"paisley" poems
"I wish I had a cigarette."
The man as he looked down
at his half empty glass of whiskey
at the bar in Paisley Town
Little did he know what that dear
cigarette was bound to be
In the form of a strawberry blonde
no older than twenty-three
- J.S.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
Blue Monday
BY DIANE WAKOSKI
Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts
and clacking together in her elbows;
blue of the silk
that covers lily-town at night;
blue of her teeth
that bite cold toast
and shatter on the streets;
blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens
hanging like tongues
over the fence of her dress
at the opera/opals clasped under her lips
and the moon breaking over her head a
gush of blood-red lizards.
Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and
Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and
Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling
California fountain. Monday alone
a shark in the cold blue waters.
You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl.
I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name
is still wedged in every corner of the sofa.
Monday is the first of the week,
and I think of you all week.
I beg Monday not to come
so that I will not think of you
all week.
You paint my body blue. On the balcony
in the softy muddy night, you paint me
with bat wings and the crystal
the crystal
the crystal
the crystal in your arm cuts away
the night, folds back ebony whale skin
and my face, the blue of new rifles,
and my neck, the blue of Egypt,
and my ******* the blue of sand,
and my arms, bass-blue,
and my stomach, arsenic;
there is electricity dripping from me like cream;
there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or
jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.
Love passed me in a blue business suit
and fedora.
His glass cane, hollow and filled with
sharks and whales ...
He wore black
patent leather shoes
and had a mustache. His hair was so black
it was almost blue.
“Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Mr. Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street
Love passed me on the street in a blue
business suit. He was a banker
I could tell.
So blue trains rush by in my sleep.
Blue herons fly overhead.
Blue paint cracks in my
arteries and sends titanium
floating into my bones.
Blue liquid pours down
my poisoned throat and blue veins
rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip
and are juggled on my palms.
Blue death lives in my fingernails.
If I could sing one last song
with water bubbling through my lips
I would sing with my throat torn open,
the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse,
and on my lips
I would balance volcanic rock
emptied out of my veins. At last
my children strained out
of my body. At last my blood
solidified and tumbling into the ocean.
It is blue.
It is blue.
It is blue.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
Alien among aliens,
Fanning delicate fins to promenade
A prim coquette and starchy cavalier
Trimmed and tined in ossein finery,
Sipping shrimp cocktails, dancing demure
Circles before blushing coral courts,
Holding hinds in groves of turtle grass
Until the paisley bodies
Bump bellies, and she imbues his pocket
With inklings marooned in dreaming Pegasus.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 11:10 AM UTC
GOD GOES FOR A WALK
God goes
for a walk.
it is the depths of Winter
but, at a whim
he makes it
...Spring.
Because.
He can.
I also, as it happens
have gone for a walk
& am surprised by
the sudden change of
the weather. . ?
...whatever!
He is wearing a yellow
gangster style fedora.
He looks like Marlon Brando
being The Godfather.
He sports the brightest of yellow
waistcoats
which compliments
the purple shirt...purple trousers.
He strides along with His
Paisley patterned Parisian walking stick
whistling the music of
The Spheres.
The World bows
before him.
He is well pleased
with Himself, un-
-til: He encounters me
coming towards him
dressed in a gangster style
yellow fedora
the brightest of yellow waistcoats
not to mention the purple shirt...purple trousers.
I, also, possess
a Paisley patterned Parisian walking stick.
We nod politely
saying nothing but...
He is miffed at me
wearing His outfit and
I also miffed at Him
wearing mine!
We pass each other
God & creature.
And ******* if He doesn't
make it Winter
on the very next step.
