Month: May, 2014

Madonna/Whore

Games of constant, shifting appetite,
Diary entries twisted by lavender lines.

Touching and teasing rings that bind,
Scratching off the untamed flesh.

Caustic notions wrapped in playful motions,
Petty kisses staining cotton minds.

Undress the walls that bind your flesh,
One eye open at this charcoal sight.

Paint peels off the cracking surface,
Weightless stares through jagged eyes.

Advertisements

Peace

Today I was struck
By the cries of our children
So I blocked my ears.

Something Like a Suburb

Fragments of a cracked mirror
Shine light on the murky underside
Showing nothing by satisfied stagnation.

Artificial nails trapped beneath the soil
Planted like seeds of paranoia
Fertilized by a community of clowns.

Hardworking husbands stand ten feet tall,
Treating their wives like servants girls,
Training their sons like monkey boys.

Neighbourhoods filled with porcelain smiles,
Dangling small carrots in front of smaller minds,
Denying real dreams in exchange for petty rewards.

Memorizing lines from our private plays,
Good mornings and how are yous,
Good nights and sweet dreams.

Hungry Girl

Girl sings silly songs from the dirt-pressed bleachers,
Clenched fists pulling up against split ends,
Dirty nails digging into flesh like an icepick.

Watches the boys playing their “ball” games,
captivated by their taut forms,
So much so like Zeus made mortal.
Made accessible and touchable,
Kissable and fuckable.

Her gaze shifts across to
Their steady shoulders,
Their lips and hips.
Take me, take me, she would scream and shout
In her unripe, green mind.

She isn’t fast enough,
Not willing enough
To sprawl herself out
On the oft-grazed pastures
Where the other birds played.

She never got her feed,
Her fill,
Her treat.
Just a calf sucking on half a teat.

Warning Signs

A kiss meaning nothing hiding in the skin of everything.

With sudden charismatic energy that flows without direction.

Something hidden between our walls, screaming but not heard.

Retreat, for these warning signs are but a glimpse.

And yet we choose to swim in this pool of tears when sinking ends all.

The Art of Cruising

An affliction of affection that society scorns
Our litany of love that no others can prescribe to
A cloak of shame that hides our sordid faces
Dirty bushes, dark corners and dutiful wives
Say farewell to this farce, yet greet me again.

For Ozu

A hen leaves the nest
The taste of beer and saké
Don’t despair, just smile.