poems

Sunday best

I pace

Throwing windows open

Moonwalking across rooms

Playing a jarring melancholy that hums along the floors

Staring back at my dry aesthetic

Ripping through cloth to find the right lie

Thrust in steam and scent

Molested with intoxication in older shades

Mona Lisa painting now

And then I pause

My feet forget how to pace

Standing high, jewelled

Breathing in the obscure lyric

Imagining a simulation

Where everything is the same

Except for me

And it looks so much better now

Quieter how

This is probably what Van Gogh’s left ear felt like

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poems etc.

Woman

It was a thin wire

Spindly thin

And she walked on it

Carefully fast

With her pink clown shoes

As she tried to keep

Her diminishing locks

From prying into her one eye

For the other eye

Was a blind glass

The beautiful Nazi blue

 

They gave her

 

 

So, with her tired arms

And bony fingers

She wobbled

The deadly waltz

With a sly hoop

Dancing on her neck

And twisting into her hair

 

Holding her back

 

 

And the hall gasped

As she spun

And almost slipped off

Unexpectedly

But the greased line

A loving mother

Kept her bleeding heels

 

Steadily sloped

 

 

“It would be a miracle if she made it”

they whispered

in between their thin mints

and garlic popcorn

 

Two tickets for a dollar

Tampons were more expensive.