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"yellowbrown" poems
He slapped her Hard She lay on the Dirt floor until she heard His footsteps disappear into the Safety of their bedroom. She looked up at Her yellowbrown walls. “I should really repaint them” They reminded her of Summer and she hated Summer. She wanted to cry, but didn’t. She wanted to call Them, but couldn’t. After all, this was only His First time She climbed into their yellowbrown bed which matched the yellowbrown walls and yellowbrown fridge which was specifically color coordinated with the yellowbrown drapes that she had Loved so much. She fell a sleep, her warmish body pressed against His. His being as hot as Summer. She hated Summer. She Loved him. He Loved her. He a pologized. She thought it would Never happen a gain. Never A nother time. A nother cycle. Repetition   Repetition    REPETITION Over and over and over and over and over and over and over A gain. She began to flood her river onto her too pink Cheeks Slowly Choking to Death on her own Self pity and Shame And all he could do was grant her a hug of Darkness as she quietly Drowned After all, this was only his Ninth time. She still hated Summer And she still Loved him He Loved her. She fingered her bruises like a well cherished Friend. Gingerly Carefully Lovingly She refused to buy him another Beer. She thought he might Stop. He didn’t. He Con tinued To De stroy PERFECTION They reported His Death. She stood in front of grayblack coffin, Her river Flowed faster and faster down her emaciated Cheeks and onto His tombstone. Faster and faster still until she had to break the cool, cold surface just to Find her own Humanity. She still Loved him. He must still Love her. Her Mind began to drift. Is there a God? A man maybe, with a long beard and a Wise and Kind face. She had seen Him on TV. Some kind of Religious channel about the story of Jesus. She thought she would Like to be like Jesus. She made sure the rope was Tight. The chair was just tall Enough to reach with the Ends of her toes. She privately smiled That Smile to herself. As if she were sharing a Private joke. And she was the Only one who really knew the punch line. The yellowbrown room was Hot. As Hot as Summer. She hated Summer. She Jumped. The rope was Tight. It didn’t take long. She was just trying to get to that Better place. The Place where a TV God with a long beard and a Kind face would welcome her with the sharpness of a knife. A Place where there was no Shame, no yellowbrown fridge that was carefully color coordinated with the yellowbrown drapes, no Summer, no Private jokes, no Imperfections, and no Rivers. A place of Peace. Where there were no other bluepurplegray galaxies in the Universe other than Him and Her. Because she Loved him. He Loved Her.
0
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
alter_ego
Love
He slapped her Hard She lay on the Dirt floor until she heard His footsteps disappear into the Safety of their bedroom. She looked up at Her yellowbrown walls. “I should really repaint them” They reminded her of Summer and she hated Summer. She wanted to cry, but didn’t. She wanted to call Them, but couldn’t. After all, this was only His First time She climbed into their yellowbrown bed which matched the yellowbrown walls and yellowbrown fridge which was specifically color coordinated with the yellowbrown drapes that she had Loved so much. She fell a sleep, her warmish body pressed against His. His being as hot as Summer. She hated Summer. She Loved him. He Loved her. He a pologized. She thought it would Never happen a gain. Never A nother time. A nother cycle. Repetition   Repetition    REPETITION Over and over and over and over and over and over and over A gain. She began to flood her river onto her too pink Cheeks Slowly Choking to Death on her own Self pity and Shame And all he could do was grant her a hug of Darkness as she quietly Drowned After all, this was only his Ninth time. She still hated Summer And she still Loved him He Loved her. She fingered her bruises like a well cherished Friend. Gingerly Carefully Lovingly She refused to buy him another Beer. She thought he might Stop. He didn’t. He Con tinued To De stroy PERFECTION They reported His Death. She stood in front of grayblack coffin, Her river Flowed faster and faster down her emaciated Cheeks and onto His tombstone. Faster and faster still until she had to break the cool, cold surface just to Find her own Humanity. She still Loved him. He must still Love her. Her Mind began to drift. Is there a God? A man maybe, with a long beard and a Wise and Kind face. She had seen Him on TV. Some kind of Religious channel about the story of Jesus. She thought she would Like to be like Jesus. She made sure the rope was Tight. The chair was just tall Enough to reach with the Ends of her toes. She privately smiled That Smile to herself. As if she were sharing a Private joke. And she was the Only one who really knew the punch line. The yellowbrown room was Hot. As Hot as Summer. She hated Summer. She Jumped. The rope was Tight. It didn’t take long. She was just trying to get to that Better place. The Place where a TV God with a long beard and a Kind face would welcome her with the sharpness of a knife. A Place where there was no Shame, no yellowbrown fridge that was carefully color coordinated with the yellowbrown drapes, no Summer, no Private jokes, no Imperfections, and no Rivers. A place of Peace. Where there were no other bluepurplegray galaxies in the Universe other than Him and Her. Because she Loved him. He Loved Her.