He was always
a Jealous God.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
Hanging out new to the scene
So often wonder what that means
As I sit in front of the world's screen
Started in on ...Googling
I typed in a single word
Pressed enter for the Google search
Took me down the path absurd
Where all the lines were blurred
From there I ventured off the path
Wish I'd known there's no turning back
Marveled at the knowledge that I lack
Like how to whittle your own baseball bat
Just in case you're wondering
Midgets don't melt in the rain
Who doesn't think that that's insane
As I dive deeper into Googling
The art of bathing a Hindu rat
Skinning a two-headed Siamese cat
The taking of the perfect nap
Standing up while keeping your lap intact
How to delicately pierce a Rhino's ear
Dressing up then down a deer
50 different ways a man can cheer
While toasting his favorite Micro beer
Abstract art using cotton *****
How to paint between the lines on paisley walls
Teaching Yankees how the South says ya'll
Lost episodes of the show called Lost
Food served upon the world's menus
Even specialties from Timbuktu
Why the sea is green and the sky is blue
As my googling madness continues
More artwork this time with the jam of toes
How to pick your friends but never your friend's nose
Cleaning of the house without a stitch of clothes
The whole time being careful with the vacuum hose
80's Hairbands I used to like
That now know what bald feels like
Making a homemade Hindenburg kite
One that lands this time
How to handle midlife like a man
Taking a survey of what you could have been
Raising Spider Monkey's in the comfort of your den
As I keep on Googling
I now find myself Googling out in front
As I'm Googling from behind
Googling up as I'm Googling down
To the left and to the right
I've learned how to gargle Google
That's a well known Google fact
And if you don't believe me
You can even Google that
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
We catch the sunset
while eating
breakfast: ignoring
mothers, ignoring
landlords, skinning our knees
and skipping supper,
using the kitchen with some
improvisation, forgetting to stir
the pasta, blotting bacon
with coffee filters,
flinging linguini on the walls
and the ceilings (for
if cooked it will cling
but if raw it will fall).
“Is that pasta on the wall?”
“Is it purple?”
Outside a boy
in a dress shirt and a girl in
a paisley skirt walked past
the window, holding hands
and clutching palm
Sunday leaves.
Then the strand of linguini
began to detach itself from
the ceiling, like a break dancer,
with flimsy limbs,
and when it dropped
it fell through the air
like an Olympic
diver, twirling and curling
with two ends clung
to one another
and then unfolding
underwater.
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 1:01 AM UTC
Under the tree of the university
A shadow was gruesomely cast.
The branches made too much shade
And there grew no grass.
No one would lie under its wood
Down beside its trunk;
It wasn't essential, there was no potential,
Claimed the revered monk
But late at night you'll find him lying in the dirt
Wearing a Paisley Poplin Shirt
The click of the gears define his years,
A cycle on a chain
A cloud of sand thrown by his own hand
Hones forth his pain
He blows seeds of dandelion weeds
****** a ****** field
And he pretends that he intends
To reap this horrible yield
Because unintentionally he subconsciously convert
To one who wears a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Covered in rust, a blade he adjusts,
His mind remains unwrung
The words to speak were too **** bleak
So he cuts off his tongue
He'll be finished when he's diminished
These humanly sights
If there's no vision at the end of his mission
He'll gouge out his eyes
And Helen Keller takes one of her old ragged skirts
And fashions him a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Why must we be obsessed
With the unseen
When we know we cannot
Make something out of nothing
And to those of you who think that you cannot be hurt
Stones go thru a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 2:49 AM UTC
Crazy reared its many heads
Twisted shades of paisley swirls
Kaleidoscope emotionality
Rollercoaster of fear and love
Through the storms of mushroom clouds
An air of peace remained
For that ever-changing scene
Was founded in the purest love
The realest dream come true
No fear of insanity consuming truth
Truth is kaleidoscopes are beautiful
Never boring by design
There is peace in the knowledge
That crazy is exceptional, brilliant
To know a soul, exciting
And through it all
We traverse the universe as one
Riding the wings of insanity
Skiing across the seas
On the backs of narwhals
Simply because they are awesome
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 4:55 AM UTC
The Man in Black
The Silver Fox
Brad Paisley shows
That Country Rocks
Western's gone
But Country's not
Remember those
Who time's forgot
From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song
Loretta Lynn
Dottie West
Patsy Cline
They were the best
Old time country
Tennessee tunes
Mountain Bluegrass
My favorite tunes
From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song
The singers change
The tunes do not
They still sing the music
That others forgot
Williams and Jones
Acuff and Dickens
Old Buck and Roy
Still Pickin' and grinnin
From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 11:19 AM UTC
From beginning to end
she kept a straight face.
