. 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

Monday, May 28, 2012

Sweet Streets

Sweet streets swept clean by the dancing feathered heels of
     long-legged girls in lace and lipstick and serpents coiled in their
          timeless hair,
Sweet last look she scars you with as she holds you through
     the train’s cloudy coach window where in a finger smudged
          script read the words: TREES ARE PEOPLE TOO,
Sweet are the colors in their clothes dull earth tones orange
     as a setting sun cerulean blue skies and the hot reds of
          fires that burn below the ground,
Sweet sex on parade in the click click of their pointed shoes
     billowing dust storms on the floorboards and the long white
          fingers smoking pistols on those razor-edge hips,
Sweet sex in the silence between twirling hemlines and the
     softly clapping hands of an invisible audience overrun with
          ghosts and the empty forms ghosts refuse to haunt,

So Heaven did not descend quickly enough to save you,

And my arms were never strong enough to hold you,

Every face is some perverse memory begging you to trip
     and fall again,

Sweet snare suffocating you in the mistakes of your past but
     wearing the coy smile of the very GOTdamn golden bullet that
          reaped havoc in your heart and made you broken forever.


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