the coin was loud as it shimmied to its inevitable halt. finally flat against the tilted table at which we anxiously sat.

still we kept counting. expecting more to fall. 

eventually, we abandoned the precarious whims of arithmetic. determiend to discover a more generous defeat. 

bargaining with the edge. our faces plastered to the wind. while gravity undid its zippers. 

the end stout and fickle. as it spent our dwindling choices. 

the window was soft and unsure. full of faces and shame. 

and all the obvious confessions. 

time is a weak menace. all faded make-up and failed parodies. 

we've been thieves for so long that there's nothing left to steal. 

the world was all studious conjunctions. and lazy adjectives.

exceptions came and went. in a tumultuous pantomime. little needles in deep veins. all their threads too nervous to believe.

the truth yawned. a rushed facimilie of our lives. all borrowed colors. and lingering grays. bored with our constant hysteria.

we spent each other in nickels and dimes. poorer with every touch. wasting our promises on flower petals and mud.

time was a generous assassin. as it slit our throats. carefully collecting each drop of blood.

knowing we might need it again someday. 

alcoholicpoet.com

this poem is a about the frailty of humanity's power. 


the world gives us different names. empty identities that betray our faces.

the world purchases our voices. dirty pennies in the fists of strangers.

touch is an architect. building everything from nothing.

we are curious carpenters. dressed in crumbling walls.

spent quickly. by both the wolves and the lambs.

the truth is a disease for which only grief is the cure.

we are inadequate gods. in a dilapidated utopia.

stubborn engineers. chasing the remnants of tomorrow.


Filed under: October 2024 Sad Poetry

static kingdoms resonate. the machine chokes. full of fists and thieves. and all the empty bottles that youth collects.

the moment stumbles. the hours measure. the eternity in each sigh. the enormity of every small touch. the frequent bridges that take us there and leave us stranded. in places to visit where we were never meant to stay.

the edge of the fire. a grin of ash and a snicker of burn. choice like a rampant  fever tumbling  through my veins.

the untold mechanics of passion and rot. that auction our skins to the highest bidder and leave us bankrupt.

a perpetual paradox of wolves with their fangs turned inside out.

the typical monsters in their usual garb. broken thieves chase the horizon. blunt corners and loose poisons bend the walls.

she limps. she slouches toward. the comfort of the expanding void.

the flesh is paper. the heart is clay. the art is living.

she folds. time pauses. she stumbles. shatters those flimsy locks. and the distance lets her take it.

simple measures. elaborate devices. as are the natural algorithms of the lost.

it waits. its patience infinite.

the kettle simmers. the bubbles form. husked dolls grow into their bones. clever wolves manipulate gravity.

in torn maps. in the arrogant math of lovers. and the stern vanity of grief.

it's only skin. as thin as it's become.

yellow knew her. she it. a long passage in a broken chapter. screaming in the deaf corner of her mind. the inches surrender. the miles continue their war.

the hours stomped their feet. the rain forgot to fall. the skeleton wore its fancy dresses while the flesh took off its soiled pants.

the moment chews. bites down hard. on scavenged bones. and deflated skin. it's just the ugly arithmetic of lovers and poets. the unfortunate angles that tend to spoil our paths.

the obvious pictures. a relentless gravity. the long distance between intersections melting like wax. and falling again. an apothecary of victims. and the diseases that define us.

the softer stars. that poison the darkness. failing to know. how to measure the void.

the bluntness of the beginning. the acuity of the end. obvious intersections. impossible parallels.