"softy" poems - Hello Poetry

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.

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Apr 13, 2015

Apr 13, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC

mike-essig

Diane Wakowski

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.