hands / wrists / teeth

i. hands

faux bones, the simmering touch

glazed fingertips and how intimate

burying the memorabilia of your

lover is;

pale moonlight, pale breathless

words, pale serene gazes.

ii. wrists

rose oil and peppermint on the

sleek joint, rounded edges

the kind that breaks glass

ceilings, and houses ghostly

whispers of the old days,

day breaks, heartaches.

iii. teeth

crook of the mouth; leaden

tongue, would you presume

to cease the crass bullet words?

pearl sheen in opulent crevices

lips of a monarch. there nothing

more deserving than death

for those who stay s i l e n t

in times of moral

calamities.

#poetry #poem #poet #sadness #sorrow #madness #depression

Undermeyou in Poetry & Free Verse

Insomnia meet Anxiety, Anxiety— Insomnia

I sleep like a house on fire.

What I mean is

I sleep not at all.

I sleep like the ease of turning away from double-fatalities car crash.

There’s blood in the carpet.

Definitely won’t come out.

Windshield, shivered itself into bits.

And the rafters keep crumbling.

Crumble, crumble, charred-mistakes.

Too much heat to still the bones.

Too much smoke to inhale, exhale, repeat, repeat.

Eyes wide.

Like earthquake tumbles.

Seismic pulse.

Like storm, unpassing.

Like brain-thoughts, tumble-cycle spin, turn-over, spin.

Like end over end.

Eyes wide.

Mattress made of food poisoning to stomach-lining me.

I sleep like it’s vomiting me up.

Or I sleep like I’m vomiting my sleep.

Or I sleep like I’m vomiting myself.

What I mean to say is

I sleep not at all.

Lynn

secondhand serenade

i've come to find songs don't transfer well into poetry and prose

that's why i sing to you words someone else has already wrote

Challenge

Discuss the kind of itch that can't be scratched.

alyptik

as we talk to god on bathroom floors.

why am i so good at this

these jokes where i’m the punchline

as i lie on this fucking floor

wishing for the words to come.

only silence

cold, clean tiles

and bubblewrapped angels

where the butterflies used to be.

i was right i suppose

about that whole not forcing words shit

but goddamn

the irony is a bit ludicrous.

—“Adversus solem ne loquitor.”

—don’t speak against the sun.

i don’t even remember where i heard it

but still:

what a crock of shit.

i see you up there.

so well played god; well played.

you win this round.

you fuck.

paintingskies

if only she could see

thank god

she can't see all her beauty

if she did,

she'd surely go blind

for she shines like the sun

and embodies the sky-

her wonder is one of a kind

but i wish

she could at least

see a sliver of her grace

so she would learn

to love her soul

riddle me this:

how can a girl

who's worth all the stars in the sky

ever think she's

a black hole?

Challenge

Write a story about anything. One thousand word minimum. One month limit. While likes (and comments) are great, and their support is essential, they will not count as votes. Myself and a panel of writers from different literary interests will take a week to pick the winner, allowing writers to enter until the last minute. The winner will be decided based on the story, spelling/grammar, and of course, style and feeling. Step in the ring, bleed on the page. Winner gets $500.

Lynn

A Siren and A Risen Devil

I can smell his cigarette from here: it smells of decay, cowardice, and failure. It thickens the air with self-loathe, and yet (ironically), arrogance. I can practically see the malice in what I can only imagine to be a once charming grin. His callused fingers tracing the skin of his Winston lazily while smoke blows out the corners of his mouth and his nose. He's a man of habit and disgust, no longer accepted in heaven nor hell- and a man I'm growing quite sick of, frankly- and he's headed this way. I walk through the crowds of deceitful, greedy men and women who've been in the game far too long. I cross the cracked pavement streets over to my next gig: a little cabaret show in a local nightclub called Club Venus. To say it was a shit hole would be an understatement. Its outdated, red neon sign that spelled its name out in bold, cursive letters looked tacky and distasteful, and the building itself could use some sprucing up.

I try follow the directions my old friend Eugene gave to me on a used diner napkin, but his chicken-scratch is unreadable as usual, so I just decide to wing it. I go around back to find a rusted, ivy green door with a sketchy man standing cross-armed in front of it. "Are you Rosaline Ryne?" His voice was gruffly and low, but comforting and familiar in a way. "Guilty." I put on my best smile and run my fingers through my hair. "Is this where I go in to get ready?"

