Category Poems
He fell from the edge of my rhymes,
He fell out of my poems,
He slipped from between the lines.
His lips were made of paper,
Unkissable and cold,
But his hands were a sonnet
So beautifully told.
Like a thousand leeches on my soul,
Awaiting to be told who to be,
And how to be accordingly,My tears well so abundantly,
I cannot see
Yet never falls one drop from my eyes,
They are the bravest and most stubborn part of me,
I saunter through a dreamland fantasy
in steamy waters of ecstacy
my heartbeat quickens
my pulse races
In an amber moon your face I see
A sudden rush of pleasure enchants me
as a soft night breeze gently flows
palm trees sway
a free spirit plays
In a midnight dream you call to me
The writer is blogging
about the flavor of his morning coffee,
and a guy is dithering
over the type of tattoo that suits his forearm
while his girlfriend picks a new shade of purple
to dye her hair.
Mr. Pimp is very much at ease,
no doubt, joyful at the applause
that followed the hateful speech
of a political candidate
that bashed the immigrants.
No picture does justice to the life on parade today.
Waitresses carefully place and disappear;
As faces cheer with greetings.
Another; Another.
Tracks are made for those coming after,
A life of white and laughter,
The milk of being.
Of a general pointing straight at me
And the words below shouted out
That a soldier I should be.
Yes a soldier now that was a thought
I’d never had before
I didn’t fight, I’d never fought
And I’d never been to war.
But myself, and millions of others
Decided to heed the call
And despite the tears of our mothers
We trooped off all proud and tall
Together as mates from our towns
All over these sceptered isles
We left young and happy, but soon frowns
Replaced our naïve smiles.
Like a village beacon lit for a celebration,
The mind’s halls are lit up, all by music.
Each note, sustained by that intuitive
Leap of faith, restores doubt with rock-strength
As the virtuoso hand trembles and resonates
On the chords of our innermost essence.
I open my eyes to find him staring at me.
Remembrance of our lovemaking causes a flush to stain my cheeks.
Gently he tugs at the sheet, his eyes never leaving mine.
The whirring of the fan caresses my breast, hardening the nipple.
His eyes flash mischievously before lowering his head,
the lightness of his tongue dances along my throat,
inching its way closer, my skin tingling with anticipation.
Instead, he throws back the sheet, exposing me completely.
I gasp, try to pull back but he throws it to the floor.
I’m not the medicine that you long for;
I’m not a lifeline, I’m not the boat,
I’m just the salt that’ll keep you afloat.
I stare at the noise, drawn to the void,
Conversations that I’ll craftily avoid;
I’ll walk off the earth, dying since my birth,
Keep running till my bones hit the dirt.
Under the shower, let the hotness devour,
And the water sink into my eyes like a rotten flower;
I’ve got the deadest face, I’m just a waste of space,
I’ll let my heart run free as my soul loses grace.
peanuts all night long and drives me
out of my mind when she gets
herself a selfie with swinging medallions.
She asks for forgiveness from Mrs. Magician and
her dear one, the sunbather at Finnegan’s wake.
During the cruel war, the idol with the golden
head felt a little bit lied to
on the dirt road by Susan Surftone,
so it went away and brought plague to a place
where a pounding boogie put
candlelight under its thumb
