"pillbox" poems
Her mind is gone
Lost among the dust
Her lies pierce me
Inadvertent as they are
One day bleeds into the next
Days of the week spelled out
Empty spaces in the pillbox
Sharp eyes grow confused
Losing their purchase of life around
My heart tears amongst the dust
Lost life murmuring in the dark
Surefooted stumbles and quick falls
Blurring confusion sweeps past
Room filled memories gathering dust
Her mind is lost
Gone amongst the dust
cc1210
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 4:48 PM UTC
November in Quebec.
Almost winter, dull wet snow
And clothing never warm enough
To keep the dampness out.
Nothing like Dallas it seems
Where, even though the television says it’s cool,
She wears a light-weight suit of pink and navy blue
And matching pillbox hat.
November in Quebec.
On a day that seems to go from grey to grey
And grey all in between,
We sit in heated classrooms
With the first damp smell of mothballed wool,
While black and white New England nuns,
Banished for their sins to northern, foreign cold,
Talk about their hero (and now ours)
As if he were alive:
Alive enough to step up from the grave,
Alive enough to kiss the snow-white blonde,
Who squeezed into a dress that shone like freezing rain
The night she sang her birthday tune.
I watch for tears from the widow’s blank-stare eyes:
They don’t show through the sheer black veil
That drapes her pillbox hat.
It’s ’64 and winter in Quebec.
The ground’s so hard
That grandma has to wait for spring to lie down in the ground.
I think of her as if she were alive:
I feel her hold my feet again,
I see her smiling at the door.
On this sad and sunny day,
In my grey wool coat and matching pillbox hat,
I watch a dark brown box get rolled away.
Looking down at the new white snow and my new red boots
I blink and blink and squeeze my frozen tears behind my blank-stare eyes
And think I might be Jackie.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
It's September; cold in the copses,
Feverish in the kitchen.
The sink clinks and exorcises
The china like an Italian sonata.
My lips merge into ether
At the sky, a periwinkle parallax
With the pork lard carbon monoxide
Clouds, at drive with suicide.
My Buddha hisses at the window,
Ripping the tentacles off weedy carrots.
The knives are clever & precise
Hiding in their handled shoals
Like luminescent Jackanapes
Out for the thrill of the ****
The **** of the stake of steak,
A 'Cow'ardly act.
I wrap the red & dead
Into a Beef Wellington.
It is not pretty at all;
But neither am I.
I'll drink tea to keep my peace,
Swallow my spirituality like a pain killer.
The teabag sags its straggled string,
Scolding me.
The pillbox is dead on the edge
Of the ornamented kitchen sill
A lot like me; sullen and teasing.
I wanted to roast my head like a potato
If the pudding *** over boiled,
A cauldron of sugar and cream
Fattening me ugly and crazy.
The weather is miserable; I mustn't lie,
It's enough to make any young woman want to die.
Stirring my thoughts with the dishes,
Trashing potato peels like my wishes.
And the stacks and stacks of kill-me pills
Surround like troops in their barricade cupboards.
I have no allies,
Everyone is asleep;
I curl up like a fat snail and weep
Blackening the words of the miracle-working Priest.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
The pink Corvette - driving madam |
in Jackie O shades & pink pillbox
hat getting photographed
pulling up to the townhouse
for the Page
Six pin-up : : her girls from
the Midwest, trained & groomed,
crowned & titled; every one
wearing their own diamond tiara;
only the best of the best dolls, dames &
dishes get served
[working
girls] work Barbie's Dream Brothel; bouffant & hoop earrings
& a silver slit skirt;
timelessly retro (the one sixteen,
the other fourteen)
where the hell do u think u're going - -]
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
No Matter The Floor You Pass Out On
I awake as any other madman slash poet.
Apon the floor naked pizza box for pillow a members only jacket for a blanket.
yes the libary sure has changed over the years.
less and less people were reading buggets were cut meaning
libraryies were under staffed and rarely did anyone dare venture into
the stacks and thank good for that. Cause being i preffered free sleeping
it was probaly for the best.
but no matter the the floor you pass out on most all fine
american men wake up with are god given birth rite.
That which after a trip to the restroom like
that early morning madness that was christmas pressent openning
was over way to fast and was kinda disapointing.
Floors werent the best beds in the world in fact they
****** altogather but drinking and common sense dont even
belong in the same room togather.
Portsmouth Va was a strange world indeed a place where upscale colided with skidrow.
Me I preffer the company of a outdoor sleeper to that of a
spoiled spoon fed yuppie ****
the art school cranked out angst ridden buble people by the second.
They walked the street soaking in the pain of life.
there heads stuck so far up there ***** I always felt compeled to trip them as they walked by.
acting as though they were outsiders yerning to be mainstream
they'd **** there mothers on a mtv reality show as dad cried in the background.
Just for a taste of stardom.
True talent who needs that?
but no matter the floor you pass out on one
thing was clear.
In a world were you could have a bus load
of kids and get paid for it.
fame wasnt such a rare thing anymore.
The floor I passed out on was cold and cruel but surrounded
voices from the past.
the floor these hollow reallity show bottom feeders
passed out on. Had to besoft as there heads.
Otherwise there brains would splatter across the floor.
And some TV exect would have a brainstorm to have a show
were washed up celebrities would have a contest.
To see who could bore us the most with there sob story
Yes friends id rather have a pizza box for a pillow
than a reality show pillbox for a brain.
and the truth effectsus all form no matter
which floor so you do choose to pass out on.
Dec 11, 2009
Dec 11, 2009 at 7:12 AM UTC
Texas 1959, And today Out of Time
Oswald... The CIA Admits As Role Prime
To Play Lee Harvey... Until the Time
He could be used... And hid behind
The Asassination of Castro He Failed
Still Playing Him along... to their Avail
The Victim of the Ruse.....
Never Realised his Use..... in the End
They Plied him with *****
Hookers and Promises.....
Trips to Cuba and Secret Meetings
A Snipers Rifle with Desperate Leanings
Keeping him fed with Lies
The CIA Cast the Die
Feeling Let down by JFK that Day
Over the "Bay of Pigs"
His Truce they regarded For
A weakness that Moscow
Would Subvert Somehow
For the President Folded
Then Came that Fatal Texas Day
In 1963, Lee Harvey at the Depository
Smiling Waving JFK in a.....
White Lincoln Town Car Parade
The Shot Rang out where he sat
Blood splattered on Jackie's Pillbox Hat
Jack Ruby ready was Very Fast
To make sure the Truth Didn't Last
The CIA Made Numerous Omisions
Of Evidence to the Investigation Commision
Keeping it all Hid away, Till the CIA Historian
Opened the file of Lies, from the day.....
The President Died....................................
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
It wasn’t always this way
She was lovely once…
A beauty to make a brothers
Chest ache… And
Breath come short...
Before
Too many dreams deferred
Deadened a too free spirit
Too many pains
Damaged a too big heart
Too many losses and not enough gains
Too much liver killing corn whiskey
And soul stealing violent man
Made it now easy
For her to enfold herself
In the tragedy of the day
Anguished runny jaundiced eyes
Sunken under fake lashes that
Look too heavy for the job
Her late idea of beautification
Trying to work with what shes got
Only to accentuate the misery
In the much worn brown face where
Cheap foundation
Does a backwards slide
Into tale-telling lines that
Scream louder a narrative
Of brokenness
And she sits… alone
Always
On that stool
In a dark and dingy
Numbing place
Leaned on one elbow
Slightly to the left
Blond wig perched on her head
Like a church lady’s pillbox hat
Only this ain’t no church
And she ain’t no lady
Not no more…
But it wasn’t always this way
She was lovely once...
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
The triazolam is draining out.
Seeping down a peptic route.
Antacids disintegrate the lining.
Pain leaves me pinning.
Drowning on pink.
Spat up in the sink.
This sickness is wearing me thin.
Unsafe in my own skin.
Prescribed relief in the form of cold sweats.
Unapproved medicine tested on pets.
The rainbow pillbox comes in a set.
Getting wealthy off of the net.
Anemic royalty.
Sipping on Pennyroyal Tea.
Taking a drive to San Andres.
Dinning on mixed sangrias.
Bummed for a hit.
Blown…spit.
Complexion grows yellow.
The cost of my mellow.
Prescribed relief in a hospital bed.
Deaf to kind words said.
Can’t escape the notion in my head.
Telling me I’m already dead.
Loss of focus.
These drugs are bogus.
Light gradually fades away.
Soiled underwear, the thing to stay.
Soul ripped and torn apart.
Taken away on a crash cart.
Transfusion first, dialysis later.
Lack of a pulse, huge deflator.
Prescribed relief in the form of cremation.
Ceremony held, not a single relation.
No will left as a last proclamation.
Assets absorbed by a forfeiture corporation.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
Gon' drinkin', out behind a
Reservoir of good will, with
Pillbox eyelids, and third-day dirt.
Stumbling, and suddenly sobered
By a Queen holding Court
Silver-freckled, auburn haired
Sweating under the sun
Shining on her tee shirt
Somewhere, from a secret cigarette
Soft-blue silk is rising.
Men wearing armor, the color of
Christmas lights, stand guard.
Invisible, if not for an
Incessant rain, insisting on
Their silhouettes.
Bronze icons, the rubble beneath her.
Returned to their birth-site, the
Brush and broken glass of a
Resin-colored dusk.
"If you're having trouble
With your next one, it won't be
Too hard to light it for you. I know
How fast tears can
Dowse a needed flame."
Still the snow-covered stick of dynamite, and a
New stick is now burning,
Behind all the bushes.
True belief in her
Opportunity for rebuttal.
Boot prints in the courtyard
Press a face that look up at us
"Like a cross-between Kurt Cobain and Jesus."
Martyrs of a movement
Our people fail to understand.
Polite to the end, and even
Presented with the
Crowned homecoming of a higher horizon, she
Spins and falls, deliberately sputtering out
"Don't let me get smoke in your eye."
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
Your giant leap for mankind
Was my exile in a pillbox
A stasis of dead-ends and
Reckless door-knockers
Undifferentiation
Hallucination
Annihilation
Apocalypse of self
Over-man or Under-man
Can’t hide from the super-group
Who prematurely created him-
A slave in their time loop
Moving to keep from standing still
Blame it on a quicksilver mind
Day or night it’s machinery
Starving to be bled and blind
Initiation
Fragmentation
Annihilation
Apocalypse of self
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 4:28 PM UTC
Catching semiotic holdings from a cow-licked brain ****
Matching periodic scoldings, from a plough of picked-plain art
Filled prescription left for digestive tracts dissolution
Milled conscription cleft as congestive cracks merge in illusion
Temporal reconstruction, as the Adderall seeps into place
Federal distribution, as the admiral heaps the case
Welled as the spineless listen to a cautionary thought
Held as a timeless vision of a stationary plot
Pillbox running on fumes, causing fresh hysteria to solidify
Paradox coming, dawn looms, pausing thresh, staging an area to demystify
Later, new levy forbids pawing fear, spoken rotten, a deloused baiting sound
Cater to heavy lids, drawing near the cotton housed waiting ground
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
Tongue tied on double speak
I’m counting off diseased freckles
Waiting on a fragment to leak
This house sure sounds bleak
Miss Mary found hysteria
In a pillbox prescription
Developed quite the predilection
And overriding addiction
Her infant Michael drank Drano,
He found under the sink
Life stripped in a blink
Should have had a child lock, one would think
Arthur vanished with the birth of a daughter
He thought the whole notion was too big a bother
Left the girl alone in life
To struggle though adolescence without a father
Claire, the good one, wasn’t without her faults
All she did was babel
About her family life or lowly rabble
Confucius orders you to cease this gabble
Ear warped on endless noise
I’m counting off diseased freckles
Thinking up ******* ploys
Or perhaps I should just lose my poise
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 3:14 AM UTC
I’ve been trying to fall asleep for 17 years
leaving blue imprints of my face on pillow cases
a signature of each dream I’ve had and forgotten.
Take me to church for my medicated tongue
and butterflies on my cheeks,
in a week
I’ll rest my forehead between the pews
on thick books of medical literature
again and again,
pressing a tiny cross into my skin.
I am not a religious person;
my poetry is about the silent h’s in words,
rhetorically questioning rhyme,
sedating my hair into thirds
and braiding my fingers with thyme.
Sacrifice a rib for a sheet of paper,
write me all your recipes,
notes on world history and
a list of pros and cons of living in Berlin.
Onomatopoeias keep me up until
6am
with wide eyes and albums of expired polaroids.
Dilated voices in fluorescent hallways
mix with the whispers of comfortable shoes,
hoping for good news.
After 17 years, my hands are shaky
my kitchen counter has a S-S pillbox
and I love the sound of sleepiness.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
Coffee in a teacup
Hard-boiled egg
Remote control
Squeaky chair leg
And a butterfly pillbox filled with red white and blues
Watch the uninspired TV
And become a pathetic ghost
Excuse me while I implode
I wrote a check to Mother Nature
But it bounced
Strip the city of me
You’ll find nothing to envy
And when I die in my dreams
My eyes become the milky way
My body is a tree
With my mind and heart branching out towards heaven
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
You hypnotize me as you paralyze me
And you make me have ***** dreams that blur the lines of reality
And you’re the calm before the storm, you’re the weather when it’s warm
You’re my guiding light, you’re my satellite
Can’t kick the fever of the night when the moon is shining bright
Reaching infinity with you below city lights
And our love is so galactic, erases pillbox blues of plastic
The Milky Way is envious, we dig deep down to the earth’s crust
And no matter where I am, committing sins or making amends
You will always be my friend, no matter how the story ends
So let’s make a pact out of blood and powder
Let’s turn the stereo up a little bit louder
Let’s vanquish all our fears
Make our love like a light year
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
With a sigh of relief
the numbness is back.
I wake up in the morning
waiting for when I can take my medicine
and go back to sleep.
I'm not abusing it.
I take it when I'm supposed to.
But sleep is my favorite past time
because nothing hurts when I sleep.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 1:44 AM UTC
As the pills
Sent those chills
I felt strange
I couldn't change
My body shivering
The pain delivering
Me closer now
I'm dying somehow
Blurry *** vision
Falling into submission
Slipping away again
Commiting a sin
All my rage
A pillbox cage
I can't explain
Yet I complain
How others are
Weak so far
Just let go
All I know
Shelf my hope
I can't cope
Honestly I apologize
My life I despise
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC