I’m afraid to post my poetry here anymore because my poetry is beginning to frighten me. I don’t want to shut this down… but I can’t keep it up either.

Suburbia

The engine revs like the chattering of teeth,

Sputtering to life in the merciless bleak,

Careening about the concrete sheaths,

On the shores of shaved and naked lawns,

The pop music with the muffler music, car horn cacophony,

In the suburban parade that chases waywardly after me,

Shouting “3.83 for a gallon of gas”, and “4 lives to put our flag at half-mast”,

And some neon signs are better left naked,

“Welcome to Suburb High School” written in bold,

To the conveyer belt that is too thick to fold,

To the grades that are too pricey to be sold,

To the building where our children get old,

And suburbia lies in wait for clothes.

The Basement

The red-brown carpet offers up its welcoming caress,

To soda cans and pizza boxes trailed along its breadth,

The reclining throne, its body to loan, to a pair of well-loved jeans,

On a modest king with his lanky legs crammed into cushion seams,

The floods of sounds, the dissonance of laughter with the strum,

Of guitar strings, and other things in this slow and rhythmic hum,

Which would rock me there, my feet left bare, as the record player swings,

With the kisses sweet behind the sheet, draped from the ceiling by moonseed rings,

And I’ve lived my days in a happy haze behind that impermanent door,

Til I breathe that rhythm, growing up from that unmagnificent floor.

My fingers bend in peculiar ways,

Like bands of light turned scattered rays,

Or the swollen scalp with life-spent grays,

And the mind below notes sun-spent strays,

In the eyes of women facing better days,

These hands can block the sun.

I am that impulse,

Moving closer to the thoughts,

Graceless in nature.

The gush of blood, red wine dealt for rare occassions,

The must that’s trapped beneath my skin, like rain water churning the vineyard,

Breast plate violent, the rhythmic fall, and further fall,

Whistling,

Autumnal, somber, sick am I,

Like bread broken and fed to the crows descending,

With this fall unending,

Fed to lovebirds til wine runs dry…

My own thoughts are eating away at me, slowly destroying me, motivating me, and loathing my motivations. Regrets are the only thoughts not worth having, and today they are all I have. All I can muster.

I giggled today, 
It felt out of place,

A quickness of breath,

In the inhale of space,

The space between my mouth,

And the machines in your ear,

Churning, digesting, 

A new sounds premier,

I giggled today,

And it bore me no pain,

But bore into the blanket,

That you let me stain,

Like the frost on the window,

From the breathes that we drained,

I giggled today, but there was no joy in the thought,

Derision for lungs, and and the good sense they wrought

dimasmoonbeams:

everything you ever said
might be a lie
but i don’t care
it sounded sweet
like eloquence
it could stop time
once more, perhaps
or speed us up
like hurried death
either way
we hold our breath
putting our faith in
nothing else
but closing eyes
and dead romance -

uhg too perfect…