Java Verses

Shouting, Roaring, Ranting, Whispering, Singing . . . Verse

Saturday, November 12, 2005

Used (Redraft 34)

Frail, wasted . . . confusion consumes me
Damp gold outlines the fringes of my eyes
Staring out into the faint . . . nothing
Fear pours, hisses, as it trips on pavement
Squeezes between cracks, and fissures
Explodes on impact, a thousand fragments
Provoke elusive scents of motor oil, grass,
And some addictive poison . . . fragrance

You . . . smell of toothpaste and shaving cream
Of wet wilted sheets, creased by your body’s heat
Stains . . . ironed . . . deep

Miring this Monday night in emotions
Evoking thoughts too long suppressed
A clocks ticking, the window is open, again . . .
Wedged by my fingertips, stretched out trembling
Like graveyard talons grasping at elicit fumes

Half forgotten moments creep in our harbor
Dragging headstones, postcards, pillowcases
The minutes stink like mortuaries
Refusing to dissolve . . . acid washes skin casing
Weathered . . . does not equal purity

Languishing, I move to the den,
Disturbed, I rock my false icons
Frosted, my lips are, frigid, my body is,
Faltering, we are, fading, I am faint,
And still you’re vital pulse insists!
Seeks to make me, how you want me . . .

I fall, fall, fall, off of pedestals . . .
Cannot sustain the pose, the pristine picture
Slides out of focus, caught by the deceit
Reflect between our eyes . . .

Fiction, this fiction . . . it is written
By my weakness . . . the façade is shines,
Glares, burns, destroys photosensitive skin
A self-inflicted punishment . . . for the naive

There are many details, unspoken, unheard . . .
In silent spaces . . . between redundant words
The conversation loops, loops, loops
Varies only in tone, pitch, and Volume!
It imparts . . . no more certainty
Contains . . . no more conclusion
I'm not sure, how much more, I can take . . .
Before the reel snaps . . . slapping me

It seems as though our neighbors
Know us better than I do.
Speakers dangle, cling to plaster walls
Sends our confusion vibrating
Out into the ears of strangers

Do we keep them up with us till dawn?
We lay in bed, late, reiterating, everything
Unattainable, the truth sticks to my lips
Tongues move murmuring gray noise

We are not a public thing . . .
To be used and seen and known!

Like filthy bus station urinal
That carts disease . . .

I want to wash my hands clean,
Sanctify and sanitize my soul
But flies still hover near,
Like vultures, or buzzards,
Memories . . . the mind’s maggots
Burrow deeper devouring . . . me


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