a flicker of interest
passes the faces
gather in the moment
digest its very essence
with an eye to its taste and texture
can it be such
that while you see the logic
thouse around only see the flaw
you protest the confusion
she laughs dull witted and mutters
that confusion isnt allowed
without proper paperwork
therefore there is no confusion
sit down and shut up
you stand and try to leave
the hired hand
stops you with a gentle hand
no friend we cant have that
sit down go with the flow
the tragedy is in her eyeless watching
she just lingers there in the shadows
with a television at full volume
cartoons of americas empire building days
running marathon back to back
with the guy who teaches how to paint
one a masterpiece of tragedy
the other a tragedy of masterpieces
life is a ironic love affair of
joyfull young pretty college girls
and the bitter old men they hide
dogeared books of poems tucked inside
old leather jackets
misery need not apply
me-mow Dec 2014
sprinkled sunsets over a lush green landscape
as you hold the flame and watch it evaporate.
inhale mothball secrets, let it expand your lungs
what did you expect, for this to be fun?
new dimensions and planes of existence,
no longer questioning your existence.
shamanic swirls and colourful twirls
if you've had a DMT experience and you'd like to collab on this, please let me know!
Frankie Jan 2013
Under supervision of the sun, his fingertips are full of love;
when he lives with the moon, hands form fists, the doors and walls have holes—
muscles catch fire:

trying to force infantilization,
sticking nametags to every available swatch of fabric hanging
from her bony frame.

Her skin is peeling like dried paint curls from the wall.
She brushes it down like pushing
up her sleeves, feigning
a tough exterior.

The bathroom door explodes: her palm
is to her mouth; four horse pills
sit uncomfortably on her squirming tongue—
fatalist palmistry.
A single blow to her thoracic spine
(vertebra seven through nine, to be precise)
and the tile floor is medicated with
slimy, secondhand acetaminophen.

Pale worn flesh meets rug burn between
the bathroom and the walk-in closet where
she will huddle on the floor, shaking,
shuddering,
tiny bones ready to crack—

strong arms wrap around and pull her close.
Frail child-size hands catch hundreds of tears ‘till
one big, calloused mitt takes over.

His hand is to her little pink lips and
a tiny cold something tries to find a way in—
epiphany:

she greedily devours the lonely pill and
begs for the other three quarters
of her suicide.

Cynical laughter denies her pleas;
her lungs rip stale air from
mothball collections stored upon the shelves,
from shirts hanging stiffly,
buttoned,
ready for action that never comes,
from pants that lay lazily across
cheap plastic hangers.

She siphons O2 with her windpipe:
heaving sobs, obnoxious wailing, disgusting, guttural noises,
black mascara tire tracks—
she would swear on anything that her ribs were going to give.

****
*****
****
*****
*******
stupid
******


Hazy home-video recordings on loop in her brain, the words
pound her body like hail and
the memories won’t leave. They’re bleeding
from her ears and eyes and her assailant stares on,
irritated.

“Drama queen,” he reminds her.

Same as always, she cries
herself sick, he tucks
her into bed. Morning sunshine
shows bruises and she hides them
in her sweater.

Another flimsy paper hospital accessory, more
radiology tech jokes about her clumsy
hands, her butter-fingers.

And when asked her name, there’s
hesitation
‘cause she’s got to remember which nametag
he let her wear today.
james nordlund May 2020
Few know, fewer heed this WWII lesson, if you're not taking
bullets you're making them, used to ****** in your stead, on
your steed.  Winning WWII by luck could've prevented WWIII.  
An eye for an eye, then, allowed the whole world to see.  
You see not-see scientists who were working on the atom bomb,
in a strike of sanity, decided that they weren't as criminally
insane as ******, that they must stop him from getting it
by any means.  They should commit high treason, half go East,
half West, determining a stalemate, detente amongst powers.  
Now it seems too late, that bi-polar axi of supposed powers
'use' of pandemic to subjugate the world to survival instead of
alival, exigency instead of humanity, has pulled the rug out ....