If she didn't, she would just explode.
The white, silk polka-dots
surrounded her, billowing
like an ivory cloud.
She grasped his finger tightly,
Her manicured hands sweating, feet throbbing.
The ring touched her head.
She had not promised herself to another.
She kept a straight face.
If she smiled, she would just burst.
On their heads were glorious crowns
of laurels and satin,
and they danced the ancient dance of Isaiah.
She kept a straight face,
if she didn't watch where she was going
she would fall, but he would catch her.
*May you be as loving as Isaac and Rebecca,
as fruitful as Jacob and Rachel.*
Another squeeze of his pinky, and a twitch of her cheek.
God grant many years!
Chant onlookers.
Her eyes flooded and washed away
her straight face.
Catching her soiled tears,
Papa's paisley black handkerchief.
She was still his little Tzeitel.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 6:09 PM UTC
Rows of starched green and yellow paisley feather stalks
Marching in ordered lines along the road to 57 Eldon Way
Hot dogs and char burgers charge the air with yesterday's homecoming
Buds of moxie memories tipping long ears to big blue
Listening to the chickadees vocal pecking at kernels from the past
Morsels fall to the dirt signal life again for those willing to root
Pulled magpies to lines spy intimate joy-scattered seed below
Promising fortunes creased by hourglasses settled sand
White washed porches with rose printed borders
Nestle a "his and her" swing vantage over familiar fields
Imagined better-time scenes from selfie soaked movies
More real than all the forgotten stones ever stepped upon
Sweet tea sugar fills tall glasses of yarn spun dreams
Glory red and navy rippling a windy beat
To the clang of their steal pole clasp
Dance
Swing with them and recall a time of slower horizons
Of richer baskets
Of brighter springs
Of longer summers
Take a dip in the swimming hole
Naked, together, and happy
© 2019 MJL
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
clumsy trip up the 17
steps to the paisley sheets
me behind you and
saying the same thing
with a new twist
"hey, know whats trending?"
"your sweet ***
or
"you smell that?!"
to which you reply
"farts is trending"
no able to erupt
in the uproarious laughter
necessitated by turning
a tired line on its head
i cover my mustachioed mouth
with a sweaty palm
to cover the guffaw
that would most certainly
awake my roommates
you always in the lead
giving *** for tat
the style of humor
i searched for yearningly
and never found
that is
till you released wind
and then told me about it
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
i've reverted back to the days when
i held a permanent position
in between the arms of an
ugly, paisley patterned easy chair.
i played a game of hide and seek--
hiding from feelings, sought only by others
to prove that i had some semblance of humanity
lurking behind my blank eyes.
those days were dark, angry
as they ate me up, gathering every drop
of my existence like a sponge
fast forward: i'm far away and
mom says the chair is gone.
what should have felt like anguish
feels like nothing.
all the feelings are in the chair
like coins hidden in the couch cushions,
gone before we recognized their existence.
i've reverted back to the days when
i held a permanent position
in between the arms of an
ugly, paisley patterned easy chair,
but now the chair is gone
and i am left to soak up the feelings.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
~
Standing to fight
In the heart of the city
The jungles of asphalt
where neon flashes evil
as sidewalk dwellers
window shop hate
and find peace labeled “Not for sale”
I cling to my beliefs
in lamp post graffiti
Spray painted wishes
fading in color
and store owner nightmares,
defacing the brick walls
surrounding my very existence
Fear falls in pamphlet raindrops,
pages scattered
beyond the welcome mats
of big box politicians
in paisley ties
and sharp creased slacks,
shaking hands and scamming votes
Promises made
circled in cigar smoke and cheap wine,
fall on unsuspecting ears as truth
until the “sorry we’re closed” signs
spin in favor of loss…
opening for business
to the throngs of the needy
I see their eyes, hollow,
faltering of sorrow as worry
becomes the next day’s problem
Reaching into my pocket I retrieve
the multi-colored wings you gave me…just in case
and I fly to be with you
Unable to face the fall…of humanity
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
Standing in the August sun,
Your skin soaks up the light,
And saves it for November,
When clouds occlude the sky.
The gentle breeze softly coaxes
The folds of your paisley dress,
To gather up their courage
And ask your hair to dance.
Silent finches straining to hear,
Her soaring, piccolo laugh.
The waves cresting to see,
Her pure and radiant smile.
Like stars that come to speckle
The navy nighttime sky,
Each morning a brand new freckle
Appears below your eye.
Adorned with grace and charm,
With patience and joy complete,
Dare not to look away,
None other can compete.
Grumbling fingers,
Untying scarlet ribbons,
White banners to unfurl,
And forfeit to the beauty,
Of my gorgeous summer girl.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
She has a special Siren's song
Pastel paisley, passion's Dawn.
She's aloof, she takes on airs,
Wearing seashells in her hair.
Abalone, mother of pearl
Arms that take in all the world!
She Chuckles softly
with the birds
She speaks to stars
without a word.
She bids them run!
She bids them hide!
She tucks the mountains
to her side.
Then, whispering,
she turns to wink
The morning Sky
will blush to Pink!
Yes! Desert Thrashers
laugh out loud!
She's Tangled in
the pewter clouds!
She whistles low
her magic tune,
The dew soaked desert's
her perfume.
Though it's the Sun
she courts and woos
She entices all...
the morning muse.
Catherine jarvis
Write of Passage aka
SoulSurvivor
2018
Aug 20, 2022
Aug 20, 2022 at 6:06 PM UTC
Hello, little god,
cornered in this world of insignificance;
between sips of too-cold raspberry tea
create your own brand of madness
and label it "art."
From the blueberry stool
that is your throne, conduct
symphonies of beluga whales and
daisy chains molded together
to craft another colorful beginning.
Papercuts and calluses
are your battle wounds;
a diligent ballpoint pen
is the dog that marks its territory.
But then--
White knuckles
crumple mistakes,
transforming them into carpet-coating origami.
Your fingers keep the beat
that defines disincentive:
bmm, bmm, bmm.
Possessed
by antagonistic demons, tug
at the noose that is
a favorite paisley tie
and admit defeat.
Take another bite of your
overpriced Reuben sandwich.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
Midnight honeycomb
Songs of being alone
Funk chunk xylophone
Ribbons untied
Capsules split by
Things unknown
Rips unsewn
Floating free for all
Casket creep crawl
I dug you out of things too heavy
Too heavy
Too heavy
Broke the levy
We all drown
But the sound of things unfathomed
saved us from ourselves
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:44 AM UTC
~
Painting a picture of porcupines playing
Pincushions out in the field
Purple and pink for this playful perception
Plans of their purpose revealed
Painful endeavors of pacified pranksters
Presenting a pie at their place
Pecan or pumpkin, pickle, pineapple
Pieces are smeared on their face
Putting the paint on some powder puff paper
Pleasure in each stroke is plied
Pausing to peer at the porcupines playing
Prancing in pansies they hide
Puzzling problems with pretzels and peanuts
Posturing people to prove
Pistachio perfume in prime presentation
Preaches that peaches will move
Polishing pastels on pre-printed pages
Prized the possessions we seek
Paisley the plumes of a peacocks posterior
Portraits now come take a peek
Pampering piccolos play the piano
Pure as a pelican’s prayer
Picking a parcel of plum flavored pudding
Poetic prose fills the air
Pleats in my pants shout in proud proclamation
Puddle my pores they perspire
Poodles on playgrounds prevent prosecution
Plotting my hearts pure desire
Passion precedes every past tense of parting
Piled with a presence so true
Painting a picture while purposely dreaming
Promising my love to you
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
country music
summer nights
getting close
by fire light
sneaking glances
drinking beer
making sure
the coast is clear
pretty girls
excited boys
experiencing
summer joys
paisley on
the radio
guessing just
how far to go
sweaty bodies
kept in check
in chairs out
on the cottage deck
slip down through
the boat house door
to swim out to
