"snaggletooth" poems - Hello Poetry

I see the cockroach caress the counter next to a brewing *** of coffee, striking a chord of crystaline sweetness, that God and Satan could both agree upon. In the living room, my best friends are killing each other, kissing each other, falling in love, snagging, splitting stitches, chalk outlines, black mail, and hopes for a resurrection swirl and spin with the scent of perfume and coffee beans. My phone lights up with a message asking for some real advice, my response is to get a new religion, and wait for the bombs to fall. Outside light pollution fills the sky, an eerie day that just won't die, negotiating with eager streetlights, and all-night diners. On the corner of 23rd and Western, a dancing grinderman, a homeless woman with a snaggletooth smile, and their prize of a monkey are cutting the night with desperation croons, and delightful foresight. Just past the construction on the east side of the city, a one-legged, heathen named James W. Green is finding solace with a defeated, overthehill harlot, going to and fro in a motorized sanctuary, and grabbing change from her coin-dispensing hips. I discover a pen embedded in the carpet, I spend the rest of the evening split between Midnight Man poetry, and dictating divine apocrypha, while once bright-eyed friends of mine mourn over marriage, self-medication strategies, and scrape the bottom of the barrel with their tongues to ensure it's tangible.

0

Jan 5, 2011

Jan 5, 2011 at 7:42 AM UTC

jj-hutton

of chalk outlines, heathens, and harlots

I see the cockroach caress the counter next to a brewing *** of coffee, striking a chord of crystaline sweetness, that God and Satan could both agree upon. In the living room, my best friends are killing each other, kissing each other, falling in love, snagging, splitting stitches, chalk outlines, black mail, and hopes for a resurrection swirl and spin with the scent of perfume and coffee beans. My phone lights up with a message asking for some real advice, my response is to get a new religion, and wait for the bombs to fall. Outside light pollution fills the sky, an eerie day that just won't die, negotiating with eager streetlights, and all-night diners. On the corner of 23rd and Western, a dancing grinderman, a homeless woman with a snaggletooth smile, and their prize of a monkey are cutting the night with desperation croons, and delightful foresight. Just past the construction on the east side of the city, a one-legged, heathen named James W. Green is finding solace with a defeated, overthehill harlot, going to and fro in a motorized sanctuary, and grabbing change from her coin-dispensing hips. I discover a pen embedded in the carpet, I spend the rest of the evening split between Midnight Man poetry, and dictating divine apocrypha, while once bright-eyed friends of mine mourn over marriage, self-medication strategies, and scrape the bottom of the barrel with their tongues to ensure it's tangible.

47

coldshoulders abound, the gowns gather moss on the carpeted plains, with a snaggletooth and a plainface, I kiss your blue lips-- I kiss your blue lips-- I kiss your blue lips-- if you love him, why do you spend your time with me-- if you love to dream, why have you been overindulging on grief, we can build a family, a torrent, a tree, a yellow bird, and three graves-- call it real estate, call it legacy, just call it more than it seems-- coldshoulders abound circling like vultures, circling around the maypole, taste turns mundane, so we bite with sharpened teeth, so we pull hair with renewed vigor, I kiss your blue lips-- I kiss your blue lips-- I kiss your blue lips-- until the hot red liquid of time solidifies.

0

Apr 4, 2011

Apr 4, 2011 at 10:50 AM UTC

jj-hutton

frozen

coldshoulders abound, the gowns gather moss on the carpeted plains, with a snaggletooth and a plainface, I kiss your blue lips-- I kiss your blue lips-- I kiss your blue lips-- if you love him, why do you spend your time with me-- if you love to dream, why have you been overindulging on grief, we can build a family, a torrent, a tree, a yellow bird, and three graves-- call it real estate, call it legacy, just call it more than it seems-- coldshoulders abound circling like vultures, circling around the maypole, taste turns mundane, so we bite with sharpened teeth, so we pull hair with renewed vigor, I kiss your blue lips-- I kiss your blue lips-- I kiss your blue lips-- until the hot red liquid of time solidifies.