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99
Ash from two cigarettes on the stone pylon beneath my feet, I **** yellowbrown into the Hocking. My stream meets the river on a riptide, Carefully crafted from the funneled remnants Of melted snow and torrential rain Just to give off the illusion of chaos. Forms of spectacular watermotion grace the noonday clouds, And despite their haste, too high on molly, There’s something hanging in the stillness beneath the mudbrown surface— Some epiphanic moment that rapidity and angerwaves Refuse to force out of sight; some Strand of smoke, still floating upwards from the dampened cigarette ash Abandoned twelve hours prior; some Slurred-drunken word, tinged anyways with meaning. The lips I kissed after climbing back onto the bridge the night before Proved to be less than irrelevant (screaming later, as they did, someone else’s name While I lay listening, still half thinking that Maybe she’d just gone upstairs for some floss). But The fact that there were lips there at all, In the rain Under the stars Over the Hocking Issuing with reverence the words “magical” and “perfect” Through the darkness of the night and the echoes of Joni Mitchell’s voice… It’s something worth noting, despite the angerwaves; Something worth feeling Despite the noonday clouds and dampened ash. Now that I’ve screamed at the river and ****** on it with a harshlaugh, I think I can also Find a moment to give it thanks. Because I’m off the pylon now. I’m back on the bridge. And I’m walking South With the flow of the Hocking, back into Athens. And I am finally (The rain beating against my face, my clothes, my mind) So very here.
0
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
jimmy-king
Illusion of Chaos
Ash from two cigarettes on the stone pylon beneath my feet, I **** yellowbrown into the Hocking. My stream meets the river on a riptide, Carefully crafted from the funneled remnants Of melted snow and torrential rain Just to give off the illusion of chaos. Forms of spectacular watermotion grace the noonday clouds, And despite their haste, too high on molly, There’s something hanging in the stillness beneath the mudbrown surface— Some epiphanic moment that rapidity and angerwaves Refuse to force out of sight; some Strand of smoke, still floating upwards from the dampened cigarette ash Abandoned twelve hours prior; some Slurred-drunken word, tinged anyways with meaning. The lips I kissed after climbing back onto the bridge the night before Proved to be less than irrelevant (screaming later, as they did, someone else’s name While I lay listening, still half thinking that Maybe she’d just gone upstairs for some floss). But The fact that there were lips there at all, In the rain Under the stars Over the Hocking Issuing with reverence the words “magical” and “perfect” Through the darkness of the night and the echoes of Joni Mitchell’s voice… It’s something worth noting, despite the angerwaves; Something worth feeling Despite the noonday clouds and dampened ash. Now that I’ve screamed at the river and ****** on it with a harshlaugh, I think I can also Find a moment to give it thanks. Because I’m off the pylon now. I’m back on the bridge. And I’m walking South With the flow of the Hocking, back into Athens. And I am finally (The rain beating against my face, my clothes, my mind) So very here.
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36