ITCHING SOUL
Behind the mask
the persona
an anthill and
an itching soul
SILENCE TALKING
The language of my dreams
is Silence
Muted colours flickering
among Shadows
Mist and mostly
twilight fills the
Path of Righteousness
without knowing
if it is me walking
or the Silence
talking
BLEEDING FEET
Chasing dreams
like dancing leaves
in autumn breeze
always in pursuit
never catching
falling short
left empty handed
with bleeding feet
ENDING ON A HIGH
Starved, shaking on the
verge of breaking,
saved by hummus and pita.
Added delight of a
Donner kebab, salsa and
salad, I will survive this night.
The munchies though
calls for more,
slices of pizza here I go
Cheesecake, treat-cake
orange and vodka, Friday’s
ending on a high
BLEEDING FINGERS
Come on now
it’s only six effin’ strings
five sticky fingers
too wide
how hard can it be
to decide
give up
or go on
with blisters and
bleeding fingers
Untitled (11431)
Anne Carson
So the poet is an arsonist and other writers mere builders? I can live with that 🙂
THIN ICE
I cannot tell these lies
no more
no more
pretending my voice
carry clout
White seagulls
disturbs the blue sky
above
at rainbows end
an empty coffer
awaits
Madame,
S’il vous plaît
share this thin ice
with me
the water’s cold
beneath the surfaces
of old
no hellish fires
can melt them
down
no matter how many
lies
are
told
TROUBLED EYES CRY ALONE
I don’t like your fingers
they’re too long and too
skinny
like your legs without
trousers
like your promises without
laughter
the polished nails
deep within my back
who’s the weaker
who’s the catch
silence fall on
waining moon
troubled eyes
cry
alone