the float off shore
summer boys
and summer girls
swim out past
the water swirls
washing off
the summer dust
and giving in
to summer lust
cottage campers
paddle by
as silently
our campers lie
sneaking glances
drinking beer
making sure
the coast is clear
country music
summer nights
knowing when
the time is right
now is time
to turn the page
as two young campers
come of age.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
It has come into question
My love for the Croc
Whether it be in bare twinkle toes
Or with knee high socks
Rubber on rubber
From top end to sole
Soft spongy comfort
To take on the road
Yes they're here for the comfort
Not here for the speed
Certainly not for the fashion
If that's what you seek
You might have already guessed
That left long ago
Trying hard to impress
Those in the know
The older you get
The less that you care
Hence my love for the Croc
And fur underwear
But back to my Crocs
Like it or not
It's all that I wear
They're all that I've got
Ask me which style
That I mostly own
(Inquiring minds want to know)
I'd have to say
Why, "The Original"
It's streamlined to date
With the perfect number of holes
I even wear them on dates
These Crocs got it going on
So let me be the first
To let you all in on this
My love for Crocs
Is just what it is
Be it in the bare feet
Or with paisley socks
You need to get over it
Cause I love my Crocs
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
Puce fresnel washed its light on his over sized African patterned dashiki,
while paisley notes poured from his reeded dreams.
Like the Hamelin piper I was mesmerized by hypnotic tones,
every sweet and spicy slur, every bend of every breath,
I followed him down history’s path and heard the world come boldly through.
“You got to keep the magic”, was his advice .
“Don’t give away too much of the theme.”
Through fake fog he swirled his love,
his passion, his calling.
“Summertime”, played on an oboe
is like hot liquid southern summer ***
It crawls up your spine and explodes in your brain,
and you understand the songs meaning without one word sung.
Hundreds of years of vassalage reenacted in every blue colored measure.
This man did not think of himself as a descendant of slavery though.
He was, like all of his brothers of color,
a descendant of great Princes and Kings,
stealthy Hunters and fearless Warriors,
grand Land Owners and Wise Men,
Great Leaders of Peace and Brotherhood,
and he lived out his life as they did,
changing the world one note at a time.
He played the music of all people,
“World Music” it later came to be known.
Listen….he is in the rhythm still.
Wherever there is an ethnicity holding on to their heritage in song.
Wherever there is an indigenous rhythm, a harmony, a feeling……
Yusef is there, and he will be there forever.
*Yesef Lateef
Born October 9, 1920 in Chattanooga, TN
Died December 23, 2013 Shutesburry, MA
Musician, author, spokesman, educator
Instruments: tenor saxophone, flute, oboe, bassoon, bamboo flute, shehnai, shofar, arghul, koto
Recalling a magical night at Stratton Mt.,Vermont, in the winter of 1975 when I opened for Yusef Lateef.*
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
I dream often about the circus
A place I loved to go to as a child
Mesmerized by clowns and jugglers
Enthralled by animals from the wild
As the lights dim and the spot light shines
The ringmaster steps into its glow
"Welcome one, welcome all
to the Wilkie circus show! "
That's when things take a turn
As they always do in dreams
The spotlight finds me in the crowd
As the ringmaster calls my name
I find myself in the center ring
Dressed up just like a clown
Fuzzy yellow hair, big red nose
And grandma's paisley gown!
It turns even odder I'd say as the animals parade
With heads and bodies that are mismatched
Lions with the heads of monkey's
and zebras with the smiles of Cheshire cats
It doesn't get much stranger than that!
A flash of light and everything changes
I find myself on the high wire
My balance beam a giant matchstick
And "HELP" its been lit on fire!