Sadly, everybody's 'going along to get along with the program',
the speed nearly blitzkreiging, of the extermination of mankind
to it's extinction.  Why, do you ask?  They've premeditatedly
murdered 8 billion with climate crisis and if most figure it out
the global oligarchy, republican and totalitarian conspiracies
(West, East, new world order, same as the old), the corporate
structure, institutions, gov'ts, tools of la machine, would be
facing the wrath of 7 billion souls, they might not fare well, no?  
The coronaing of human being is the rich dictated needed segue
to get US to be extinct with a whimper, instead.  You, illimitable
potential, indivisible as life, walking nature's balance, giving
back to her abundance, can abolish fossil fuel use, save us all.
If the global oligarchy doesn't have an exist strategy, the supposed 'Mars Colony', that's the only way they will be forced to save the Earth and humanity.  Thanx for all you All do; have an excellent eve'   :)   reality
Mike Hopkins Nov 2011
the men in their shiny arsed suits
gather close to the door
inhale the incense, the mothball aroma of their neighbour’s Sunday best
endure the droning of the priest,
who denounces the idleness of men
the sinfulness of women
they feel ferocious thirsts building
their minds have wandered  
to the pub where the publican is pulling pints of porter
letting them stand, almost full, on the bar
foaming, settling, forming voluptuous heads
waiting for the appreciative lips, mouths, tongues of the restless church bound men.
one breaks ranks, sidles out the door
the others look sheepishly at each other and sidle, dribble
across the road to slake their thirsts
knowing that they have, barely, done their duty for the week
they can, with an almost clear conscience
drown their sins in the landlord’s best beer.
©Mike Hopkins
Blog: mistakenforarealpoet.wordpress.com
Sarina May 2013
It breaks my heart that women are assaulted in every country
like, I wish I could attribute it to one bad thing
I wish I could blame it on America or the economy or bubonic plague
I wish it only stung like hot coffee on her tongue
I wish **** were an ocean I could drain the water out of
but some people just think others should be put in a brown bag.

Limbs, limbs, limbs. Are we all just body parts
attached by tendons and cursed by muscles that mothball when we
need to cut the eyeball sockets of someone who wants
to mince clavicles, button noses, great big hearty belly giggles?

Every memory is sorry and starry, every piece of her *****
and I just want to blame it on one
******* bad thing, I want something so disgusting to make sense.
Olivia Kent Apr 2015
In silence we sit.
Staring into each others eyes.
Piercing as rapiers.
Straight through to the other side.
Silently thinking inside our mothball filled heads.
Striking each other, with mental intuition Womanly wiles, coiled as snakes,
Swollen before shedding their skin.
Assassins in silence, diligently plotting next moves.
Coils of passion.
Stilettos fashion.
And you,
You waded into the waters of my mind wearing your bright yellow wellies and little else.
I laughed so much I almost cried.
One argument dispelled.
(c) Livvi
james nordlund Mar 2021
Would ne'er play in a patriarchal,
'men only', anything, except for it's
theme's the 24 th International
Women's Day, on 3-8-21, sadly,
it may be my last one, here, in
your poetry contest, thanx kindly.

This year's main theme's women's
leadership, especially during this
covided year, only the latest, at
least, purposely not prevented
unnatural disaster, not counting
climate crisis' natural ones,

hoisted on humanity by the fossil
fuel headed global oligarchy,
through it's spearhead, the united
**** of assassin's republican
organized crime conspiracy, as it's
latest tool exterminating humanity

to it's extinction.  Like the yoke,
that's no joke, almost defacto-slavery,
put on all newborn neck by the corp.  
structure, it's convolution, and Man,
which can only end by abolishing
fossil fuel use, "there's a beacon

in the sky meant to catch your eye",
Happy Rhodes.  It's a hopeful sign
that Kamala Harris is the first Vice
President of US whose a woman,
and President Biden's doing a great
job.  Solemn lowering of # of, and

remembering the tens of millions of
premeditatedly exterminated, in their
global class war against the lower-
middle-class to poor, targeting men,
is our duty to those martyrs, and
women are at the forefront of this,

as they are in so many vital fields
of endeavor.  Whereas the % of
mass-murdered by pandemic who
are men is more, women are more
effected in totality, specifically they
make up the largest group of front-

line health + family caregivers, and
are at higher risk, suffering the horrid
death toll from that too.  If vlad-the-
impaler, the patriarchy's, la machine's
tres facile global conspiracy didn't
illegally install Utin's **** into The

BlackHouse, a President Hillary
would have stopped the death toll
here at ten thousand, instead of the
**** of Utin's million murdered.
Joe's righting of our Ship of State
the S.S. Tea Party tugged into rocks,

may not be enough to prevent Man's
extinction, it gives US a shot though.
Tragically, in the future kids, women
will be little more than a food source
if we don't mothball NASA, stop their
Mars Colony 'exit strategy', their

'final solution', extinction of humanity
on Earth, necessitates.  Trillions spent
on it come from destroying the Earth
through fossil fuel use, when if it were
left in the ground, instead, humanity
wouldn't be extinct on Earth, awaken.
International Women’s Day 2021 - UN & UN Women Present #IWD2021: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hyOOQ_6L-2I   .  Mahatma Gandhi said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world", "abhaya, fearlessness, is most important for an individual and a nation", "the root of all oppression lies in (supposed) science".  You know why they put a female child in charge of the global climate crisis movement, so it will only fail; don't you let it- or her legitimize supposed science, the premeditated mass-****** of 8 billion humanes.  Write on.  Have a pleasant day   :)   reality
They just came back to me.

