PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I fell through a door

To find myself an empty

Coliseum,

Seeing the cancer face to face,

Touching the cysts I could not burn away.

I spilled milk on a table

To materialize as my mother,

Turning to rivers soft and coarse,

Unable to give what once they gave.

I slinked down my spine, the marrow of the bone,

A hardship to be buried with a death.

All I had now a matter

Of a roadside tundra, an Indian chant

Reverberating through the ears,

Of yesterday, folded as it did fade.

Arthur Rimbaud cruelly echoes from the shadows,

Shadows like falso hope, like a glove.

"Oh may it come, the time of love,

The time we'd be enamored of."

The red treaty I'd kept at my breast

Was replaced with a heavy veil,

And loose blankets with venereal diseases laden in them.

For love's a white woman, Navajo.

Albeit inhumane, unusual, a bad example,

Love is one night no matter the race.

These were the things of the splintered cradle 

That became of home and youth.

I am unable so 'oft now

I've become gravel, spit and thorn.

I'm aimed to die at 52

But I'll best that by a third,

Ugly and covered in mud.  

"O may it come, the time of love,

The time we'd be enamored of."

I listen, count the rocks,

Roll them over for tips on the weather

And return again, as bloody

As I came, screaming hysterically.

My cranium is shaven and transparent,

As clear as the eyelids of an ancient man.

When I was young I was told to wait.

Now I listen.

Arthur Rimbaud cruelly echoes form the shadows.

Shadows like false hope, like a glove.

"O may it come, the time of love,

The time we'd be enamored of."

In the New York School of poetry

There's Frank O'Hara, and there's John Ashbery, too.

I work my scythe on a chain gang of regret.

"I may gone crazy but I still know who the sheriff is."