[x]

BitterBitter-sharp and angled
The stake through my heart
The brightest sun cannot penetrate
The cold seizures as I die
and die
and die, everyday;
but still somehow remain.

You only had to die once.
I've died a thousand times
since you left.

Dying is no way to live.

Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skies
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams

except this one.

This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
at nothing.

As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.

I'm going outside to make a grass angel.

HollowdaysShortened dim days and long starless nights
The wellspring, the windchimes, the starlings
Are gone
Dreary tunes about razorblades, and ash, and bone
The lost man's song, the October sonata
The walkingman shoeheels clack empty sidewalks
Past blank storefronts and soapsmeared windows.
Summer is a distant fire, muted by mist, fog,
Coldbreath
Hollow days are here again.

A Drunken HymnFuzzy and smokey, creamed and strained
Clap on, clap off, cornered and drained;
Seeing is sawing, kneeing and gnawing
Hammerhead rhythm, red herring brain.

Do you want more sentimental sleaze?
More eyelinered fat kids, diseased?
Perhaps Superman will fly in and drink gin
With you and your uncle's mad niece.

(I like my flatliners flat, my beer strong
My ghosts to stay dead, my wood to last long
Forty acres and a mule is not enough
Give me your head, I won't be too rough.)

Slippery and slimy, or scaly and dry
Cankered and cancerous, bloody well wry;
Being's believing, but knowing is fleeting
Fifty steps down to the what and the w

DreamlessSlatted light through blinds, white walls, sterile
White trucks pass occasionally down the street, deadly
Your artifacts in the old china cabinet, Radiohead plays softly
The Cubs and Pirates on television chatter
Unnoticed

Pretending at life, trying to act human, being
Being nothing, nowhere, white noise and smoke dreams
Droning sound of tinnitus underlying every damned thing
Wishful thinking all but gone, everything's
Nothing

Another day in Paradise, palms and pines, white hot sun
You left too early, before soft night could settle in
Here am I, with this white light and deep lined creases
Scattered, shattered, hollowed, emptie

Raindrizzle-dream drops plop against the pane
the sun's so much farther, far away today
whispered memories replace buoyant talk
of starfish and freedom and flying away
no, no dreams of flying today, just quiet
words of long ago and what might've been
promises made in the sun hold no weight
on a day when the grey's pouring in
you remember her, now, from so long ago; dancing on sand so white
(it was bright as a headache)
hand-in-hand laughter, a day without end;
but it did end, when you weren't looking, and suddenly
it was ten years after, and you were sitting alone
watching the rain
inside the drops you hear gulls crying, waves rushing; children calling out
to each other as they play
a radio plays your song, she squints into the sun
(the most beautiful creature you've ever known)
you hear her whispered "i love you" and then it's just
rain once again

Quick Fire SketchA man walking. A dog barking. The man's head is on fire. The world is on fire. The fire is on fire. The fire burns unevenly down one side of the man's lapel. The man is naked. The man glows from within, red razor slash smile, concrete eyes. The man is gone, and a moon appears. It rises quickly and disappears. A tree is barking. The woman's eyes are taped with black electrical tape Xs. She looks for the man, then leaves with the trees. The fire has missed her somehow. The dog is barking at god. God is on fire. These words are on fire. You are on fire.

Recession A man on fire walked calmly out of the building, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the bricks, pound the pavement, skin a cat or two. I saw what he was thinking, it formed a black cloud above his head.

He thought of old photographs and wicker furniture, of how dark it was inside for all of those plants to thrive. He thought of chances taken and opportunities missed. The monologue in his burning head was a constant buzzing fly, a death rattle.

Old TV shows, bad poetry, seasons, songs and metalworks; nothing could shut out the memories or calm the storm inside. Treading water, he wished that he could fly again. Over

YellowLate August afternoon, the sky a strange yellow
Soupy light strained through a sieve of cloud
Foreboding, tornado warning, change coming

I remember Steppenwolf, and sit, and wait
For Autumn or death

A smooth sheath of silk holds a tempest inside
Soul gone yellow, the caution light warning
People come and go with the frail seasons

I remember sunflowers, refrigerator door drawings
Something slips away

I Took the Blue BusYou didn't put the phone back, left your pills on the table
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You made cookies I didn't eat, watched movies I didn't see
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You talked, then you didn't, then you talked some more
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

You took the elevator, she took the stairway to the stars
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You swept out memories, wrote a manuscript of dreams
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
I had coffee and cigarettes alone at four AM
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

She took the stairway to the stars
I took

Diner The diner was old, even then. Shafts of light through the picture-window blinds over the faded red booths. The red-haired waitress with too much rouge, the other grey-haired with glasses. They both wore white uniforms. Dresses. Women didn't wear pants much, back then. The cook was tattooed and also wore white. He looked as much like a sailor as a cook.

Tall menus were sandwiched between napkin holders and salt & pepper shakers, on the side of the table by the window. There were no booths on the other side, just a counter with stools.

Coca-Cola, iced tea, coffee. Burgers and fries with a real bottle of ketchup on the table. Ham and e

DrownBlackness at three AM
Dead stars
Mason jars
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
And
Think
Of
As
I
Drown

RiverBleeding words from shellshocked brain
A mantra: Clocks, crows, plastic flowers,
Dust, dirt.
Dreams, pale winged,
Flicker like an old-time movie.

Mannequins. Barberpoles. August days.
Running freely down
and through
and again.

A sieve.
A stone.
A bleached bone.
A river.

It always ends in the river.

SymphonyIt's the measured breathing of someone on oxygen, here in the small hours. I don't know where it's coming from. I hear it beneath the white noise of the air conditioner.
It's the faint jumpiness of a phone ringing, a monitor flatlining on a loop in my memory.
It's the droning in my own ears, the hum-buzz of the tinnitus, the electricity and insect sounds.
It's the whistle of a train, much louder than it should be. It soars over the top of it all. There are no trains nearby.
It's four AM again. The silence is not golden.

Falling AwayIt's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Unable to stay vertical, no horizontal to catch me
Blindly boring white days falling in and out of sleep
Waiting for something to end and something to begin

Talking about white things and birds and death stars
The location of heaven, the door that won't open
The hollow sounds of the memory gears turning
The falling, falling, endlessly through a sea of white

(Did I mention the white nothingness? Of course, yes,
It's all I have left to talk about, the falling through white)
It's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Catch me.

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Tavern

by =Bark, Dec 29, 2010, 2:29:20 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

graves in the pale sunlit afternoon
fields speckled with flowers
lost loves flying on the soft breeze
shadows grow long

the tavern is dark and filled with the smoke of unrealized dreams
stale beer, stale lives, stale music from a machine
we were young once, with futures
now we pass the time away waiting for death

how could it all have happened so fast?
i remember summer days that lasted forever...
but now i'm here, waiting with the others in silence
no need to speak, we all know.
we could tell again the beautiful tales of yesterday, but what would be the point?
we all know, we've all heard, we all understand.

slatted light squeaks through and highlights the dust
the ring i gave is turning to rust
the most i can hope for is oblivion.

Tavernby =Bark

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

7/11/09

*TheMadMulatto Feb 7, 2011

The end has wrapped this up superbly.

*LancelotPrice Jan 5, 2011

oblivion. hm... I don't know if you ever had the opportunity to read this little flashfic I wrote a few years ago>

I Stepped Up To The Bar

I wasn't feelin too good. kinda depressed. sad, you know? It didn't seem worthwhile to clean up and dress up to go out, but I made myself do it. Ended up in a dark, quiet bar. No band playing and nobody seeming inclined to put money in the jukebox. I wasn't in the mood for rowdiness and drunken dancing, so quiet was just what I wanted. I went to the bar itself; bartender came over and said hello and waited for me to order. ''I'd like some oblivion, please.'' He said ''How much?'' I said ''About sixteen hours, maybe seventeen.'' Bartender said ''All at once?''
''No, just give me the first six hours and we'll work out the details of the rest later.''

He set me up, and I went over to one of the empty booths along the back wall, sat down and started in on the oblivion. Ohhhh, yeaaaaaahhhhhh.

=Bark Jan 5, 2011 Writer

Nice writin' there. Looks like there are a lot of us who'd happily pay for a few hours of oblivion. I'd venture to say that the man who could bottle that would get rich, and quickly.