lesserpoems

Little silver sequins and a glue stick in my hand
She places them carefully, in a chosen path
The sequins shimmer in the light and we reflect
The sequins and I
Her smile

Sticky hands, covered in glue
Remembering, as I ball the mess away
She walks down the path, friged
The sweat on palms and realized chills

A shallow year's journey
Or maybe my shallow heart's the thing
That keeps me glued to the razor edge
of each glittering sequin
Of each snowflake on my sullen memory

On a cold path in my heart
Where she says "yes"

Razor-Edged Sequins

I lie awake on this mattress soaked in stains of greasy sweat that mat my hair and paste it to the fabric.
Your flacid penis hangs like a week old ballon animal...wrinked and dying...and disappointing.
Back into your pants it is shoved, that once adored bearer of pleasure. I weep at its discard.
I am unfufilled. And empty...so goddamned empty.

Emptiness

Arrogant, you call me.
You who throw around the word like liquid pride dripping from your lips
Those insatiable fingers pointed desperately at me
And I am simply resting here, astride this hollowed boat
bowed head and outstretched arms
grasping for reflection

What do you think I will see
Who do you think that I am?

When will these cardboard cutout accusations fall anywhere beside on my head?
When will the world of paper people become real.

Arrogant, you call me.
You whose eyes are so choked with the smoke of your illusions that you forget what arrogance really is.

Reflections of Arrogance

An eternal sunrise after the night,
The warmth from a fire that lessens the bite,
The cool calming sands on the wake of each shore,
And the rich warm blue water that laps evermore;
Of dark and of light, mixed dusk unto dawn,
Combined, unintelligible, the both carry on.

Then one lightning bolt, one stab in the dark,
Rip white and black most cruelly apart.
And as they unwind from each other's embrace,
The crowbar, the thorn, with unmoving malace,
In passivity bellows her cold silent thunder,
And rips hand from hand, dark and light asunder.

A story most old, that of love and of hate:
Both equal and balanced, the eternal debate,
Are found either bound in a loving embrace,
Or miserably feuding in an undying race.
As they grope for a foothold they fued in the rain.
And the world falls apart, it all seems in vain...

Strife