it is Monday, and the dead are still awake.
no curfew for the statuette
on laundered linen raised as curtains child.
four-sticks of man, one push
it is old enough to snow here
this valley of the string where stains malign.
the fat talk from the mouth's that pick and grind
behind the ears. all bowels empty still.
the mince of words that bounce across the chest
a season of tomorrow's statin
crawling through a slipknot on a not so gentle wing.
it is the turkey's blood of folklore
singing to the masses. a pedicure of arms.
foot and mouth. black toad. obstinate.
not by age the grimace of the young.
achilles heel. a carpet ride. carpenter by trade.
the stubborn leek that winds it windows down.
the holy perch she swings a summer's sweat
through words of June I cannot understand.
if she moves she will not bother us.
an air-to-air of corrugated steam
white water-ride to the poppies come July.
heaven under-foot. thunder-bolts dark liquor
each hour growing late. it flickers ill.
I bring grave news from the bottle-tops of light.
she has sucked her one last sleeping pill
now spoons a mother's milk
onto her pale and haggered face.
-
Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 20th, 2024 10:41
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 20
- Users favorite of this poem: Teddy.15
Offline)
Comments3
Tremendous abstraction.
thank you Thomas.
as kind as always,
It seems unfair that some get all the tragedies of life yet others are unscathed, June is my hardest month along with January, but in the end each passing day week month year seems to bring me to that bit closer to solace. Loved every line dear Melvin. 🌹
there is no doubt it gets a little betterr over time.
but we will soldier on Teddy.
thank you.
I found myself in a graveyard. The feelings were deep and sorrowful. Your poetic expression extraordinary.
thank you Cassie
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