poetry

plastic I & plastic II

plastic I

tonight while i cook
i look into
hannah’s faded face
with her flaking fingers
she clings onto that
microphone full of grit
and glamor
– so the critics say

she’s getting old now
the flowery spotlight
drowns the echoes of
female essence floating
through her clothes

she’s a singer now
my dad told me once that
yesterday’s heroes only
eat the bread that
certain slivers
of society bake
in their unconscious oven

i wash the dishes and
my hands graze hannah’s
supple neck and muffle
her laminated lips

perhaps it’s time i buy
a new radio with
a round volume dial
that can cloak the chime
of adolescent deejays

and allow me to sleep
for a few more minutes

 

*             *             *

 

plastic II

he stood in the store
her plastic arms
baking under
the neon breath
of color and customers

her poise is natural
the eyes soak in the clammy fingers
that slice each benjamin out
of their iron wallets

she stands as a model
almost
except for the giddy boys
they reach beneath
her copper eyes and wrestle
the wrinkles in her speech

when the shop is silent
she is bathed in the dark
treacle of ghosts
the soda soft light falls
onto her hair and pries a laugh
out of her pixel thin lips

at night she is still there
her shoulders are the scaffolding
we use to build paper pyramids
of gleaming gadgets

she will only smile at us
once we’ve exhausted our
flavorant filled bodies
still digesting more mounds
of cardboard coffee

we’ll sit by
that same fountain outside
with its necklace of birds
its giddy sun dancing in the
spurts of water
and feel our skin become
warm again

 

PhilosopherPoet

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poetry, Reviews

We Silly Proletariat | WritersCafe.org

The following is a poem from a good friend of mine. Her work is always authentic, and a rich read. 😉

We Silly Proletariat | WritersCafe.org.

I.

The caterpillars chew

the garden ivy to a delicate lace,

browned and unrecognizable under August’s sun.

 

And the tree spiders spit

their webs into summer’s humid sigh:

the silky tendrils coat the sidewalks

coat the wooden door frames, already swollen

from exposure like grapes 

bursting from the vine.

 

We silly proletariat only pay notice

to the electrical storms 

that steep along the western horizon.

 

II.

We grow bored with garden parties

and decide to leave together,

driving out of the city, through back roads.

Knees to chest, I sit in your passengers seat

replaying “Oh Comely”,

 screaming my favorite lines out the window…

 

“Know all your enemies.  We know who our enemies are.”

 

We park at the top of the bluff,

which over looks the nuclear power plant.

Heat lightning stretches across the sky

purple and quick, flashes of a summer

we only knew from inside weak hours

with backs to the sky, hands to the wheels

which turn and churn.

 

We know nothing of happy vaporization.

 

III.

The thunder is loud

rattles your windows, shakes the floorboards.

My stockings are wet from sloshing

through puddles I thought were not deep.

 

You offer tea.

You bring sugar and a dry shirt.

As warm as I am, this night will end.  

Day will come.

 

When you realize I am crying,

you place one hand on my knee,

and the other on my soft belly.

 

I inch away, stating,

“It’s not that kind of crying.”

© 2010 Ms. Gruye

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