Sta.sh
contagion
by ~tigereverskinwe are vicious,
pernicious,
revealing our fangs when
our glow goes nowhere.
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| Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse | ©2008-2012 ~tigereverskin |
mercy brown out of earshot.mercy brown by ~tigereverskin
the longest sigh and widest smile.
the magnitude of your frustration compounded annually.
feeling a part, keeping aloof.
afraid.
the heart cut out, burned up, swallowed.
mercy brown, you were a lovely daughter.
the sound of sucking.
skeletons disassembled, rearranged.
the recesses of your head exposed to your loved ones,
nothing washes, comes up roses.
blistered.
the heart cut out, burned up, eaten.
mercy brown, you were a lovely daughter.
out of service.
the loneliness owed paid back with interest.
the magnitude of your apprehension remembered fondly.
the look of despair.
mercy brown, you were a lovely daugh
had the sky holes ignorantly we bend with the thistles,had the sky holes by ~tigereverskin
whistling dixie out of both sides of the mouth,
lighting up our idiocy by our altruism for true south, the macabre,
and i am sad for us.
ignorantly we wail with the banshees, scrape our knees—
embarrassing the company we keep.
had the sky holes i would hide in them and rain down the doldrums.
had the ground more pronounced cracks i would stick in the pins and jump in.
contagion we are vicious,contagion by ~tigereverskin
pernicious,
revealing our fangs when
our glow goes nowhere.
the race to rebuild stonehenge just an eyesore waiting on trains,the race to rebuild stonehenge by ~tigereverskin
could’ve been me in those days.
i was happy bleeding,
causing migraines for everyone who knew me.
possible heights gained, attained,
given up for senseless rhyme schemes.
had i known that love would break me
i would not have signed my name.
just a feeling forming,
cursing above all else the place and time.
the temperature around me drops,
the atmosphere gets cold and smoky.
i went it alone, whistling while i carved my initials in stone.
the cruel men perhaps in bedrooms stinking of sweat, dead ideas,the cruel men by ~tigereverskin
perhaps no one is awake yet, no one is suffocating under pillows,
never happened, never startled the bugs out of crevices,
certainly someone has pictured this, mounted this on walls,
flowed from room to room like water in deep ditches.
they have been practicing here, standing under ceiling fans
and marking time by how many cuts they have in their arms,
perhaps they are moving now, moving from one sad vision to another,
picking up tricks, business, and pieces of how to fit together,
perhaps they are dead men, stinking of dysfunction, stitched into quilts like bits of americana.
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"I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world."
- Walt Whitman
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“Why do writers write? Because it isn't there.”
—Thomas Berger
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"I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world."
- Walt Whitman