Your moon face buoyant on our crumpled sheets
Snuffles as I brush your spindly, broken
Hands. They're too perfect for me. Your gaze fleets
With cynical lethargy to connect
With the dawn. Too early for birds to sing,
The hills too lazy to do a damn thing.
Australia calls. You'd like it, I think.
You write poetry, I think. Words flow through
Our throats like sunbeams, words to describe dew
Perspiring under our lids as I blink
To say goodbye. But they'll be left unsaid
Forever. So I will say what I must.
Your skin is fresh as eucalyptus, head
Filled with firecracker wits. I can't say lust
Is pure but spring makes it so, turns molten
Red into ca
Freakish
Taut as a sacred tambourine
Varicose-littered
Silverfish-grey...
Gel tickles orifices
With deft motorized strokes
A giggle, jerk, groan, wince
They're never much to mince words, are they?
Dim the lights.
Don't fall asleep.
Switch up that Rorschach grey film-
But all I can see is granular static.
I remember now that when I was a kid,
The longest sentences used to obfuscate everything:
What does this mean?
What does this mean?
Slowly sucked through the umbilical straw?
Popped upandout like a pimple?
Bursting into the world with bravado like a majestic geyser?
A rotund blob
Is your fertility goddess
Curving cold belly
Brick arms
waiting for the dime to drop,
my skull to pop,
the world to stop.
waiting for the dime to drop...
but, it's got a ways to fall.
waiting for the worm to turn,
the sky to churn,
the world to burn.
waiting for the worm to turn...
but, it's got a ways to crawl.
A swivel, then the handover
Kindness
Pure kindness
The milk of your actions ripples
Oozes through a hole in my skull
Hadn't noticed it before
kitten-fur caring
buckled to the core
what to do
but smile
ummthankyou
unnecessary caution
at rattling speed
Wow
...
All stress thrown down
Rifles after an armistice
All tension abnegated
To join the laughter outside
All words vacate
Leaving cocoons, empty husks
Framed in your lilting voice...
But the public shall not see them
Only me
We hold the keys to this mausoleum
And we don't meet again
We do not forget
What is missing?
...
Expectation
There's never enough
There's never enough
trinkets nev
Mornings in Purgatory by LifeOfSherman, literature
Literature
Mornings in Purgatory
She smiled and quickly smote a dirty coup de grace
With nothing but a pen's flourish and a stern look.
So morning comes. Hunched up in the lukewarm sun and grass
Pondering hysterically how and why she took
The one opportunity to love and to heal
And shoved this muffled corpse into a mundane even keel.
The tepid water oozes in the milky midday light
And through the placid currents I can't help but feel it all:
The pulse that still inexplicably picks a fight
Against vessels jutting out in a bruise-blue scrawl.
The steam rises, with a wretched trapped noncorpum,
Ready to leave, not watching the postmortem.
The chokehold darkness twines through
The taste, so enriching…
Gives way to a bitching
Jolt of head pain
But there's always more to gain
From those warm cups and sachets
That propel me to sashay
Through the plastered gates of hell
Just before the school bell
And sit with my acquaintances
And ignore their bleating plaintive
Oh-so-concerned stares
Because really who cares
They sure don't they just pretend
Besides I must expend
Yet more time in class
Floating ghosts of deadlines past
Blare along with my phone
Bloody stinging whining drones
Must ignore the piercing stares
From when I tripped on the stairs
And couldn't stop shaking
They don't get it's better than making
A scene
All you angel headed hipsters. Look how far you've fallen.
You flew too close to the moon, didn't you? For so long you were lifted up by soothing walking baselines and crooning saxophones intermingled with the rusty whirring thoughts of the rejects who loved you. You were underdogs who scavenged the streets for their next hit and abandoned the unis where students scrawled formulaic villanelles and had to be scared into realizing that sex was actually a thing people had.
Your starry dynamo sputtered and crashed and burned under the pressure, yet you survived.
You survived long enough to get the masses to agree with you. They saw your ecstas
You don't work with your hands.
They're small, soft and interlocked.
They twitch but don't scrape - the nails are immaculate.
And when they do move, it's only to supplement
The righteous rigidity you don like a cloak.
You stand stoic before the most critical of crowds,
Arms swinging up and down
To the rhythm of your machine-gun
Rhetoric. You look at us first to steal our attention,
Then to clutch it and never let go.
Some say you are too brash.
Your laughter is erratic and scatters like pebbles.
Your voice is harsh, with mild slobbers in your sibilance.
Your jokes don't always hit the mark
In the same way your arguments pierce through
Fli