30 Poems in 30 Days

[darkerdreamer]

3-12

Eleven Minutes to Write a Poem

What an ignorant position
I find myself in, yet again.
Procrastination strikes,
not fast, just a slow trickle.

Soon, an hour is wasted.
Then, a day.

Perhaps, a lifetime.

 

[loserstyx]

3-2

Entertainment
Sitting here for hours and days
Wanting to get up but I am bound
The shackles made of:
Gluttony
Lust
Sloth
I gorge myself on images of anorexic females
Sitting here for hours and days

Waiting

 

[AChild]

1-20

Close cut

gift me with your sharpest sword
or a book full of the symbols I never
use in my waking life,
words

put me in your fire
I'll learn to eat matter and shit
ash

see you on the other side
fat burned

 

[vampiredust]

7-11

Junkhouse

This is where the real intersection
between time zones occurs,
a boarded up semi near Mill Hill,
forget Greenwich and its pregnant
observatory.

Brightly coloured lemons
release their light in the kitchen sink,
buoys for visitors wading
the Atlantic on stolen mattresses.
Gulls of piss and vomit

roost above doorways,
each dank wing hanging like icicles
for groups of would-be miners
exploring the cave, a mausoleum
of junk and sex.

Caskets have already been built
out of old computer boxes,
each lined with possessions:
a mango heart, potato wreaths,
unripened tomatoes, rice seeds.

When they enter, each will shift
their weight until comfortable,
each body another X on the map.
Dig here, the decomposing bones
will whisper to night demolishing the house.

 

[darkerdreamer]

i am making
construction paper snowflakes
for you.

snip at one folded corner,
there goes my empathy.

drawing the shears at another
to see what i lose this time.

how many edges must i shave,
before i find the one that stands
for you?

this design will become ever more intricate
and hol(e)y while i try to find the answer
to that question.

 

[4degrees]

10-12

another dozen days
pass by like a
blurry dream
a temperate mind
searching for just
the right things
to say and think
the kind of which
might make you bite down
into your knuckles, again
tasting your own two cents
wishing for something
more.

 

[wildsweetone]

13

In a Digital Blink

There is a red dot on the clock
by the bed. A digital blinking
reminder that I'm laying in bed
at 2am watching seconds pass

wasting a quarter of my half-gone life
when I could be up
watching the hedgehog run over silver grass
through the short shadows of the full moon.

Instead I lay, turning over
what might have beens and what will be,
watching the spider in his midair dash
to his web, likely with no more thought
than catching his next meal.

There have been other nights like this,
where the garden called me out
to show off its natural bling,
other nights where tossing trapped my body
until I fought back, left
to wander the outside land.

I no longer flick on the TV
during the night to watch
them selling me things I need,
selling me a new body
or food appliance that will help me fill it.
Hot milky chocolate sometimes turns the cards,

gives me warm fuzzies to ponder,
smiles on little faces,
daisies on the lawn

and then it's all, all right.
The digital blink continues
and I no longer see it in my sleep.

 

[AChild]

1-21

slowing into the curves
smoking a cigar
reflectors on the ground
guide

listening to talk radio
singing "King of the Road"
eating a fish taco

the trees pretend to be more
with the darkness
street lamps poke hole in lies

it's late and I'm too tired for poetry

 

[vampiredust]

7-12

And There Are Villages

There are villages where fathers
do not grow amongst rows
of pewter flowers and ceramic
mosques, lunar caviar replacing

the once familiar tip tapping
produced by men easing themselves
out of pod casings, bursting
through to be picked up by a goat

driven cart. Sold at a market,
they are dusted down, hung
in airing cupboards. Seeds
are extracted by pea shooters,

neatly packed in air-tight wombs
before shipping to China.
There are villages where fathers
do not grow amongst rows

of pewter flowers and ceramic
mosques. Women wait with clay
stomachs, hoping to swallow
the delicacy whole, each bone
the ingredient to make them harden.

In a distant city, mothers weep
for their sons.

 

[darkerdreamer]

Goodbye, Frost

from your birthplace,
a cardboard heap in the back
of an East LA tortilla factory,
to home,
following me from couch to couch
on the west coast,
to taking a road trip halfway across the world
to stay together.

you were more traveled than most people,
that was little consolation yesterday.
even less today.

my own personal undercover
space heater / motor mouth.
one and one half ears,
half a mouth of teeth,
a crooked tail,
and the predisposition of
a two decade old infant.

when i lost all faith in humans
you never let me down.
i couldn't be more sorry
that i couldn't return the favor.

Godspeed, Frosty "Fat Guy" Snowman,
your hilarious meow will grace their choir.

the angels are going to love you.

 

[wildsweetone]

14

...

Distance does carry a burden,
a barrier of barbed claws
that destroys any semblance of sense,
of understanding that raw bleed
that oozes from the gash of separation.

It is not until the wound's edges
are bound together
that their parting can be forgotten,
forgiven,
placed in a shoe box,
stored in the attic
and left to be tomorrow's photographs,
that in their healing
they can create new bonds
that render distance,
surmounted.

 

[4degrees]

10-13

tunnel trance
winding down into
the black bughouse
insectual desserts
and dirt abounds
falling into eyes as
one tries to steal a peek
blink, don't rub
rinse and repeat
wait
i used that in a poem before
now its wring out
and repeat the beat
my alum is recyclable
maybe you don't eat meat
because of its predictable
need to be watched
by thousands
as its mashed red
between teeth
annuciate the rejection
of proper punctuation,
rotation of the same
words forever
and i butcher yet another
thing that
could've been poetic.

