Sta.sh
| A poem I wrote today |
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Aortic Stenosis Murmurs have been heardAortic Stenosis by ~Tigermoth99
from your heart for weeks.
Implausible, bats roosting
inside your ribcage:
Their faces do not press
against your milky skin,
their wings do not leave
signs of their geometry.
Implausible, a woodland
growing inside your chest:
Auburn fur does not tickle
the lungs' bell jar,
birds do not peck at the
earthworm-coloured heart.
Perhaps you have been exploring
the local caverns for weeks
and have not found the exit.
Return An Easyjet slices the sky in halfReturn by ~Tigermoth99
like a melon while the train eases
out of Waterloo's boxy dress. Clouds
dangle themselves in front of commuter's
eyes, becoming part of cappuccino froth
and whipped cream that slosh with every
hard brake. We move past Lego council
estates and trees which only dance to urban
beats. The plane moves silently to the Med
while the train speeds through south
London, into leafy suburbs where every
house is practically a semi and there
are only cars in the street, not kids.
I watch the scenery speed by, opening
up like a picnic blanket, and cross my fingers,
hoping it will land where I'll stop,
Tomahawk At this angle, the roseTomahawk by ~Tigermoth99
stalk is a tomahawk ready
for throwing. Certain
is the cut - the deep gash
once it hits and all you feel
are the thorns against your skin.
At this angle, the rose
stalk embedded in your skin
is a thousand things gone wrong.
Plucking each one out won't undo
their pushing. There is only the white
after this, the unforgiving white.
Watching the River Dart Pike wait in the reeds.Watching the River Dart by ~Tigermoth99
The sun, tigering
the riverbank, is the decider -
whether to let
what was rush through
or what will be stay the course.
Night slinks into view:
I stand and look
at the willow's branches
dipping into the slow tide,
and watch for the sudden dip of tails.
| A poem I wrote today |
Thousand Our silence lasts for miles,Thousand by *Shairese
tangled around my ankles and throat and
stretching down the highway to end at your
computer screen. I like the way it tastes,
like bitter chamomile and rust.
We crawl
from morning to dusk and drink too
much coffee and watch the Bruins pound
the Jets and forget that once upon a time,
we said we'd get married.
Sometimes our fingertips remember the tapping of keys
on late nights, our poetry and faith streaming between
our eyes in rivers of need, and we
cave inside. Just a little, though.
Mostly we sleep beneath the fluorescent lights
of God and sex and grocery shopping,
and we pretend we don't see
t
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