"spattered" poems
there are women who love demons
you can see it in their eyes
like a sick hunger
silence in a straight jacket
smiling limbs on a pyre
staring entranced
whiskey blind
as if marveling
at a howling blood-spattered dingo in a crater
seduced to wander off half-naked into a bush of thorns
********* barbed hooks for heroine kisses
women on fire who believe in nothing
except their atavistic compulsions
they are a burning land
beauty in ruin
ready for the slender whip
and black-toothed kisses
who giggle and then plunge into an abyss
i hold her like a jaw holds teeth
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 3:08 PM UTC
Just a quiet woman polished bright by nerves,
I once felt wild for dipping my hair in purple.
Noticing, my hairdresser asked if I had anyone special.
I dated a man with a good job
who liked museums.
We saw a drunk girl in a leather skirt-
heels hobbling down cobblestone,
her bird-arm linked through a friend’s.
He rolled his eyes:
_would you go out wearing skirts like that?_
On the dating app I’d written:
loves dogs, drinks champagne from paper cups.
It wasn’t a lie, but I am such a liar.
I told him yes,
because I needed his reaction,
his self-corrected mind,
though I’ve never worn one.
I say I’m fine with whatever,
or this is stupid,
but truthfully
I’m afraid I’m only a very nice lady,
soft in the hands of whoever will take me.
I carry anger like a weak religion-
a god I light candles for twice a year,
more symbol than practice.
I’ve heard of burying St. Joseph upside down
to sell a house. But there’s no charm,
no saint, for loosening the knots I keep tied.
I want to keep the bright mess of my dog heart,
mud-spattered, mulch-snuffling,
faithful to its own scent,
while crows, squirrels, and the occasional fox
paw through the dirt
for what they almost forgot.
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 8:33 PM UTC
I heard the bullets scream
Smashed by the moment
Silence as the pin dropped
His head had hit the pavement
****** in the window
Blood spattered wall
Brother taken before me
Intrepid moment takes us all
Held his hand within mine
Closed his open eyes
Angered by the second
Said my final goodbyes
Bombing in the distance
Death cuts through the air
War is such a *****
and life isn't fair
Ribbons fill the trees
Markers field the green
Memories not forgotten
Brothers forever seen
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
green hills, rolling green
i like you
with fresh dewy innocence
you speak in hushed voices.
your sides are guilded
with coral white
your tops are crowned with clouds.
green hills, rolling green
i like you for the majesty
you wear your verdant vestment
forever stretched your arms to the blue
forever sheltered by the stars.
green hills, rolling green
tell me, do you like me too?
would that when i harken
to the trumpet call, when there would be
no excuse to tarry
i should lay spattered on thy peaks
first touched by the divine finger
piercing the nimbus mantle.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
Shut amid the swell of boredom
Hole in the nose, sparkling adornment
Dye in the hair....a blonde invention
Image altered......still bored
Plenty to do, still bored
Not whilst doing it.....always
But the longing for a bolt hole
Registers, raising its voice to be heard
Yet boredom creeps in, mud spattered steps
Flicking dirt here and there
Clinging sometimes leaving telltale tufts
Staining....can’t wash it out or hide it away
A rash of what you want lands perfectly
Creates a broad grin in anticipation
And no sooner it’s arrived ...well boredom
Rears up grabbing the lead role
You might say ‘be careful what you wish for’
And you might be right...how come...??
Wager the odds on r and r ...v...
Over exposure in the commitment arena
You’d think it would win out
So what’s going on here?
“Boredom”
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 8:19 AM UTC
The porch bends beneath me,
its gray boards sighing.
I light a cigarette,
send my breath to the wind-
maybe White‑Shell Woman
will carry it to the horizon.
He's fired again,
last kitchen inside forty miles
that could stand him,
bridge burned behind.
At lunch I’ll call,
say get out
or Daddy and Jimbo
will haul your whiskey bones
to lie with the rattlesnakes.
I swore to Mama and to Owl,
I will keep the night honest,
I wouldn’t spend my years
driving a man to dialysis,
watching Irish blood unravel
like wet lace.
