she looks up at me with
eyes hidden, almost locked,
behind
thick bars of hair
that reaches all the way to
her small nose
Hair discolored like
dry straw,
second in paleness only
to her ghostly face
She doesn’t stare too much
because there
are other things to see
in the room
She moves
on. Not
knowing that I also stared
at her. Into her soul
I’ve spotted an unquenched
cry there
The easiest to
recognize is the cry of loss
and that’s what I saw there
paired with
the cry of want
She wants to get away
from here
Far, far away. She wants to go
and never stop. Wants
to travel into
forever
and I’d like to
take her
there
But alas,
I am stuck here onto
this wall
frozen in time
I'm a static
painting
And my cold
words
void of any vibration
will never reach her
I have to make my peace
with it. Yeah, some
people just don’t read
poetry. And even if
they do, what are the chances
they’d read mine?
Wow, what a fool I can be at times
But, well, at least
I have my dreams
and myself to laugh at
You don’t need much else
in eternity
A lone ant crawled into his hair and went across his forehead to his eyelid He woke up Sand all about him and wood above But this was so far from hell Hell was a thing of the past now Now he had her by his side She was still sleeping in her rugged sleeping bag For the past few days they slept under the cabin to avoid being ambushed inside He knew she wouldn’t be by his side for long. The infection in her mouth was really getting out of control putting her one outrageous fever away from death This was the world today A warm wasteland full of predators and no medical help of any kind. Kill or be killed. Law of the jungle. And so on He liked to believe he adapted Too many didn’t His luck stood in not having that much of a fine life…
Image Source: Snappa “I tried to hire my mentally ill brother,” he said. “I gave him a knife. He’s forbidden to touch them but I gave him one anyways and told him to use it on me. That was my strategy for productive writing. My brother would stand by the door and I told him […]
well it’s been about four days of fasting Four days of eating nothing but smoke from his cigarettes so it was difficult to tell whether the woman who sat in his bathtub and smoked some of his cigarettes and watched him writing on his desk was real or not “Of course I’m real, you dumbass!” […]
“You need help,” they told him. “Get some therapy, some counseling, something. Reach out, man, you need help.” He would raise his glass at such advice and say, “Oh, hell yeah, I need all the help I can get. Thanks.” But he would never actually reach for it He’d reach for the closest bottle and pour himself another drink and maybe reach for some leg or breast or ass By this time the ladies knew he wasn’t a bum, even though he looked like one with his ragged, soiled green suit and his worn out shoes his cobweb-like greasy hair and the unkempt beard that looked like he was chewing on a dead, rotting octopus He was loaded with cash despite all that And the explanation was simple He was a poet He laughed at all those well-meaning advisers and their concerns He would return to his home in the…
The building had 60 stories
and he was 60 years old
Still cleaning it from bottom to top
for the past 35 years
one thing remained unchanged
as time passed
the coldness
Every surface he’d ever touch would
be as cold as the glass
of a window in the winter
And the people who
worked in the building were
pale and cold as vampires
He forgot how it was to be saluted
or how it was to salute
and get a reply
No one talked to the janitor
No one knew his name
No one cared
There were no souls in this isolated
monolith
that stood in the center
overlooking other monoliths
Hell is cold
and monotonous
and plays constant factory noises
or keyboard noises
and exudes smoke
Even the plants were made of
plastic and their flowers
and leaves had to be sprayed with alcohol
and wiped with a rag
Real plants wouldn’t
accept such treatment
They would punish you with their death
and that should be enough
But not for those pale vampires
The only thing alive
was him, the janitor
who imagined jazz music playing in
his mind as he scrubbed the tiles
and one mushroom that grew behind one of the
toilets in the women’s bathroom from
a used pad
He left it there for days
It was his little secret, his little friend
in this world of soulless beings
It was life sprouting against
impossible odds
Life in hell
It was something to look up to
every day
Something to kneel before and say
hello to and sing jazz to
and even pat gently with the finger
He promised himself that the day that
mushroom died
he would retire
So far it was still alive
Still sprouting spores that he
inhaled
and tasted with his tongue after
rubbing it gently with his finger
Living beings
stick together
regardless of species
Just like the dead do
She was sucking on a red lollipop quite loudly and would constantly take it out of her mouth to stir her whiskey with it She wore round sunglasses a crimson bandanna her hair in thin dreads and all her shirts were sleeveless She took the lollipop out one more time and pointed it at him across the table “You want some?” she asked “Um, no thanks. I, uh, stay away from sweets.” She dipped the lollipop back into the glass and stirred a bit then put it back in her mouth “Good for you. I’m not too fond of these either. Just use ’em to help me break the smoking habit. It’s been working lately.” She picked up the glass and took a sip of the lollipop-flavored whiskey “Anyway, like I said, I brought you to my place to read your tarot cards.” She pulled the deck out from under…
Daydreaming as a profession 