poetry

the lady on the bus

fragile and foetal
death picks up the chaos
she cannot collect

her eyes hide
in the slow smoke

her hair lies between
rules and regret

a brown umbrella
decorates her day

a white hat
holds the echoes
in her speech

her son died today
in dank ditches
where spoons suffocate

eyes like a soldier
a voice so tender
it narrates the
fingers of smoke

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

dreams

tonight i watch the man with the baton
rinse his thoughts in the wind.
he scuttles back and forth
like pinocchio pinned to
a coat hanger

his brain is riddled with the
thick worms of LSD
he ducks and weaves through
angry stars who
navigate his narration

it is midnight he snorts
twirls skips collides
between the cars
buttoned down
to the tarmac

i am drunk he is high
i laugh out amid my
necklace of friends
because tonight is about
the company of lunatics
and the naked foibles they fill

right up until the alarm clock
the next morning that drums
like a siren into your head
it watches the Β mixture of memories
and nocturnal music
crawl into my bones

PhilosopherPoet
Standard
poetry

blind

she blushes and runs off
between the towers of
checkered chips

Ed gawks at her breasts
moving like marbles in a silk pocket

i tell Ed to calm down to
have another slurp of beer

he agrees for ten minutes
until baby Narcissus stumbles
out of his tender pram
munching the morsels of
a marijuana mind
i continue to watch because

he just threw a rattle against the wall
it smashed and an ear shaped shard

ricocheted off and into the
warm lap of the pool table
she turned the fragment over in her
amber hands

the shard understood the
creases and mature fingerprints
it started to listen and dance
in the aching rain of her eyelids

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

the nighttime singer

one pill
nothing.
except for the ether
fragrance rising and falling
between the pages of absence
caught in the blankets.
his head lies, his eyes
continue to swim in
the gyre of midnight.

two pills
flicker.
the curves of the ‘s’
fall off his tongue and
leave a spiral on the ceramic.
the morning will slobber
its honeyed tongue, and the
toast will jump
up and panic.

three pills
somber.
those voices sucked up their
cold hands. the shadows
buried the cuffs. because
the evening wears clothes,
clocks tick time, and tender
ghosts morph into my bones

tonight.
i hear the soft sounds of the
Nighttime Singer unfurling
the notes of slow chamber music
deep into my veins. my glued-focus
watches the slow dance of velvet
darkness hold me. She unties my
consciousness – still hanging on
with a white hand – and tells me
to rest, and let the liquid night
wash me and slowly evanesce.

PhilosopherPoet

P.S. – This poem originally appeared on this site: http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/PhilosopherPoet/556247/

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