Be Fri/St End

Once
I was the magnet
for male attention,
in a barren small town, until

This new girl arrived
with her long dark hair,
torn jeans, red scarf
eyeliner all the way round
deep,
dark
brown eyes

A tough exterior held broken insides

I saw her walking, alone
up the steep hill
holding a bottle in a brown paper bag

Now she is surrounded
people competing for the prize
the power of her beauty
a danger she can’t see
We intimidated one another

I came at her sideways

to claim my territory
Feeling threatened
all confused confidence in
black high boots with a sailors mouth

she smoked like James Dean, aloof
Quiet and controlled
but her laugh could animate us all
She never allowed herself to go crazy
I always said too much
I always came out worse off

A mystery I’m yet to solve

Our guard didn’t lower
until we got drunk together

and my glass

slid

down the driveway

shattering at the bottom.

 

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Faulty Wiring

Perhaps

we are nothing more
than a machine
created as a bizarre
and cruel
experiment or worse
as a sick form of entertainment
like those robot battles you see
on obscure TV channels
late at night
in a lonely motel with
an untouched bible in your hand
and a mind filled with escape plans
because your cold
hardened
heart
is no longer receiving updates
and
the virus
has taken

over.

I Dare You To Write, Chickenshit

I wear matching underwear
which you will never see.
I used to shave, to be free from shame
but your hairs caught in my teeth.
From virgin swaddling cloth
to proud naked ape, walking tall
as gravity displays it’s rude power.

This lump in my throat
refuses to dislodge, so
I wear it like a velvet choker,

anxiety is the new black.

3am Musings

A bed that sweats cold around you
Creatures scratching at every orifice of the darkened room
A roaring in the distance draws dragons and disaster in your head
Maybe one day you will laugh at this
and the hollows of your eyes will fade
to crescent moons in the pale of your face

Or maybe you will weep
Tear the hair from its fading bed
and clutch at times fabric
with salty chapped hands

Or perhaps you will get stuck
staring at a wall

Sometimes She Burns Me

Sometimes she is in your face
all the blazing color and heat
of a faraway star

Sometimes she burns too exuberantly
I warn her that she will soon fade
as I watch her
give all her heat away

Sometimes she is sleeping ash
pale and fragile and
I dare not disturb her
with a breath of gentle encouragement
lest her pieces scatter

Sometimes she is slow and black as mud
She reaches out like an ancient mammoth in a tar pit
I fear she may pull me into that thick suffocation with her

Sometimes she is next to me
Pale and childlike
needing my ear to steady her

Sometimes months pass of no consequence
I do not worry about her

Sometimes I miss being needed
and scold myself

Sometimes she speaks in rhyme and song
and her jokes go on just a little too long
Her eyes are too wide her lipstick too red
I fear being swallowed by that smile but
she dances just out of reach

Sometimes a shooting star crosses my path
and I wish for her eternal sun

The Mourning After – a Pantoum

An illusion of intimacy
Slashes of light on sullied sheets
Held in a steel octopus embrace
Shallow breaths of poisoned air

Slashes of light on sullied sheets
Waiting silently in Pandora’s box
Shallow breaths of poisoned air
Leaden hands can’t reach the keys

Waiting silently in Pandora’s box
Perfumed bodies scent the room
Leaden hands can’t reach the keys
Coarse exhales like rusted blades across skin

Perfumed bodies scent the room
Voices vibrate through the walls
Coarse exhales like rusted blades across skin
Eyelashes threaten with every twitch

Voices vibrate through the walls
Anticipation rises and falls with the chest
Eyelashes threaten with every twitch
Evidence discarded carelessly on the damp floor

Anticipation rises and falls with the chest
Held in a steel octopus embrace
Evidence discarded carelessly on the damp floor
An illusion of intimacy

Queen Street

The Queen unravels
upon her knees.
Goblin lights entice
with might and manners galore,
carnal desires within the doors.
She is icy still,
absent from the dispersing,
splintering crowd.
A silent self congratulate.

A suspended smile whisked
away by a trench coat.
Her perfect face
a waste of time, as rain
drags her paint down to the sea.
They play the paramedics;
snort, snuff, puff their way
up the street like asthmatic
hamsters.

Bloodied lips beg for a smoke,
addiction giving meaning to survival.
Their hands clutch masks,
as they briskly judge
who is deserving
of their fifty cent coin.

The lack of purpose stings more here.

Find Your Happy Place – A Villanelle

The bowl is full of rotting fruit.
She waits for me, a queen at her table,
puppies and kittens are always cute.

I scrape the gum off from my boot,
smooth my hair as best I’m able,
the bowl is full of rotting fruit.

I think perhaps my lipstick does not suit.
She looms before me, like the tower of Babel,
puppies and kittens are always cute

I top the list in my head, of who I would shoot,
she clutches her purse, careful not to obscure the label.
The bowl is full of rotting fruit.

I clench my teeth as the grief takes root,
her eyes catch me, tug an invisible cable.
Puppies and kittens are always cute.

I could take this town, sell the loot.
She’s nervous now, am I that unstable?
The bowl is full of rotting fruit,
puppies and kittens are always cute.