Muse
The tip of an iceberg
sits in my whisky -
sinking the titanic with her fury
of indifference;
a round globe spinning
to the way things used to be.
Silver for a bullet,
a bullet for a tooth -
no eyes, no eyes -
but if you had blinds,
don't worry,
the sun hated you too.
A casket shaped flask
waxing poetically:
brushing fingers sensually,
steel eyes gazing
prophetically gone with
the wind, no push to send
us careening over the edge;
or to hang our livers out to
dry for the next sky burial;
no waves to drown
our plastics in.
Memories
"Do you know what drowning's like?"
I ask, naivety
a perfect, unbroken circle
of marriage rubber
in my back pocket.
My feet stick to the tiles,
house parties in
drag - all soles melt into
a ball-less blacktop.
The crooked picture above
the mantelpiece microwave
grins - or smiles, crookedly -
muting the trumpeteer's glorious,
god anointed announcement -
"the door is closing, and will not
reopen."
Awaiting the next train
stop painted black with ash-
ash wood columns four postering
silk suffocating a silhouette:
someone I once knew.
Moments
"Does anyone know what death's like?"
I ask, two dreamcatchers
reflected dancing and twining together
as they twist above an emergency
broadcast frequency on stasis:
"repeat" playing backwards across
a smartphone with a spiderwebbing
screen - hands up; now out to the
side! where we hung up our keys and
hats and scarves and all the things
we used to wear to keep out
the sun and the water and the wind
and the others;
or, maybe, just to keep our heads
on our shoulders.
Monuments
Shed these layers like lizard skin,
my fellow man, my kin,
devour our past selves like
condensation collectors pressed
against glass ceilings
collecting dust like wellfare
in the corners of their eyes.
Brush the dust, if you will,
an eye for the finer teeth.
We, condensation collectors
collecting dust in the corners
of our eyes
like comic books;
us, becoming real
like superheroes;
we, reborn like
civilization;
us, becoming death,
the destroyer of worlds;
and we, undone like
colored yarn
spooling
an unregulated fishing net;
or a nuisance;
or a noose.
And all the bodies
float to the top,
the tips of icebergs,
praying for a ship
to find them;
the last sip before
you are forgotten
and the door
clicks shut.
a piece on searching for meaning where there is none for Poetic Surge Contest themed "emptiness"
First there was Chaos, the vast
immeasurable abyss, outrageous as a sea,
dark, wasteful, wild.
What hath we wrought upon this world:
a distinct lack of focus?
a distinct lack of love?
a distinct lack. this is for you.
photo is from Tine Poppe's 'Winter Solstice' collection and is used with her permission.
Tine's website: https://www.tinepoppe.no/
on instagram: https://www.instagram.com/tinepoppe/
on facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TinePoppePhotography/
on twitter: https://twitter.com/TinePoppe
Her series will be exhibited at SF Cameraworks, a non-profit gallery space in San Francisco supporting emerging artists, November 11-18, reception on November 15 from 6 - 8 pm.
