. 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, August 12, 2013

This The Split

This the split
Ripped cheeks
Spit from the depths of her tongue dangled dead reckoning due south
Fell from that coarse falcon of homespun words
Cavity of curses
Leapt from her mouth
To his
Glistening teeth sweet breadth of lips wide
To smile
To dive headlong into her throat
Inhaling from that succulent bee’s wax maze inside her chest
Her very air
The lifespan effort of her years
Heaving her gift for him by the rise and fall of those tumultuous castles
Cast in pale flesh
Parapets of creamy stone waving that pennant the pinnacle
     of all of man’s good deeds
Her swollen nipples spoiled school children on holiday
Happy handholds

Rain shower sheets of revelry

Unsavory angles in daylight’s scolding gaze

Become Midnight’s pleasure when tiger stripes from the street light slip like
     satin across the broken trestles of her spine

Full moon birth and baptism and burial

Finger carnival

She bends jack-knife collision on the highway

Throws him through the veil windshield sheets

Broken glass on the pillows

Diamonds around her neck constricting like a high-dollar anaconda

Bystanders gather to tease his empty body

Voyeur boys peeking through the blinds

Pleasing sips from the salt tears that abandon ship to
     dive overboard from her chin

Dear Captain call them back

The night faucet left loose again

Bouncing waves of skin toss tears into the shadows

Tattoos twist under his meaty grip on her hips

Fading dollar bills knead into moist mattress below her white knuckle fists

The morning is still hours away

The boys at the window grow in wisdom

They grow in girth too

This the split


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