Smells of the last winter!

They brought me back
What slipped through
Before I could grab it!

The colors
More diverse than rainbow
Mocked me in their warm glow
For I’m a year older
But their color
Still holding fast
Many of them may outlast
Me
Warmth intact in mothball
While I’m dominated more and more
More harshness I feel
In the winter chill!

*When at last they’ll take me out
They still will be there
Ageless in the cupboard
Holding the once wearer
In their warm void!
Joanna Oz Oct 2015
I found god
while cleaning out my childhood bedroom,
he was buried all dusty
in the left corner of
my mothball closet
underneath the boxed remains
of other men who have left me
guilty and
hungry.
Cassandra Lane Oct 2017
My best friend calls me to ask me how I feel about everything
I reply with “which everything?”
There are so many everything's these days I can’t seem to keep up with them
They spin in clockwork motion
Or maybe more like a wind up toy
Twisting and turning with a click until they explode into motion that leaves me breathless
There are so many everythings
Sometimes they give me whiplash
Sometimes I try to ignore them but they grow like an alarm clock, louder and more annoying every minute.
I try to kick them down but they are resilient
I try to paint them, try to disguise them as oceans and sunsets and birthday clowns
But the paint doesn’t stick
I try to fold them up like antique clothing in an old dresser
But the mothball smell is always there in my nostrils
I try to tuck them under the bed, hide them in the closet, abandon them at the supermarket
The everythings scare me
Reminding me how I am alive
Reminding me that I can not escape them
They will always be here even when I am not
My best friend asks me how I feel about everything
I ask him which everything
If he means the everthing in which I live in the most beautiful place in the world, thousands of miles from home, I would tell him that is the one I paint as sunsets, too beautiful to ignore
If he means the one in which the boy I loved never loved me, I would tell him that is the one I that I try to hide under the bed, but it always makes its way out at night
If he means the one in which my grandfather has died recently, I would tell him that is the one I try to hide away in the dresser but I always find myself opening it back up and finding myself wrapped in his hoodie that was given to me
If he means the one in which society grows scarier everyday, I would tell him that one is the alarm clock that wakes me shaking and sweating in the middle of the night
If he means the everything in which the poetry isn’t enough anymore, I would tell him it’s the one I tried to abandon at the supermarket when buying notebooks and fountain pens and books written by Poe and Bukowski
If he means the everything in which people I trust constantly hurt me, I would tell him that is the everything I try to kick down like a stray dog, but I always find myself letting back into my house during a rainstorm
But in reality I don’t say any of this
He has everythings of his own
We all do
And they’re always here
The everything's do not leave us
They are the only friends we keep for life
They are the ugliest thing in a sunset
The most beautiful thing in a sunrise
They contradict themselves constantly
You can’t predict their next move
And they always leave me breathless
Edward Coles Feb 2014
I have stopped thinking about winter. I have stopped thinking about anything at all. It’s a new methodology I’m trying out. It involves pacifying wants with better hydration and sipping green tea like a whiskey sour. I couldn’t tell you if it works, it’s Day One. It’s always Day One. The only thing I ever truly understood is this: that everybody is guessing their way through life. Homeless preachers, mothball billionaires and the child bride on stilts; all as baffled as the next. What is the use in regarding winter, when it will pass like some face in a crowd?

So I’ve stopped thinking of you, too. I have stopped thinking of you and instead, I listen to hours of positive affirmations play through headphones. I’m told I radiate joy and positive energy, but the voices don’t register the ground up cannabis in my nails. There’s no census of friends, only the binaural beat of false creation but still, I am told repeatedly of my brilliance. It’s enough to go to anybody’s head. That, coupled with old fortune cookie prophecy, leads me to believe in a signpost reality.

I have stopped lending misery to others. Look at my face now and you’ll see absence. It’s an old trick of Buddhism and the new one of fashion. I’ll not smile painfully your way, nor will you catch a scowl in the small reflection of the window. Impassive through and through, I assure you there is a beat somewhere in this chest. It’s still going. I know that because the drinks are still flowing for everybody else but me. I serve you and your friends. You thank me, tip me, pour me over your ice and then forget me by the next song.