30

there is something i must say before i can say anything else-- i have lost touch. i have lost touch with myself. words fall dead from my lips, dry rotted, caked in filth, the conversation ended years ago. it is too late to talk now. i see a body. i see a body sparkling by the light of the tv, feet planted firmly on the carpet. i see it sticking to the couch, the boundaries between skin and upholstery merging, the face morphing, becoming unrecognizable. i see a brown carpet, spilled milk from 2018 that never got cleaned. a sully figurine on the shelf looks down at me. i see a hand, lifeless, ***** fingernails itching. a light turns on upstairs. i see a mother crying. i feel a father's guilt like a pill stuck in my throat. i see the body now, again, sparkling under fluorescence on a metal table. a pair of white lips, the snaggletooth he always hated. i see them scraping dirt with their scalpels, cleaning puke with bleach and peroxide. i want to weep but i can’t blame them. it’s human nature to be rough with things that cannot feel. there is nothing to be said anymore. he is never truly gone, he is in everything. he's in your ****** soundcloud playlists, in the mini ziploc baggies you never threw away from freshman year. he's in the mulch at beech park, the oil stains in parking lots, the writing on your shoes. you can still talk to him whenever. he won't respond, but he never said much of anything anyway. not when you wanted him to. so it's really not that different, is it? will it ever really be that different? let me say this again-- i have lost touch. i am craving an unattainable high, i am chasing it with everything left in me. if i thought poetry would get me any closer, i would write more. i see a body, again, but for real this time. i see it lying in front of me, unrecognizable. i see this sadistic tradition for what it is, animated corpses parading around an excuse for them to cry and rage at anything else but themselves. i tremble like a leaf, i leave the voyeurs where they stand and i sit in the back. your funeral is at the same church we went in to fill our **** in 2018. they're ******* playing "you raise me up" by josh groban. a woman i don’t know tells me i’m too pretty to cry, and probably thinks she’s a saint for doing so. i see you sitting next to me, you're not a body anymore. you're holding my hand and laughing, laughing, laughing at it all.

0

Sep 25, 2021

Sep 25, 2021 at 4:25 PM UTC

genavive

gabriel

there is something i must say before i can say anything else-- i have lost touch. i have lost touch with myself. words fall dead from my lips, dry rotted, caked in filth, the conversation ended years ago. it is too late to talk now. i see a body. i see a body sparkling by the light of the tv, feet planted firmly on the carpet. i see it sticking to the couch, the boundaries between skin and upholstery merging, the face morphing, becoming unrecognizable. i see a brown carpet, spilled milk from 2018 that never got cleaned. a sully figurine on the shelf looks down at me. i see a hand, lifeless, ***** fingernails itching. a light turns on upstairs. i see a mother crying. i feel a father's guilt like a pill stuck in my throat. i see the body now, again, sparkling under fluorescence on a metal table. a pair of white lips, the snaggletooth he always hated. i see them scraping dirt with their scalpels, cleaning puke with bleach and peroxide. i want to weep but i can’t blame them. it’s human nature to be rough with things that cannot feel. there is nothing to be said anymore. he is never truly gone, he is in everything. he's in your ****** soundcloud playlists, in the mini ziploc baggies you never threw away from freshman year. he's in the mulch at beech park, the oil stains in parking lots, the writing on your shoes. you can still talk to him whenever. he won't respond, but he never said much of anything anyway. not when you wanted him to. so it's really not that different, is it? will it ever really be that different? let me say this again-- i have lost touch. i am craving an unattainable high, i am chasing it with everything left in me. if i thought poetry would get me any closer, i would write more. i see a body, again, but for real this time. i see it lying in front of me, unrecognizable. i see this sadistic tradition for what it is, animated corpses parading around an excuse for them to cry and rage at anything else but themselves. i tremble like a leaf, i leave the voyeurs where they stand and i sit in the back. your funeral is at the same church we went in to fill our **** in 2018. they're ******* playing "you raise me up" by josh groban. a woman i don’t know tells me i’m too pretty to cry, and probably thinks she’s a saint for doing so. i see you sitting next to me, you're not a body anymore. you're holding my hand and laughing, laughing, laughing at it all.

17