But I remember the long Covid winter-
two bears in one den,
one soft, one starved-
when Spider Grandmother
wove us together
in the dim blue light
of tele-novellas and snow.
I almost believed
it was love again.
He pops up like a coyote
in the truck’s passenger door,
smelling of smoke and ruin.
Eighty‑five down the prairie road,
bug‑spattered glass,
sky bending blue,
fields gold as escape.
This isn’t working, I whisper.
We want different things.
Don’t, he says,
fingers crawling my thigh
No-
I shove.
Sweetness peels,
the sleeping volcano wakes.
Before his hand
can teach me the rest,
I already know:
there is no leaving.
The road is long,
lined with white crosses,
and the Ghost Buffalo
that's been leading me
down it
all my life.
Aug 5, 2025
Aug 5, 2025 at 3:41 PM UTC
.
Bonnie & Clyde
You held my hart in your hands and my soul in your mouth, we watched the moon slip through the dark knight, A lullaby of blood and sticky labels, reach for the sky, reach for the sky, No more dollars, No more heists, No more; No more, Bonnie & Clyde.
won't you save me, for I've been running all my life, I've been sinning, I've been stealing and I know that that ain't right, won't you save me, won't you teach me right from wrong, I've been sinning, I've been stealing, please take me home.
We sang to the pound of the engine, you lay your head in my lap, so sweet so simple, you toyed with the coins in my pocket, reach for the sky, reach for the sky, No more dollars, No more heists, No more; No more, Bonnie & Clyde.
won't you save me, for I've been running all my life, I've been sinning, I've been stealing and I know that that ain't right, won't you save me, won't you teach me right from wrong, I've been sinning, I've been stealing, please take me home.
We danced to the backdrop of yellow fields, spattered with red confetti, shookhands with the devil, all dressed in rags, reach for the sky, reach for the sky, No more dollars, No more heists, No more; No more, Bonnie & Clyde.
The devil he has taken me, and I can't run no more, No more sinning or stealing, for now my life is done; you can't save me, You can't teach me right from wrong, No more sinning, No more stealing, For now this soul has gone.
Ten cops, camera and a smile, Photo for a trophy, V8 Ford full of holes, reach for the sky, reach for the sky, No more dollars, No more heists, No more; No more, Bonnie & Clyde.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 10:07 AM UTC
The honey in the lion sounds like a delicious thing––
a gentle balm capable of subduing
the cruellest of monsters.
According to the stars and tattooed,
you fancied yourself king of the jungle––
lazy in hot African afternoons.
Golden and tawn with sleepy sun-gold eyes,
shaggy mane, muzzle red with
the blood of a gazelle.
Did you think me such easy prey?
Or was I so much fermented honey,
only a sweet intoxicant.
Sun warmth seeps from jungles of cold concrete.
I mistook your gargoyle wings
for those of a guardian angel’s.
I overlooked your rough skin, your
crooked hawk nose and your skinny ribs,
and assigned fine things in you that didn’t exist.
So duped, I acquiesced to your slimy kiss.
Your mouth a neglected cemetery,
teeth a row of mossy tombstones.
Vampire. Incubus. Your seduction like grotesque death.
You named me tempest in a teacup,
but I was the eye of the storm.
Until the night the eye was eradicated,
and the storm blew in,
striking me dumb with your sound and fury.
But no spattered blood and no spreading bruise
to be found in the pattern of the kaleidoscope.
No cause for alarm.
Today I am lost in a picture show,
a beautiful world coloured by nostalgic past.
Women’s lips the vivid red print of a velvet valentine.
Head in the Clouds, I fantasize about a certain scene.
Because you think violence is ****
retaliation – ********** in my dream.
Give me an eye for my eye,
for all the eyes you plucked, from women and breadwinners.
Give me blood running down your back, sweet as honey.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
Have you known the winter days?
Late February falls like frigid snow
Merciless undertow
Of evergreen and alpenglow
And grey ground pavement walking
Like Grocery shopping
and weak chai tea
Moonlengths from all family
And surrounded like strawbury temptation,
Late night lamp light contemplation
And drowsy-dampened mornings
Grey glaze of diluted boring
Spattered over every orifice
Charcoal eyes, platonic kiss.
