Sunday, November 16, 2014

Poem: Speakhard

Published not too long ago in Dead Snakes.

Best To All,




the strain of his eyes
becomes the fake of the paper on the screen.
breath bends over to tantrum,
as if it could by itself
batter out something decent
on the keyboard.

if only sobs
could articulate the profound;
or an undermined heart
wrote what it meant.  fingers
are just signposts of stripped feathers, 
desperate with lust
to free their knotted wings.

the machine on his lap
doesn’t care about crotch-throb,
or the twitchy hours
of cramps and aches--

as if the sweet white paper, such a liar,
were ordained to resist;
as if clouds of purgatory
had been rolled out flat,
and waited now like parchment--

for his confessions to tattoo
their heads, breasts, genitals, and arms.


No comments:

Post a Comment