I have stopped caring greatly about friendship. Coffee shop dreams and foreign coastlines are imagined only in solitude. Faithful book and the illusion of depth. All inept artists do the same. When nothing else is blooming to art, just turn yourself into it. So, I have stopped thinking about winter. I have stopped thinking about you, and them, and the times I took off my shirt. It’s Day One, but already I am liking what I see. I will wear this indifference like the patterned scarves I’m soon to leave at home.
"Hey, open the door. I want a new life."
Ana Coman Dec 2019
Joiana's getting married
She's carried down the aisle
The Preacher rough and stern
Smiles coyly at the wine.
The guests have lined the wall
The air heavy, scented with mothball
Hat in hand they stand
Trying to recall
With their suited smiles
and their crooked grins
The beauty of Joiana
Misted in sloe gin.
As the Preacher sings
They turn... face the groom
Resting on his cross
Near the upright broom
Forgotten there by Ross
When he last swept the room.
Resplendent all in white
Joiana lays in lace
her heart still, no flap no flutter
Her soul has left no trace..
She's waiting for her cue
To guide her through the light
Into the arms of angels
Where she'll float like a kite.
Aditya Roy Aug 2019
Protected and recyclable, like life enrapturing us in murmurs when it If I'm being sorry and being silent, maybe I'm conscious of my yearning
Risk of being a bad influence, the insurrection of goodness is that velleity towards life evaporating
Without arrogance, honesty lives and learning are passionately making out the life out to a mothball of obdurate in duress
Traces of the masterful
impregnable prepubescent wall
still extant scads of decades since
complex edifice erected to force tall
permanently leaving me unmoored,
marooned, and furloughed ready for pall
bearers to spill soil upon my
then emaciated stick figure overall,

an unlovely bag of bones
stripped of flesh,
sans unseen deadly parasites,
who valiantly tried to mothball,
and nearly succeeded, kneaded,
and deeded landfall,
when aghast parents
at wits end betiding,

halting, and ramming ace kickball
player with serious
game of life and death,
the latter cleated toehold
unanimous decision to install
topnotch scorer anticipating
seeing his name plaque mounted
within glass encasement within guildhall,
faintly hearing inaudible teammates

praised showered, visited
head upon one, with grit and gall,
who clinched championship
wrathful excoriation against me
referee could not forestall,
who fumbled, kindled (as predicted)
loose tongues flaying hide with no rescue
to escape being skewered behind eight ball,

thus the above "FAKE"
metaphor merely to accentuate
self repudiation delivering
to this defacto scapegoat
bullies taunts endlessly berate
ting, jackknifing, and resulting
with implacable self hate
deferrening allowance,

asper my grant (migrant)
humph...pariah status
to learn social skills quite late,
and apathetically to marry and mate
despite ambivalence within my pate
even now...the entombed fortress prison wall,
I cannot obliterate
hence... no surprise WALLS - I HATE!
clouds & chipmunks
underneath it all we are after the same thing
poetry..the stuff deep inside of me
burning in anguish frozen ***
closet breath with mothball scent
here I hide between the frozen chew
look at my elbow parked outside my window
order form...
look at the magazine soft **** inside
the billows be your guide
soft hand to speak
stand still & repeat
Led Zepplin song remains the same
a grocery date with Stop & Shop's,"Marty"...
a token of well gestures
*** Wee Hermon jerking off in the bathroom
although widows peak summoned to the barn door swing
minutes to breath with *** on the beach
God is still in my heart through a latent guide
thoughts of underware..
come as good as it gets..
Major Jackson & Louise Gluck,
spring down with action
pillows with cashmere attire;
I sip on the magic potion
away from the casino tight token
breath in the sweet tense,
John Ashbery dead at 90
a slight riddle in the sand verticle
a double work slight of hand...
Rooster gay friend
he will be missed in another pardon kiss
people, faces & traces
There are bridges to be burned
which turn another page.
Form each circle
cast your bread upon the water,
It will return in measure and method unexpected
Yielding treasure.
There is energy to be stored
and
Experiences to be reviewed
Days of cheese and laughter
ponies
and that transient beauty that permeates the soul.
There is laughter paying homage to the memories
and the loss
which sneak up on me as I turn
to retrace
steps half remembered as my eyes
seek the bridge
now ashes
that separate me
from
my
grief.
look at...

clouds & chipmunks
underneath it all we are after the same thing
poetry..the stuff deep inside of me
burning in anguish frozen ***
closet breath with mothball scent
here I hide between the frozen chew
look at my elbow parked outside my window
order form...

look at the magazine soft **** inside
the billows be your guide
soft hand to speak
stand still & repeat
Led Zepplin song remains the same
a grocery date with Stop & Shop's,"Marty"...

a token of well gestures
*** Wee Hermon jerking off in the bathroom
although widows peak summoned to the barn door swing
minutes to breath with *** on the beach

God is still in my heart through a latent guide
thoughts of underware..
come as good as it gets..
Major Jackson & Louise Gluck,
spring down with action
pillows with cashmere attire;
I sip on the magic potion
away from the casino tight token
breath in the sweet tense,

John Ashbery dead at 90
a slight riddle in the sand verticle
a double work slight of hand...
Rooster gay friend
he will be missed in another pardon kiss
people, faces & traces

— The End —