Pull your bow to shoot and miss
Tell me all this is is what it is
And I will tell you, “okay”
(but you know this isn’t what I wanted)
Hide the roadsigns
Blur the guidelines
This is how I love you
Have you known the winter days?
Late February fell like fire on hell
And shook me from my sleep
Ashes cover snow-banked heaps of rubble
I slice my wrist on the sharpened stubble
Of your half-assed beard
(this is how I bleed my dear)
This is how I bear my soul
******* smile
And dominoes
Carnation cults
And buried bones
(This is how I build your throne)
Hide the gravestones
Burn the rainbows
This is how I love you.
And have you known the winter days?
Late February fallen like Lucifer to the underworld
We both knew I wasn’t altogether that typeof girl
But we pretended anyways
Alcoholic halo haze
And foreign intervention
Of somewhat insidious intention
And the legitimate logistical question
That defined our discourse on fear
(this is how I think my dear)
This is how I speak my mind
All that grey
Those missing roadsigns
Smoke and soot and
Blurry guidelines
And Gravestones gone
And rainbows ash
(and we are never coming back)
This.
This is how I love you.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
Your eyes are blue
In the sunshine,
But not just any blue.
They are the color of
The wildflowers that grow
In the fields we run in
(sometimes. But not anymore)
Except for in the morning,
When I awake next to you
(once, but just friends)
They looked green.
In fact, they were the exact color
Of the leaves outside my window
When I see them through rain spattered
Panes: storm-colored.
Your eyes are grey
In the shadows when you
Laugh and tell me silly things
That mean more to me than
Anything I've ever been taught
(I love you)
Your eyes are blue
Even when you say nothing is better,
Nothing is what you want for us.
Through my tear clouded mind,
Your cold, careless eyes are blue.
And I still love you.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
In high-school chemistry classrooms across the
country, you are forced to memorize all of the different
lab equipment.
They never tell you to memorize the constellation
of freckles spattered across the bridge of your
lab partner's nose, but you do it
anyways.
You learn about Marie Curie and radioactive decay, but you
find you are more interested in the way his smile starts small
and grows to light a fire in your cheeks.
You blame it on the Bunsen burner.
You study polyatomic ions and how they act as a single unit, and it
reminds you of how he winks at you right before quizzes
and you find you can't focus on anything at all.
You blame it on the lack of breakfast.
You test over periodic trends and ionization energy, but all
you can think of at night is the way he taps his fingers
and maybe it's why you can't sleep at night.
You blame it on a restless mind.
In high-school chemistry classrooms across the
country, you are forced to be careful when handling
Erlenmeyer flasks.
They never tell other students to be careful when handling
your heart.
They never tell you how much easier it is to clean up the mess
from a shattered beaker than it is to clean up the mess
from your shattered heart.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
In Rome on the Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
Cobbles spattered with wine
And the wreckage of flowers.
Vendors cover the trestles
With rose-pink fish;
Armfuls of dark grapes
Heaped on peach-down.
On this same square
They burned Giordano Bruno.
Henchmen kindled the pyre
Close-pressed by the mob.
Before the flames had died
The taverns were full again,
Baskets of olives and lemons
Again on the vendors' shoulders.
I thought of the Campo dei Fiori
In Warsaw by the sky-carousel
One clear spring evening
To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody drowned
The salvos from the ghetto wall,
And couples were flying
High in the cloudless sky.
At times wind from the burning
Would driff dark kites along
And riders on the carousel
Caught petals in midair.
That same hot wind
Blew open the skirts of the girls
And the crowds were laughing
On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.
Someone will read as moral
That the people of Rome or Warsaw
Haggle, laugh, make love
As they pass by martyrs' pyres.
Someone else will read
Of the passing of things human,
Of the oblivion
Born before the flames have died.
But that day I thought only
Of the loneliness of the dying,
Of how, when Giordano
Climbed to his burning
There were no words
In any human tongue
To be left for mankind,
Mankind who live on.
Already they were back at their wine
Or peddled their white starfish,
Baskets of olives and lemons
They had shouldered to the fair,
And he already distanced
As if centuries had passed
While they paused just a moment
For his flying in the fire.