 

[AChild]

morning light
coffee
sugar
cigarettes

these do not
wake

it is words

before "hello" co-workers
are stuck in dreams and
problems

before "how are you?"
there has been no time to
vent since the dinner table

in the well of a person dwells
first words
expression gets the juices flowing
in the time before noon loosen a
tongue or two

 

[vampiredust]

9-13

Changes

Everything changed the year
we left our house. Columns
underneath the balcony
shifted colour, taking on a tone

of black in half hidden light.
Dogs stopped pissing on trees
on our street. The Boy Scouts
next door moved out.

The old car park down the road
became a replica of the Mojave.
I know these things happened
because Father flashed photos

to me with his eyes, soon
as they had finished developing
in his homemade darkroom
(our old bathroom)

I would wait for him in my bed
at night, leaving a gap open
in the window (him being the moth
he was) and open the folds

of my young chest, letting him
suckle on my fading light. No-one
told me then that it could fog images.

 

[darkerdreamer]

He pulled on murkwear, quietly.
Black hoodie put on backwards
with the hood up.
Two eye holes, two empty eyes.
Black jeans, black shoes,
black disposition.
Black man, black neighborhood,
and a black fucking night about to go red.

In every pocket, a refill.
In one pocket there were two,
the cartridges clanked together as he walked.

Same block, same neighborhood,
same folks on the stoop,
same dice game;
and yet,
everything was much different
from this vantage point.

In a single ricochet,
the neighborhood became him.

 

[4degrees]

10-14

nice one, 2d.

pull shadows over
in place of eyelids
shielding from
that white flash
the laser beam aimed
straight into the center
watch as nother son
sets and casts
long black stretches
across a vast flat
prairie of scrutiny.

 

[wildsweetone]

15


Sun Blessing

It is always the great moments that move us,
the moments we remember in our arched years
those days we know will come,
where we'll drag our feet and wish we'd laid our heads,
the days we choose to ignore until they bend us,
yet continue to deny even as we walk them.

We'll remember the glint on the brass handle
of a child's coffin,
sunrise blessing petals scattered on an ocean calm,
we will remember the birth of our children,
our Saviour,
and yet, forget those tiny incidentals that take us
from sun blessing to sun blessing.


(not finished with this one)

 

[AChild]

1-22

the magician is dead
I killed him
after he showed
me all his secrets

I split him open
expecting to find a pile
of golden eggs

cooking is like that
all the dishes taste bland

 

[vampiredust]

8-14

The Horse

I used to keep a horse
on top of my wardrobe
when I was little,
a big black colt crouched
next to my trike.

I'd feed it leftovers
smuggled from underneath
the dinner table, covering
its oversized mouth as it ate
to make sure papa never heard.

It would sleep on top of an old
tent covered with a blanket,
watching me with its amber
coloured eyes as I fell asleep.
Some nights I swear it would

disappear, the sound of hooves
ringing in the back of my ears,
followed by the sight of a rider
I had never seen before.

And in the morning,
there would be cuts on my skin,
my clothing ripped in places,
exposing a brand slowly
revealing itself.

 

[darkerdreamer]

3-16

Keeping Sanity 101

I dreamt of you again, last night.
This time we were in a backwards world,
in a forest of a city.
Before I could stop myself
I took you into my arms,
I couldn't help but taste those sweet lips,
one last time.
Only after did you make mention of your
new replacement.
Then again,
I didn't ask until it was over.

I thanked the heavens,
thanked God, Allah, Buddha, Satan and Megatron
for every second of bliss.
Yet,
when I woke up,
I cursed them all in turn.

Where are you now,
when the dreams are over?
I am beginning to doubt you exist anymore,
outside the confines of my withered mind.

 

[AChild]

1-23

Good friday

have you seen my chocolate jesus
its lonely in a refrigerated truck
cause people were mad he didn't come
with a loin cloth

 

[wildsweetone]

16

The Trees

There are trees growing in my house.
Seedlings push up through stacks of mulching paper,
roots embedded in the language
inked upon them. Full grown, their canopy
gives me secret shelter
as I write poems and paste them
to their branches - leaves sway
in the breeze of my pen's wake.
As I half wait for the man with the chainsaw,
there is near-frantic in the ink-spill
and I try not to watch history turn yellow
and red in the burn above me,
the skirting of summer
caught in one last throe.

 

[4degrees]

10-14

strange as anything,
i find i am equating
poems while being observed
similar to pissing in front
of a crowd
even with everything
roget offers, which, you know
is more poems than i'll ever write
before i die, my muse
is shy
and i can't do a goddamn thing
in his presence.

 

[vampiredust]

5-15

Becoming Older

Think of it this way:
imagine plunging
into a pool backwards,
grabbing onto footholds
of things you might
not miss as a current
drags you to somewhere
else only the moon
has hinted at in those days
you never made love
and thought of nothing
else but wanting.

 

[4degrees]

10-15

something good will come
of it...
of these efforts, a half
felt have not
had no kind of
writing poem mojo
goin' on, alas
cast away an outside
puppeteer despite
the hand slid up my back
feels nice
sorrow, dogs, slim pickings
cancer within and thick skin
resisting the god-force
surrended, son,
its your only hope today.

know what i'm sayin'?

this space is smaller today
wanting to be the good man
do the right thing guy,
this plan was an abortion
from the start, now stuck
for this time with you
sucking up my precious minutes
in more ways than one
beating you when you're down
isn't my idea of fun
but goddamn,
i'm just one man
i can't save the world
or even you, or
even me, probably.