Dark Poetry Prose Poetry August 6, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

08-06-04 friday 7:06pm

new -- like how you see strangers faces, all clean like bleach and crisp like fresh linens.

new to me. new to us. to everyone.

unknown. mysterious. and fearsome.

take this white text and paint it orange. like snoring sunets sinking deep into their beds.

new -- strangers now. and again.

deserts. sand and more sand all along the horizon.

somewhere, but nowhere yet.

new to me. new to them.

strangers. bleached feelings. starched affections. such clean sheets on such dirty beds.

08-06-04 friday 8:02pm

it cried out fierce and oblivious. yellow and tentative as a traffic light about to turn red. it urged me to hit the gas. speed through it, but i just hit the brakes instead.

satin coffins all lined with rigormortis. freshly embalmed and forever preserved in that last pose that you left them in.

isn't it sad to think that they have to wear that face forever. no matter how they feel. isn't a shame. that now and everafter, they can't change. makes me wonder if we ever were able.

there are orange cones again. everywhere and all around. blocking paths. impedeing progress. there are orange cones everywhere. delineating where we can and cannot tread. they're always there. even when we can't see them.

there are airports. airports in my head. where every hour of everyday flights are boarding and letting out. where high above the ground travellers are being parcelled to all sorts of places. there are airports in my head where hundreds of thousand of passengers constantly head off for and arrive at their destinations. and taxi cabs. so many taxi cabs lined up waiting for them.

i thought it was over. and it is. but the stain it's left is permanent.

i thought it was nothing now. and it is. but the stain. the stain's set in.

08-06-04 friday 9:33pm

lives on pause. vhs.

they want not, but beg.

tortoises. shells. on their backs.

immobile, but still so far ahead.

they look back. eyes like pistols shoot blank bullets.

blood packets explode red, but no skin is actually opened.

only memories of when.

there is a cloud just outside the line of your peripheral vision. a cloud damp and moist with. it longs to rain, but it can't.

how i knew. how i thought i did. all those empty bottles i'd put my messages in.

only the tide refused. it just wouldn't send them.

and so they stayed right where they had been left.

i was so forgiving. much too much. for everyone i'd been hurt by all i had was love.

i was alone all that while that their shadows fell across my path. distant planets would make their angles in my orbit.

i heard them. saw them. but. everything was just a silhouette. black reflection.

not rain. nor wind. just the thought of. every word a lie that is such comfort.

i was everything i meant to be. and if they weren't it's not my fault. i was everything i claimed. and still they failed me more than once.

i was everything they asked me to be. and then some. i always forgave. i guess that was my mistake.

i was everything i tried to be. no regrets. i forgave and forgave again. but never did find forgiveness.

08-06-04 friday 9:55pm

if i drink too much. that's just a symptom of. you know how it is. when nothing makes sense. when all you can watch are movies. and even they are hard to look at.

if i indulge the debts. spare my heart, but everything else is wrecked. you know how it is. when all options leave. when the night is longer than you'd ever expect.

if i feel those people. care still enough. to wonder if. and they don't answer, how much can i learn then. that skin is thin and love even thinner yet. that what they say isn't what they meant. i awaken. i awaken and am humbled again.

i tried if for no other reason than i gave a shit if you lived or if you died. and which you really wanted.

but that is that. it made a fool of me again. as i listened to the voice mail and thought that. thought that there's no good way for some people to be friends.

that whatever we were. whatever this is. there's no good way to make that transit.

that who we are. or who we've been. doesn't matter. we each want what we took from it. and neither of us is really listening when.

i have nothing but raw fingertips left. no way to hold on. no any means to grip.

i have nothing but shadws in my head. no real firneds i've ever known. no anything to left to wish.