. 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

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Rainy Afternoon

She rains off-note piano chords
onto the dark grey concrete outside,
millions of dancing circles
like winking eyes
over the distorted mirrored image of an ashen and invisible sky,
my open door let’s in sodden mosquitoes
and a triangle of muted afternoon light,
my pale skin burns
with the cold cream fires of disillusionment,
and with a sadness that washes in with the rain -
of love’s indecision,
of your lips moving making sounds purring
to be loved as you deserve,

She pours over us the salty tears of a lost and lonely god
respite from his throne and that golden light,
a morning feeling lasts the day,
your clothes like dead animals
scattered in the shadows
in the squares of window light,
in the folds of my silent heart,
in the words it just can’t speak right now,
in the coming morning when we don’t have to feel this way,

what I’d give for a free moment,
for just a moment with you,
where there are no rules,
and no one else,
and all the lies vanish or become stars for another night sky,
and we are there in the love that was supposed to be,

She sends her soul
to be consumed by fire and earth,
all is wrecked,

so let me drown
in the weeping darkness,
in the cold clouds,
and leave me alone.



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