Those dying here, the lonely
Forgotten by the world,
Our tongue becomes for them
The language of an ancient planet.
Until, when all is legend
And many years have passed,
On a great Campo dci Fiori
Rage will kindle at a poet's word.
3.6k
blunt tips of bent cigarettes
were incisive as razors -
sliced wrists weeping
bright red sentences,
spattered unborn to blank paper
and turned into statues
so the dead would always remember
what they did,
never safe in the graves
in which they'd took refuge
but blue on blue
was ever her color;
blue on blues
seeping from old sins,
deep, hidden within spidery veins
that traced pale, soft *******
finally filling mute lips as she slept,
subsumed in oceans of color,
blues that gave stories, as waves to shore
subsided, reclaiming their pain,
and cleansed sand once more
What end to life!
a collection of furies like stone turtles
arranged on the mantle -
just a few dozen last words
tucked among ads for
Old Spice and Polident tabs
unread, used to line
litter boxes in Cambridge
or wrap fresh fish at Hay Market;
then, someone pausing to wave at the sky
missed saving the drowning woman
by years, if he'd tried,
finding questions in every answer;
child curled in hard lap of his mother,
her cold affections of words
blew from dead lips like old wishes
without tender touch or wet kisses;
but that life continued,
if lived only blue on blue
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 6:02 PM UTC
There was something wrong with the sky today
in the melancholy cold September sun.
Frost sculpted clouds hung in the empty blue,
bereft, uncelebrated
The swallows are gone.
No more exalting
in our wet summer
unfettered by earthbound grumbles:
now they scythe the skies
to Africa
leaving us completely behind.
A white-spattered woodshed -
over-bold insects -
and perhaps
the promise of return.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
*"mary mary quite contrary
how does your garden grow
with silver bells and cockle shells
and pretty maids all in a row”*
homecoming queen
ballgown made of polythene
they always said in trash bags
you could still look haute couture
leave em wanting more
now, the only thing i’m sure of
is laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground
angel dusted lips of blue
and eyes of lapis lazuli
all the water in the river
couldnt fill the chasm
this microcosmic monster ****** bone dry
cause the only thing i’m sure of
is laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground
even her jewellery is broken hearted
all cut up like lines of cheap *******
it feels like all the world is utterly uncharted
with you gone i am lost in fog
you’re planted in my brain
oh, laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground
oh laura, laura, laura palmer
golden girl, enchanted charmer
you will still be crowned
laura, lovely laura palmer
you’ve got a date with the embalmer
and afterwards there’s coffee in the ground
i promise, doll, i swear
you’ve nothing, no one left to fear
you’re all walled in and safe, my dear
my darling laura, laura in the ground
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Her press on nails graced her sunken in cheek
Tracing the bone that seemed to cut like glass
Remembering days of endless driving
Her high heels out the window
The sun whispered sweet nothings
But no one knew how personal those were
And here she is
At the vanity of a ****** motel
Dusting powder across lesions that spattered her skin
****** patches on her skin
Just like holes in her skin
She cries
Removing the brown wig that she tossed for years
Brushing it in her hands
The tears held on as if they didn’t want to let go
Standing
She slips off her briefs
Gazing into the mirror
Horrified at the person staring back at her
Invisible bones now visible
Crevices and cavities too deep
Webs of veins that were colored too brightly
Wearing the anatomy of a man that was no longer there
A body not worth surgery
Wiping sweat off her forehead
Smearing her drawn on eyebrows
All she can hear is
“Your mother and I gave birth to a son named Raymond.
What happened?”
That name echoed in her head
Drawing pleads from her ears
She collapsed
Her thighs bruised from one too many needle-pricks
Tracing each hole with her finger
As if to draw out an answer
She
A forgotten woman
Who only tried to cope
Her t-shirts were too big
“Raymond, Your T-Cell count is too low”
A forgotten woman
Who only tried to cope
“Is this ‘cause you’re a ****** Raymond?”
