poetry

there is a story [untitled]

there is a story behind the
shape of your skin
the husk of your smile
guitar contours lace
the rhythm of your stare

β€œthere’s a circle, that
can’t be broken…”
cowboys
commas
curses – stir through the
smoke of your cigarette

denim and man
forged into veins of your beard

a tin can
rattles in a song you
sang above the poised audience
begging for air

 

 

Original draft

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
Humour, Rantings

10 things that make me stabby

  • folding clothes in neat piles
  • hip-hop played louder than listening speed
  • people with bombs strapped to their chest and a smile on their face
  • small children in waiting rooms who need to be exorcised
  • a blocked toilet without a plunger
  • people who ask me for a light before they look for a cigarette in my hand
  • hobo joe and his dreamcoat crammed next to me on the bus
  • a bad can opener who laughs at me and my last can of beans
  • after a poetic dump, a brown roll looks back at me and waves

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
Prose

Almost a Goth

For Kyleigh

Come carve a tattoo in my back, she said. I looked at her through care cropped eyes and heads fucked full of dreaming. It only took a prick until she came at me and slowly seared the skin of my nails. Well, you see more to the point, that’s what I expected her to do…, at the time. I wanted to feel her snap and crawl out of a carnal flame, let out a snarl and plough my bones. She didn’t though, just looked and watched while she daintily flick fingered her cigarette, and puff-paused between breaths.

She smiled…clasped in a skull of a shirt, laced skin shoulders and Fuck Fear shoes. I liked it. Out of this metal chasm she crawled with her clothes arranged in creative shards. I watched her slow shrinking cigarette and galvanized eyes. She gave me a smile and breathed out a prayer. She said it was more like encouragement. It was the medication you see, she seemed to flee from facts and nestle in men. She’d rub their hands and grow their eyes into the ground.

Thanks, she said. Picking up a beer, she nibbled a bit and forgot to growl. I don’t know what it was that made her. Some soft stream of Mother Nature flowed through her bones. If you were to look, it flickered from time to time, poured out the children, and circled the self.

She played no game, not even self-conscious stutters. She was an element and a statue alive in savage stone. I watched her breath and the chest crescendo.

I gave her a whisper and slept in the creases.

PhilosopherPoet

Standard