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Literature Text
this glass
has made a martyr
out of you.
with your evangelical mouth
and
your tongue like a flickering
tape-recorder,
you devour its glow
and blanch.
you'd swallow even the cork
for your faith.
has made a martyr
out of you.
with your evangelical mouth
and
your tongue like a flickering
tape-recorder,
you devour its glow
and blanch.
you'd swallow even the cork
for your faith.
Literature
red
your swivel head – now fixated
rouge flush, bruised with pink
your slick lamella glows
from the dying occident:
a halo that crowns your blood-lighted skin
the night hoods and blinks
and i dawn into you
an urgent spate of motility
daggers out your buried volt
harpooning my cardia, my bursa collared
i'm hoisted up like ocean game
and into your ready teeth
shuddering at the thought of words
murdered in each sequent
Literature
i call this a heptahedron.
i'm nothing but a washed up cliché
with pages of poetry locked behind my eyes
and forced under my damaged fingernails.
skin is my canvas, an empty slate,
and i'm painting stars in colors that do not have
names; colors that only exist in my mind.
every day is a wait for 11:11 and the opportunity
to discuss my darkest secrets with four-leaved clovers
and moving lights in the night sky.
i'm dancing on the tips of my toes
to avoid stepping on cracks in the pavement
and killing a family of ants.
i spend afternoons making up religions
and teaching them to my stuffed animals
just so i can f
Literature
A Bad Drunk
And the drunk man leans against the hall,
tipping with it while the house falls—slowly,
only righted when swollen lids hide a rheum;
and we have stood within this room too long.
Too long, we have stood tipped with the house
and fallen out of the windows higher than my head
or yours. When the drunk man leans,
he leans with the house: pushing cold plaster
and uprooting the foundation, concrete torn
like paper in the hands of a child impatient—
Chipping paint from ragged corners where you
sit while the evening blackens. I am drunk
like the man but tipping sideways to the floor;
you are drunk like my mother, sipping cheap beer,
smi
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Comments22
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Despite being rather a fan of alcohol.... I can allow my prejudice against anti-vice pieces to slide this time around, because this is just a stellar piece. Concise without absolutely eloquent and effective word choice. Kudos. Few and far between are the anti-substance-abuse pieces that I am willing to applaud.