That's when I start twirling it like a baton
As the crowd below chants my name
You never know what will happen next
In the circus of my dreams
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
I held up that grand quilt in my tiny hands, thoughts rushing past my mind.
That denim piece splattered with red paint,
ah, remember when you wore that for the first time as you picked carrots with Dad?
That cotton piece filled with a vibrant orange,
how could you forget? That was the dress you wore to your first ever play recital.
That baby pink rayon piece,
you wore that on the first day of high school, you could not forget.
That grey wool piece,
that was your Christmas present, and you wore it near the fire. You spilled hot coco on it.
That rare purple leather,
that is too important to forget. Remember, it was the jacket you wore on you first date.
That blue flannel piece,
you loved that one. You wore it all the time, ever since the first time you wore it when you won “best speaker” at a school competition.
That brown cupro piece,
you wore that to your mother's birthday, the one where she got promoted to L.A.
That green polyester piece,
never can forget, could you? That was the shirt you wore when Dad and Mom divorced.
That white lyocell piece,
you wore it at your graduation party, and your whole family was there.
That barkcloth piece,
it was a day to remember, you united with you brother once again in that dress.
That calico piece,
you wore that to the hospital when Granddad got a heart attack.
That black and white damask piece,
that was so beautiful, so you kept it for your dinner. Which you hadn't realized was your engagement dinner with your boyfriend.
That red gingham piece,
wow, that was the time you met your dad's girlfriend. And Mom had not moved on.
That black lace piece,
a day never to forget. It was the funeral of your Granddad’s, and that was the dress you wore.
That grey gauze piece,
it was the shawl you wore when you visited your grandma, and found out she was ill of depression.
That amazing white gazar piece,
a memorable day. It was the dress you wore to you wedding.
That turquoise silk piece,
*too soon after your wedding. It was the part of the purse you took to your Grandma's funeral. *
That white and blue jacquard fabric,
that was the fabric you had for your curtains, when you moved into your own house.
That leopard print intarsia piece,
it was an amazing day. Your mother visited you the first time in your new home. The both of you cried with the rain pouring outside. Nothing could have ruined that beautiful moment together, united.
That satin cobalt blue piece,
that dress you wore to the dinner with your parents and husband. Only to later realize that you brother had met with an accident.
That exotic lantana piece,
you remember, don't you? You wore that dress when you met your brother days later, severely hurt.
That red lace piece,
you went to London with your husband wearing that. You were so excited.
That madras piece,
it came from that cushion out of the four your husband bought you.
That cream organdy piece,
your mother had found it in her closet, a dress from her mother's, and wanted to give it to you.
That deep purple paisley piece,
you wore that on the day your mother died.
And like that, all the thoughts came back to me. All the pieces of my past, fit in together. But it never made sense – that was how my life worked. And there were more pieces, more parts, to fit together, until my life was spread out in front of me. Like a patched quilt.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
I imagine a therapist office
as they are lavished in on tv shows
and they're not really like that;
instead of a cozy dimly lit office
it's a white wall maze.
As my doctors
are not private ones
and they surely disclose
all about me
to the insurance company.
I can't help, but twiddle my thumbs
and wonder about the
cries for help
that linger on these paisley painted
dry walls--
snickered with inpersonal
portraits of strangers;
that probably wish
they hung in one of those
elegant, brash, and luxurious offices on tv.
Or maybe instead
the paintings longingly wish
to be dead as well--
instead of being
in this subservient storehouse
that is standing in for an therapist office.
Getting up from another stand-in
this rash beast of dull coloured dust;
calling it a chair would insinuate people
are supposed to sit there,
but I assume
it's true purpose is for the ill-ful
to find something uglier than life itself.
Leaving through another betrayal
that existence couldn't be more lame
is a doorway with the most faux of all possible doors;
it's screaming "nobody ever cut down a tree to make this".
Slipping past another door (eye role)
I come to be in the same room,
but this space is two faultering steps to the left.
And instead of dust everywhere
it's a mobbish moss melancholy
that distastefully lingers
in my personal office's air.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC