"sandpapers" poems
i.
the sun burns the grass and the ferns,
they melt under a bright sky,
roughening, like the tongue of a cat,
the grass with its brown sandpapers.
ii.
the flowers pray for me and my
watering can, on a dirt track
the water splashes and the earth
drinks deep, the trees shiver
at the thought of water, their
branches sway, this is to dance -
leaves with patterns scattering -
leafy shade and pools of bright
sun.
iii.
drawn out of the air a drawbridge
of breeze raising its portcullis and
suddenly the heat is bearable,
shadows and sun like a patchwork
quilt.
iv.
we wait for summer, tender-eyed,
smouldering in the heat, the trees
like colossal statues of bronze
stretching branches beneath the canopy
of a green sea in a dream spun
from ebony.
v.
i kiss you, grazed by this
orient sun, my heart
seeking yours, my
legs longing for your legs,
my limbs threading
with yours
while summer
sings of her forgotten
ghosts.
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
It was a man touching his David.
Sculptin’ culture on the contraire.
She drew her lips into a smile.
Four chips in two teeth.
Sketchin’ her out on beach-sandpapers.
Making for days, sculpting.
Making love for days and
being *** for a night or so.
Yea, that’s his David.
That’s his masterful piece.
Call that a non-Goliath.
Call her five foot and four.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
There’s no time for heroes I scream out in the dark,
As narcotic times past are pushed through the dust,
Leaving no warmth in lieu or last shedding light,
We run scared of ourselves and eachother alike,
With nothing but the pity of stars and scars of delight,
Not fearing death but instead lying in wait,
As the sandpapers of time take all but our skin,
Spilling ourselves in grey silent rooms,
Grief over banality is a saccharine mess,
Not knowing best which sins to confess,
But when I’ve breathed out all my toxins my bones can rest,
Sacred satisfied,
Still
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC