1.
drip
drip
drip
like the whirl of a record
in mid-waltz twirl till,
slip,
trip,
skip,
and it's lost on repeat,
throat tight with the
stomps of a
disremembered heartbeat -
crumpled in the divot,
left to choke.
the chronic blur sear tears
betwixt lids begging to shut.
eyes stuck wide
as the room fills with smoke,
dead legs dragging in search of the abbot,
for shame renders them as valuable,
as a bent and broken spoke.
praying the holy light
toward which you creep
leads like a map
out of this horror's gut -
but all the while,
vile vapors seep,
permeating every pore,
confining like vines
boring through a door
whispering,
"fruitless endeavor,
makes your soul too heavy.
you'll struggle to stay woke."
2.
a garden of goosebumps blooms,
forming an arch of defeat
around the thin, curved,
cartilage edges of
my anxious ear,
pressed hard to the plaster,
to all that separates me from
the buzz of assurance,
that bubbles between two pairs of
fingers, legs, and skin bags,
huddled so close that the spark of
a tender memories and
old secrets shared,
ricochet like lightning
from one's shin to
another's funny-bone;
and tickle it must,
as a steady psalm of mingled giggles
rises through the room,
dauntless and at ease.
it weaves through the melody of
the near and dear phonograph
that swathes the totality of their shared moment
in a mellifluous murmur,
a cherished susurration.
their precious sighs,
swirl around my head,
until it is a sharp pointed hat,
and my nose in the corner.
the sweet coalescence of
their mutual mirth
grips me firmly,
bolts down my esophagus
until I am sick with
an icy burning
which coats my stomach
and droplets plummet
through my body,
till the tips of my
toe bones
ache.
suddenly, I jump,
startled by my desperation,
beady bloodshot beads darting,
searching for some semblance of peace.
I cast my fevered eyes
over my shoulder
abruptly terrified
that someone
will
see
me.
3.
"don't look too long in the mirror now.
try not to glance at your face.
you'll get lost trying to trace the new lines
carved out to frame your lips;
get to longing to dig up the corpses
you buried beneath your cheekbones.
you'll start to wonder why
your amaryllises never bloomed,
the ones planted with
a whisper and
a sweet kiss
behind your ear;
only thing that ever bloomed was
a dusty, orange ditch lily.
and you'll want to feel cynical,
but instead you'll find tears,
too weak to find the beauty in
a dirty ditch lily.
just don't get caught in the mirror,
unless you're lookin' to get lost."
4.
The creak of the porch swing's chains screeches rhythmically to the beat of Paul's low rumble, the chain-smoker evident and perceptible in the sore chords vibration.
"There's no good come from midnight and 3 young men in the throes of hide-and-seek, huddled in the dark, with their questions and their fears of what the answers must be. Just waitin'. Waitin' like they always have, from the time their thin spindly legs was runnin' from girls, from second to third and then home, as a warning voice rang out in the distance and the sun sank into a brisk, purple twilight. From then till now, in secluded bunkers, waitin' to be found. And then, right then, in the dark, they sat, on the precipice of something new, just as they were at the top of a carnival ride, about to tip over and tumble into the unknown; a new life, mournin' the loss of their spindly legs and every purple twilight they took for granted. Like it would always be that way.
And who could've said what might've come next in the ride? The first drop was too much. 'Cause Cyrus came by Jack's sanctuary first and bashed the back of his beautiful skull in with a brick he found buried beneath that buildup of buckeyes he found at the bed of that big tree. He pocketed a few for luck - the buckeyes. Can't say I know if that's what they brought.
And Luka came by, too curious not to creep out of his hiding spot, tired of waitin' to be found. And maybe he knew Cyrus could've found him first, or maybe he'd always been eyein' that watch, but he pocketed that gold heirloom Jack's father had passed on down to adorn his son's wrist. And then Luke walked on, left that broken skull there for someone else to find. Last time I saw Luka, I saw a gold glint peeking out from underneath his pulled down sleeve. But it's not good to look too long for other's secrets. You stumble onto things you never wanted to know.
And I don't know who was the next to find that beautiful boy's broken body. But they buried that godless boy near a yew in a churchyard. Alone in the depth, laid gentle and cold and almost completely forgotten. Maybe when I go, he will be.
And I say all the time, 'I pray it was worth it.' But really, I wonder if anything is worth it."
He breaks for a sigh. "Can't stop what's comin'."
5.
"I'd like to say that hope floats,
but I'm just a girl who speaks in ransom notes,"
and just as you rise, a new sun to meet,
slip, trip, skip and hit repeat.
frost melting from buds and a fledgling bluebird's tweet,
slip, trip, skip and hit repeat.
unfolding morning glories, soft and sweet,
slip, trip, skip and hit repeat.
and when the cacophonous climax threatens your skull to pop,
you stop.
stay silent instead.
alone in the dark with nothing but dread.