. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .

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.

4.28.10


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