Decay has never smelled so sweet.
Bury my nose in the bag of “leaf soil”
And inhale deeply
Breathing in microbes, rot, and
The promise of roots writhing in happiness.
Just give me the dirt
Under my nail beds, into my pores
And wrap me in that rich smell of death offering life.
My euphoria easily bests
The pleasure I felt at buying the plant in the first place,
Though there is the secondary joy
Of realizing that I’ve made both our days
With a single purchase.
The past few days, I’ve been toying with free-form verses that have a vaguely hip-hop aesthetic. I’m usually terrible at this, but then that’s the point of practicing, right? And that would be the point of this monthlong endeavor – to practice stretching out muscles and learning some new tricks!
Post-Booze Brainstorm (4.7)
Buzzed with booze, a brain
Firing neurons terrified to lose
The wisdom of cups and relaxed blood flow
Is not done thinking
Chasing the siren song to dawn
Tied to the mast of exhaustion
Sinking in the unknown
Falling in Rain (4.8)
In Japan, it rains so heavily,
umbrellas are barely a remedy,
Rainfall patters out a melody where
I fall like a drop into reverie
Mess with the rhyme scheme
and pay a heavy penalty.
Soon words wild in anarchy
Make forms flown to thunderstorm cacophony
Little April showers ripped of all their piety
Best use that umbrella to fend off your anxiety
Lest you run down gullies of depravity
And settle into puddles of stagnant mediocrity.
Grey day Walking (4.9)
My mind is a Jane Eyre grey
Pinched in, cinched in every way
Until my voice goes quiet
And I lose the need to speak
People become my visual cues
Not to cross the streets
Muted eyes rest on blind sights
Unable to recognize my own fights
With attic-dwelling feelings
And a hollowed chest sounds a lone note
Suggesting fiery heights
Of deeper meaning
Lost in the repetition of day-to-day pattern
I do not wonder or wander, yet I do yearn
And hear the premonition
That the destruction of my worldly goods
Signal a break from Jane Eyre grey
And the woulds, coulds, and shoulds
Give way to brighter days.
Stuck in the curse
Of my free-striding verse
Like cuffs on my feet
The hamper the beat
Of the song in my mind
Which is one of a kind
Yet I can’t touch the sound
Which ambles around
The edge of my sight
And won’t enter the light
So I write what I know
While I wait to be shown
What the words have to say
At the end of the day
If I’m lucky I’ll see
What my words need to be
Or else I’ll waste time
With a series of rhymes
And hope for the best
After a decent night’s rest.
Erotic language is difficult in the mouths of the untried.
We need to sound out even the gentlest of demands
In front of tea kettles slowly coming to a boil. I want you to put my fingers in your mouth
Mumbling to ourselves over needlepoint stitches
Forcing words through propriety’s vocal sieves
We must rehearse these unfamiliar lines. Tongue. Lick. Brea-sts.
No good to try them in bed, in the safety of night
We have to push out these tricky words in the day
So that, when required, we can casually say I want you naked and…writing? Writhing!
As though such thoughts required no prerequisite silencing
Of the dowdy, scolding church women
And we simply touched some inner molten core
Inherent to all lusty women.
She blithely skips up the stairs
On legs capable of wearing dripping pink sequins
Attached to backless dresses mere mortals cannot fathom.
“Come on,” she chirps.
My legs, sturdy columns, bend like wrought iron.
My feet follow in half-hearted humor,
As one laughing at a friend’s too-obvious punchline.
“You wanted to train – this is training!”
This is not training.
This is trudging.
With a bag full of groceries and in socks meant for trousers,
I can only move forward and hope that my calves are getting ready
For harder inclines than the gentle overpass offers.
“Aren’t a I good friend?”
You’re a good friend.
But before I can acknowledge this too-obvious truth
There you go floating down the next stairway
And I, momentous stone, must roll down after you.