Monthly Archives: August 2015

“Crush”

The boy picked a flower. Oh, how the girl made him goofy. Weak kneed. Jitter
hungry sleep deprived. She laughed, he
captured freeze frame smiles like
lemon rind memories
snap shot in the mind, heard
songs crash bang fanfare swing high
alive. But he stopped,

dropped the flower, crushed petals and all with
fine leather shoe, watched
the girl crush like wreckage askew, tendered
every pain like drinking rain on tongue and
striking fists on jaw and
drawing blades gentle and chimney sweep raw
over the hairy scratch of
booze binge depressed
couch swine yell fest days and
shattered all night sleepless tirades until he wakes again and kisses the morning with
a miserable slow fuck you.

Darling. You are
a pretty thing, I have crushed
the flower.

With pulse like
pulled tight cord braced with
straight jacket discomfort across
the neck, he waits for
wine punch kicks and shower spits a
demon launch from lovely lips to
fury rape his reddened ears but

The kiss. The kiss of all damned things
was unexpected, a
butter sweet treat warm and melted like
strong rum bedded round the bottom
of a belly full of trouble
And he slipped that moment once again
in summer halls of childhood laughs
and broken bikes and street skinned knees
when the best cure was always
a kiss and a bandaide.
Opened his eyes,
fine shoes aware of what they crushed
Not flowers no, but a girl
He loved.
So sweetly kissed her back.

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“Word Block”

A liar walked in today. Smiling, sweet, shy
A nod my way, hello. He sat
at a table with drink in hand
and did not say a word
to the men engaged on either side,
the woman smoking, chit-chatty
someone’s boyfriend this, a scandelous that
The voices muted, the notebook opened, and
all night long he fretted
with pen touching pad, pausing
book wide-mouthed, agape, awaiting
a swallowing of sickness
or better yet, love, give me love. But
he could not write
when he thought of her, perfect, lovely her
steady as rain on quiet nights
unscathed, fragrant and so unlike
the grinding mess in his mind
No, he could not write, but he tried
and wrote a poem
of someone else
instead.
After which, he finished his drink.
Closed the book.
And seemed troubled.

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“Cameraman”

Once
I hugged a poet
He was actually a cameraman
recording, watching, click-thinking, ‘I have captured your words, here, in my film reel mind,
next one, please’.
Then one night, he read a poem. It was of
a woman
undressed, filthy, wrong
unabashedly raw.
He loved, kissed,
occupied her, lips mercy locked upon
a train wreck
that broke him.
Yet he stood there, reciting
a poem. For her.
And I thought, how beautiful.
So when the host said
we could hug a poet
I hugged
Him.

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“Barefoot”

Love, you are funny, barefoot,
hair mused, shirt worn
and a dream dazed grin
on that usually bright face.
Where have your rugged shoes gone?
And your leisurely, controlled steps
have turned into a punch drunk dance.
You are like
a boy awake
at three in the morn,
someone to scoop
with a kiss to the forehead
before gently tucking into bed.
So let me laugh
and admire the honesty
of a man as he is
for just one unguarded moment-
sleepy, sweet, and
barefoot.

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“scuff”

Let me trouble you
with trouble.

I have heard a piano played
discordant, askew like
a tie not quite right. and yet
i smile like watching
a kid walking for the first time
slipping
and laughing
even after the stumbles

How lovely, sweet,
to love mistakes
and dizzy imperfections

like scuff marks on shoes
and silly complaints
it’s hot today
i’m tired, hungry
lonely like an
unloved puppy

May I trouble you
with trouble?

Yes, you may. and i will love you
like kisses on a bruise
and lemonade, sweating
in a cool glass, like
red faced stutters from
misplaced words
and capsized worries
spilled into my palm
and condensed into
yours, a handful
of troubles
shared

and laughed away
like learning how to walk
all over again

and that is truly
not trouble
at all.

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