"slacken" poems - Hello Poetry

A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos. I am earless with music. Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows- foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution, air freshener and the outside sweet at my back all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference. There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor born partially of personal encounter and- nestled in the hive mind of social experience. A distillation of regret and remorse, of lonely, of irrelevance; this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears, eaten by rust. Four cans of beans, kidneys, in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells melting into other curves and I swerve close and around guiltily, noting you only as the source of this pungent spring. You are smiling apologies ignorant of my apparent inhumanity- blind to my selfish hands.. Pinioning belly flesh, flattening, reaching and gaining attendance from a better man retrieving every dropped can. I’m retreating, shaken, tense to alternatively slacken. My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream, moving from shampoo to conditioner, the whole store is infected with smell. Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind- don’t look **don’t look** I can sense little else but dread drawing closer you are now crouched so close I’m gagging, taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood roiling in rot, currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you fumbling with my electric ears, surfacing in a breath of Amish silence broken with simple request and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body that she is excluded and I don’t know why. I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk, over childish lady bugs framed by yellow or dots of red alternating to black, an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.

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Dec 10, 2010

Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC

B_Lid

The Inevitability of Human Incongruity.

A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos. I am earless with music. Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows- foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution, air freshener and the outside sweet at my back all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference. There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor born partially of personal encounter and- nestled in the hive mind of social experience. A distillation of regret and remorse, of lonely, of irrelevance; this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears, eaten by rust. Four cans of beans, kidneys, in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells melting into other curves and I swerve close and around guiltily, noting you only as the source of this pungent spring. You are smiling apologies ignorant of my apparent inhumanity- blind to my selfish hands.. Pinioning belly flesh, flattening, reaching and gaining attendance from a better man retrieving every dropped can. I’m retreating, shaken, tense to alternatively slacken. My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream, moving from shampoo to conditioner, the whole store is infected with smell. Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind- don’t look **don’t look** I can sense little else but dread drawing closer you are now crouched so close I’m gagging, taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood roiling in rot, currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you fumbling with my electric ears, surfacing in a breath of Amish silence broken with simple request and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body that she is excluded and I don’t know why. I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk, over childish lady bugs framed by yellow or dots of red alternating to black, an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.