Tag Archives: писатель
apartment to let
vibrant radiator harmony,
getting to his ears
before the daylight
ripped open his eyes,
and alphabet soup thoughts
swilled from side to side
in the bowl that is his skull,
twnty seven permutations
of how the day
would end up being,
rolling a cigarette,
strips of paper cut from
an old shelley poetry book
as if inhaling the words
would give creedence to his own,
that languished on pages
scattered like a womans dirty
underwear across the floor,
that masterpiece so often
rewritten not compiled,
new words scraped away the old
confidence from caffeine
lifted him to another level,
sun filled evey corner
a morning bronze age
renaissance to the heart,
sat up scratching legs
it would be complete
Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien
Robert Creely – To And
descent and decay
iron blanket drawn
over graveyards shoulder,
time grizzles in the wind,
on haunches leaving flowers
new ones that repair the vase
to a certain brightness,
tattooed hand
pores darkened by labor
fingers stained by cigarette,
a tear would not fall
enough had shown at the time,
those fingers took a kiss
pressed it to headstone
no inhibition
despite the rumors that had become
a fiction contorted on nights breath,
driven within hours
in a landscape changing
mesh of community falling
into disrepair,
his longing had seen violence
memory carried weapons
and he could only think of
retribution,
slate wiped of all marks
that defined a normal history,
he still had a key
that room there own,
now cleansed and let to someone
else,
he visited sometimes
walking amongst others possessions
picturing his own
and her blood
scarring the walls
gardens in a candlelit room
i take a hammer
and a nail
to my brother and sister eye,
one gazing south
to shared sand of desert and sea,
other north
through motorcycle lens
to fields of open pleasure,
my visceral concern
is not getting lost between both,
naked to contradiction
my form is seen
bare paleness of a wanting moon
sand still tasted between teeth,
without movement and sound
to the board of memory
each eye nailed
swiftly
so there is no gelatinous collapse
blinking obscura of pain,
i now want
flesh cold
still pale
not written upon by her lips,
hammer has fallen
indenting ground
taking root
Andrew Wyeth Man and the Moon
a file cabinet on the east bound state road
six drawers of the universe
filled with life he could not leave behind
twenty year commitment gone,
thick neck and morning lit face
parked up station wagon
silver leaf scars rusting
doors with rattling windows,
behind a marriage gone like perspiration,
a third from the sun creature
pushed into the office
low humbled
shoulders shrugged into body,
grasped that file cabinet
dragged it to the door lifting carpet tiles,
tailgate flipped open,
company property someone shouted
another mentioned 911,
all other lives abandoned
this was all he had,
one last look
eyes like roses on granite,
pulled away
smearing rubber traces,
freeway surrounded by suburban houses
urban outcrops to his canyon
that became a void,
cassette music kept the corpses away
those corpses of the past
that seem to claw and linger,
a siren
was it for him,
tailgate flipped lock busted
as file cabinet slid progressively out,
braking hard
it dropped on blacktop
engine stalled
a dead bronze beetle
car horns swarmed about,
grunting stood upright that grey oblong
last piece of life
scuffed and scraped,
small key on his chain unlocked top drawer
took out a warm shaken bottle of whiskey
and the gun he kept here since his wife
became afraid,
sucked in air
climbed on top and sat crosslegged,
heaven had shadows that would not conceal him
as he waited,
bullhorn call on gentle breeze
curved outline of the day a flat surface,
and a smile so human appeared
Stones Thrown as the Crow Flies
midnight had crawled
out of his head leaving the
early hours to do their work,
fingers manipulate
keyboard screen aglow
in transcript of the mind,
his patience a short tether
to the excitement of creation,
as if dawn light brought revelation
a first fledged sun of
the day,
radiated warmth
mist lifting,
stimulants left aside
progressing in a way he knew best,
hunching slightly,
a splinter of memory
curdled color at the corner
of his eye,
tear appeared,
but only of tiredness,
not happiness
love remorse or regret
compacting much of the mind
this way and ball it up
upon a printed page
gave it a name,
then abandon it
let it become a piece thrown aside,
to be read again one
future day,
at completion a certain smile
pleasure heightened
few could ever see,
it was written
it was done,
exhale pull away
tremors in the arms
till the next moment.
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