Tagged: love

A Malfunction

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It isn’t morning yet
and I can smell the thick air,
the biochemical warfare
sweeping in, across the Atlantic.
Even the air is stale.
The crackers are beginning to see
we’re way past our expiration date. 

Adding gizmos like limbs.
Privilege has always inspired new growth,
however cancerous to the rest of society it may be.
The abundance dripping down his chin,
the pit regurgitated, sticky, rolling down
his chin, his shirt, and dribbling to the table
like his sack scalped and glossy marbles
slimy sloppy marbles rolling out of the bag
goes squish in my hand.

But they have an app for that too,
there for impotency and eunuchs alike!

 I’d prefer the virtual to the real.
less messy, easier to handle.
Shoot, he’s even nice enough to leave it
in the bedside table when he’s off to work.
That’s when I really get my fun.


They’ve got an app for me too.
I haven’t seen him in three days,
at least I don’t think so,
but these pictures move too much.
I’ve watched him die,
I see him dying,
a malfunction

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Addiction

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Isn’t it just like a man?
Sitting, watching the swaying hips
each conniving turn.


She slithers
through the blue cigarette smoke.
I do things differently,
doorways for suckers.
I brace for impact,
through layer after layer
clearing out foundation after foundation
taking years to establish
but moments to dissipate.


She pulls at the meat
twirling it between her fingers
throwing it from her talons
into the air
to her tapered beak.

Could we all be monsters
demon lurking in the night
loitering under street light
looking to the painted faces
and the saber tooth heel?

What could I feed her?
What cherished memories sacrificed
for the next high?

 

 

(I do not support; strongly condemn the type of misogyny in this poetry,(though it is a perspective in society that needs to be addressed) she’s intended to be terrible because of what she represents, NOT because she is a woman.)

Ticonderoga

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Engraved

On a Ticonderoga

I reached to the back of my skull

And found the same number engraved

In me

Serendipitous utensils

I know how silly

Love can be

But why not believe,

Yellow slender;

Soul mate.

We are writing utensils

Intertwined

Flowing

Like letting go of a manuscript

In a windstorm

But you hurt me so.

Do I use you?

Or do they use me?

Were you here?

Is your motives for nothing,

But profit?

Is your heart not in it,

The way it once was?

It will feel like years

Until I see you again

But I’ve never loved

Like I love the pen

And once the door closes

I’ll curse your name

Wish the lips never parted

Slithering tongue

The picking of

flesh from bone,

My vulture

My muse

Moving me to new grounds

Where to Find Relief.

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That life

In all its tediousness

All its suffering

With a  white washed brain

And a luxurious

Lobotomy

(Day time television)

It will all end

The thread will split

The engine will run out of gas

In the center of oncoming traffic

I grab the wheel, brace myself

For another reality

At the center

Transcending in blue light

The acceptance of love

Impermanence

I am not bitter

 

The Call of the Wild

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An equilibrium

Between pleasure and pain.

A pros and cons list

I’m running into the dark

Through the cracks

Between teeth

And into the belly

Of the beast.

She yanks my leash

Tethered to her belt

She is a walker of dogs

And I am meant for the wild,

For the freedom in independence,

Individualism

Isolation.

I jump into the abyss

Into the vastness

The sweltering stomach acid

But she still holds me by my leash

Suspended in esophagus

A moment between isolated liberty

And affectionate constraint.

The leash tightens around my throat

Her well to do

Tender noose.

Cumbersome Jewelry

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I liked you better as a picture

Wrapped safely around my neck

In your gold locket

I lie resting through my day

Lying in my silk

Aquarium, fat children

 tapping on the glass

waiting for starvation

to cause my bones to wither

and the skin to tear

than as a charm

pulling me by my wrist

I am alive

But I pray for death

Your mind is perverse

Running through the ways

You can bring me out to sea

My cherished lead bracelet

I try to swim

But I’m drowning

 and I wait on the ocean floor

I’m still drowning.

Choke Collar

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You deceive me
With your hand against
my bruised cheek
and the other excavating
my insides

“see”

I didn’t know
That the lining of my stomach
Could thread me through
to neck, to noose,
to bumper

Of snarling
Rusted
Shell
Of what was once
Potential

Before snow snuffed
Up jolly noses
She traces back

sunny side up smiling
Burnt to the asphalt
Road rash face mask

She crams my resigned inners
Twisting
What once was
A man I was proud of

Now
macabre
Dirty laundry
Stinking mildew
And self pity

She picks up reanimated
Affinity
And locks me in a glass room
Scratching at crystallized pane

When it breaks
And I make a run for it
The choke collar tightens
Knowing happiness
Is quick at the tips
Of your grasp
And never quite
Obtainable.

My Beautiful Red Dress

stock-vector-mannequin-and-dress-304915928.jpgTo write you a poem

My beautiful red dress

Would degrade the very form

Like trash in a satin bag

Or a Queen wrestling the men on the street

Where I have seen your face

Shy from my glare

So many times before

I’m not radiating the hatred that appears

I just wish to never see you again

I’d like to make it clear

These words aren’t worthy

Of the page it’s written on

Since it is addressed to you.

You aren’t the first

To trap me in isolating ivory walls

That I assault and I rush

Charging a blind war cry

This isn’t the first glob of spittle

To hit my eye

Do not confuse your illegitimate revenge

With the spit on my face.

*This was written some time ago, and I’ve forgotten about who, if there even was a who. I do not condone assaulting significant others (I was assaulting the ivory walls!) or treating one’s significant other like shit. It’s not cool.

Staying Silver Ponyboy

For my father, Ross Silver

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A great man is not measured by his accomplishments,

By the money in his wallet.

Greatness is measured in sacrifice

It’s recognizing the work of the sole’s

At every shoe bottom

Sewn to heel

To walk out the door

To something greater.

We pass down carbon

Like treasured heirlooms

And though there are many days

Where I can’t manage the resources to stand

I feel your strength in my legs, sitting.

I’ve been blessed in this life

And for the nanograms

Lost in the wandering transition

From life into the ethereal

I’ll be blessed after.

You poor insomniac

Granting me pleasures of privilege

In the witching hour

As well as mid-day

In the trenches

And on their pedestal.

Who could doubt

The suffering

Of a scimitar back

Pressure treated

From years of brick and mortar?

Who could doubt

The callous hands

Of the forgotten working man?