"Right this way." He unlocked the bolt and pulled on the heavy door. I inclined my head in thanks and walked through the broad opening. The interior was musky and stale; with just a hint of alcohol. The walls were plywood made to look like brick, (another tacky addition) which caused the walls to be as close to paper thin as I'd ever like to encounter again. There are other women getting ready: putting on tight blouses to exaggerate what I never could. They're powdering their noses and layering lipstick shades of bright red, pale pink, and rich burgundy. I look around the narrow room to find a door over on the left with a piece of notebook paper taped to it displaying my name in crappy manuscript letters. I open the door to find a relatively small room with a cramped counter space filled with various kinds of makeup and a dingy mirror that appears to have never seen Windex. There's an old fashioned coat hanger showing off what I would assume to be company garments, and right on the other side of the counter is a slim black dress cut up to the waist. It's low cut and has a sparkling silver necklace to accompany it. And among all of the cheap perfume bottles and dollar store jewelry was a folded note sitting beside already wilted flowers. 'Sexy dress, right? Picked it out myself, but don't fall in love with it 'cause I gotta return it by tomorrow night. You know how it is. Have a great show! - Eugene.' That little twat. Can't get me a dress or decent directions. "Livin' the dream, aren't we Rosey?" I mutter. "Sure seems that way, beautiful." The voice makes me jump. I turn around to see a man standing in the door way all smug. He seems to be in his late thirties; dark hair, receding slightly, with intense, piercing eyes. He has a slight stubble on his chin and trailing up his jawline as if he hadn't even bothered to check the mirror lately. He had a handmade cigarette between his lips, no doubt one reason for the piss colored walls and grimy glass surfaces. "And who do I owe the pleasure to?" I ask as politely as I can muster, but with his morning breath at seven in the afternoon and that nauseating smirk, it's hard to keep an unwavering smile. "Name's Tyler Dame. I'm the manager of this here hellhole and I just came to make sure you were settled in okay." His tone and ever-growing grin suggested otherwise- not that I'd let him know that. "Those flowers from your boyfriend?" He said, a little too friendly. "No." I was beginning to get uncomfortable, so I decide to have a little fun. "He's my personal assassin. I'd be careful, he doesn't take well to Italian men without a sense of hygiene." His laugh was hardy, but slight. An amused look tugged on his features.

"Feisty, aren't we?"

"Only to the special ones." Mr. Dame seemed to be contemplating something, but it passed just as soon as it had appeared, and he was back to what I can tell to be his iconic grin. "Yes, well, I just wanted to make sure everything was alright." He put out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray (or at least it is now) and gave a stomach churning, toothy smile. "Everything's great." I say a little too hastily. "Thank you, Mr. Dame. If it's fine with you I think I'll start getting ready now." I gave a dismissive nod and he seemed to get the message. "Of course. I'll leave you to it." He lingered a moment longer then excused himself from my makeshift changing room they most likely threw together ten minutes before my arrival.

"What a creep." I mumble.

"Tell me about."

This time there was no need for alarm. His voice was one I'd grown quite accustomed to over the last few years; so was his scent. He reeked of secondhand smoke and of something I've never been able to place, yet I associate it with one thing: decaying leaves.

"What are you doing here?" I tried to act nonchalant, but his steady green eyes and stone-like face made it difficult. "What? Aren't you happy to see me?" The sarcasm practically dripped off his bottom lip. I wonder if he ever gets tired of being a pretentious bastard. "That's a pretty dress. Are you wearing it tonight?" Where is he getting at? "That's the plan." I could see his Winston pack in the front of his jeans, his ink black wings peering from underneath his leather jacket, and that merciless grin reappearing on his face.

"Can I help you with something?" Impatience growing in my tone.

"No. Just came to hear my favorite lady sing."

"How generous of you."

"Oh, I know."

He steps closer now; inching his fading features over to where I stand. "You know you can't run forever. He'll come for you, and I won't stop him." I size up and return his gaze. "I know. I'll be waiting."