. 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

Thursday, August 29, 2013

In Her Snake Skin

She slips around my room in her snake skin
Feathered by the shadows from the
     street light outside.  Suffering
in her love for romance and lust
Her red toes whispering through the freshly
     fallen snow of her clothes
Singing a Rolling Stones cover.  In
slow motion and smoke she spins above me
The red heart of a cigarette like the eye inside of her
Wild Horses humming on her wet lips
This paper doll who doesn’t think
     I can see her crying
Or hear the sadness in those words

This room frozen and dusted with
     the memories of our bodies
Tired of living
     and sliding like sand through our fingers
The smoke lifts and is thrown by the ceiling fan
     into the corners.  She shows me no
Her naked silhouette on the bookshelf
Her twisting spine
The sweat to

These raptures in the hidden night
The suffering to
When she decides to fall I
     will not be fast enough to catch her.


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