. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Friday, November 12, 2010

In My Bedroom Lonely

Such strange things come out of lonely bedrooms, late at night, in the solitude of an empty house, a cold bed...

You stand there as cold as they come,
Life dripped dry from the corners of your blue lips,
A chin-high high dive act of mismatched abandon,
To pool like dried wax in the soft solar flare dimples of your bare tits.

You see me coming in the rain,

Old lady heavy drops bearing children in explosions on my shoulders,
Heaven’s beetle stallions riding down hard the muddy Earth,
Ping panging on the tin roof erases everything I ever told her.

I am now only moments away,

Flying down the long avenues from where perched my father first,
The taste of orange juice and spoiled vodka feral in his throat,
My hands covered in salty blood but still I could not let go.

You took your skirt off at dinner,

Told me to eat my way up your pale legs like that,
Your cheek stung my hand and your lips swelled,
And in all your glowing flesh you knew we could never go back.