A forgotten woman
Who only tried to cope
“Raymond, there is no cure for AIDS”
She wept
Mascara staining her pale face
Press on nails clutching her arms
Hugging herself
Because no one else was would
Rayon died alone
She was no longer forced to love from an infected vessel
To hurt from a torn home
To pray on laced knees
This hotel room became a mausoleum
Smelling of death and perfume
Rayon was a forgotten woman
Who only needed to cope
But exiled by a community of people
For loving too much
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
corundum puppies and you begin to wonder if
they’ll ever move again not
much escapes your midas touch
you used to organgrind your teeth and
nails at the dusty mayhem floors
(it’s suppertime baby let’s
**** some airtime by eating the fish right off the
CAUTIONwet
hardwood as they gasp for air so we
gasp for blood)
seashell lakeshore pumpkinpatch painting of
bugjuice spattered on the back windshield;
you’re not afraid of
a little fog.
not enough
sodium in the air (not enough
salt in your wounds) and
you begin to choke on the potassium of our
bananasplit ages ago;
if you’re eating
your own molasses words
please make sure you spit them back
out again where the children can have them
they wouldn’t say no to
something sweet
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 1:05 PM UTC
River bamboo arrayed in lace tiers
consoles the birdbath on its loss of robins
Intemperate August staggers in liquored air
of wavery heat and layered sighs
Leaves relinquish their rush
toward this “ripe on time”
Blackberry brambles have ceased to reach
now bow to ponder their plunder
while petunias, those bold delinquents!
bloom as if the frost’s lethal cling
were some myth
the antique roses had made up
Bud, bloom, revive!
See the generation of the bee!
Bud, bloom, survive—
to do it all again
for the single sake...
of treasuring beginning in the end...
Her bicycle, my geranium
have found eternity together
on the sun spattered patio
She—
opens the screen door
as I—
climb the morning stairs
She—
squints smiles amongst sleepy freckles
who has not brushed her hair
in a late August moment of not caring
And I know it will all happen anyway
no matter what I do....
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
the night was already crazy-wild by the time
we arrived at Jarred's pool.
he had a big house but we never went in
4 teens, teen dream, a dream team;
but I knew deep down just what it was
we snuck out for.
a "transform-optional" rite, this hollow night.
but I still had doubts...
as Jarred offered me an aluminum can of something and I nervously said, "no thank you",
the moon had proudly jut out
he had a big house but we never went in.
I hadn't noticed, without the moonlight, just how
sharp Jarred's teeth and fingernails were.
canines, ivory & sporadic. looking at me
I hadn't noticed how reptilian our 2 friends were
The fangs and dislocating jaws, tendrils & scales.
Man-o-war for a head, giant earthworm for an arm
She looked scarier than he.
Those 2 went at each other in a murderous way
A blood sport of sorts. Confusing to me.
She spread her jaws wide - a parachute with teeth
And bit down hard between his legs.
Blood everywhere. Blood spattered on her face
She looked ****** god-awful by then.
The meat of his dead body then re-animated
And assimilated with hers. Anabiosis + Differentiate
Jarred, a werewolf or something like it, approached me.
He had a big house but we never went in.
we chatted poolside for a while
he'd go harmoniously from monster to human, human to monster.
Boiling cancerous growths under his fur
Grew angry eyes that glared at me.
clawhand on the back of my neck,
he went in for a kiss (or a bite)
with a puckered face and bared teeth.
This is it.
I finally felt a grossness so profound that I,
without thinking, jumped in the pool
to splish-splash, cool, to escape, whatever
I opened my eyes and just floated there for a bit.
hanging in the stillness
trying to forget those alien freaks
staring up at the moon
from the bottom of a pool.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
_red
neon
rain spattered
pavements teeming;
one thousand prismatic shades of meaning
graffiti-laden puddles splish, splosh, splash;
as midnight turns
to blue, and
dawn to
ash_
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 10:10 PM UTC
i have countless scars
on my skin from a
battle with depression
i almost lost. twice.
i have twelve scars on
my leg from a car
accident that saved
my life.
i have tracks of stretch
marks on my *******
and thighs from growing
up too fast
i have a million freckles
on my face spattered
from too much time
in the sun
i have curves that
show my womanhood
gifted to me by the
devil: puberty
i have so many
distinctions that make
me who I am. These are
my marks.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 5:47 PM UTC
I was sent to work at the old Repat.
It was forty years since the war,
Those ancient diggers would sit and swear
At the pain of the limbs they wore,
The wounds would open as years went by,
They’d come for another slice,
That war was never over for them,
And morphine was paradise.
I saw one veteran struggle and curse
As he ripped at the buckles and straps,
The new prosthesis had rubbed him raw
As his knee began to relapse.
He tore the leg from his wounded stump
Sat on his bed, and roared,
Then swung the article over his head
And flung it across the ward.
The others had ducked as the leg took off
And bounced off the opposite wall,
‘I’ll have to report you,’ the nurse exclaimed,
‘It’s a good leg, after all!’
‘You wear it then,’ was the man’s response,
‘For it’s driving me insane,
What would you know of Flanders Fields?
You wouldn’t deal with the pain!’
My job was to settle and calm him down
So I asked him about his leg,
‘When and where did you lose it, Dig?’
The veteran tossed his head.
‘You’ve heard of a place called Flanders Fields
Where the bullets came in like hail?
Well, I was there with the Anzac’s, son,
At a place called Passchendaele.’
‘Our Generals were trying to ****** us,
I swear, on my mother’s head,
They kept on sending us over the top
Until half of the men were dead.
The German gunners would enfilade
As we struggled against the mud,
I’ll never forget the battlefield,
It was spattered with bones and blood.
They’d send artillery shells across
At the height of a soldier’s knee,
We’d watch them come as they parted the grass,
They were Grasscutters, you see!
Well, I was running with bayonet fixed
And praying for God’s good grace,
When suddenly I was lying there,
I’d tumbled, flat on my face.’
‘It’s strange that I never felt a thing,
When the Grasscutter got me,
It took a while ‘til I saw my leg
Was gone, from under the knee.
But that was the end of the war for me,
The end of the life I’d known,
I spent some time back in Blighty, then
I came on a ship, back home.’
I never chided those men in there
Though they’d curse and swear, and roar,
For every man was a hero where
They'd trudged in mud through the war.
That Repat. job was a fill-in job
And I left, still young and hale,
But I never forgot the Grasscutter
Or the man from Passchendaele.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC
I scream
But a world of deaf can not hear
A wail so loud piercing the night
Excruciating pain tearing at my heart
But a world of deaf can not hear
I bleed
But a world of blinds can not see
Crimson red, staining the bedsheets
Blood spattered across the streets
But a world of blinds can not see
I suffer
I’m battered and withered
But they choose not to see
They choose not to hear
My bleeding agony and silent screams
My bruised body and burning tears
I’m hurting
But a heartless world can not feel.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 4:08 PM UTC
The sky is aflame.
To the west, it burns crimson.
A warm gradient that seems like a massive forest fire,
turning to a bright copper in the middle
and ending as a quiet mahogany.
To the east, a near-blinding white.
With no gradient or change as it rises,
simply dying down eventually,
propped up by unholy spotlights that pierce the atmosphere.
The north is charred a mute maroon,
a short glass of auburn carelessly splashed to the horizon.
To the south, pale bone paints away the stars,
spattered with shades of pewter and smoke.
I cannot see the stars through all the light,
and I do not know which way to follow.
The sky is aflame, lit by so many sources,
rendering it empty and dull, burning away.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 2:00 AM UTC
Pure cane sugartar that sits on teeth,
sits on a canine porch swing
and swings too far, kicking the enamel
siding, wood knots, and greying-thin
windows. More exposed than Brad
Pitt's marriage or JonBenét Ramsay
on the cover of Old World News Daily
in the dentist's office. And there we
are. We're bleached white and burning
beneath paparazzi bulbs and a
a ****** case. Brief case money/
two thousand fourteen and it's still
relevant, still useful blood money.
Novocain lightning flash; burn a tree.
Cali home tucked behind parsley
palms. Fortune teller, baby, O.J. didn't
do it. Not The Juice, not him.
The gloves. The gloves. The gloves.
Comfort of picket fence rainbrushed
paint stripping. Raymour retail
of a mocha-cushion couch half-off
'cause the back's spattered with
toothpaste and taxpayer juice
like Grandma's cancer handbag.
Put your feet up, stay a while.
Don't leave.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC