I've made up my mind
going to clean out the attic today
leaving nothing but cobwebs behind...
photos of people without names
car seats -chrome tables - baby rattle snakes
dented pots and pans
a guitar slouches in the corner without hands
dreaming of chords never woven
songs never molded from clay.
It's all just ex-rated anyways
it's all just excess anyway.
Things of past importance
scattered into cardboard boxes of chaos
of the never remembered and the long forgotten.
Then out to the curb everything must go
The garbage truck
offers garbled eulogy
to the crow of mourning.
He flashed a smile on his way out,
Giving his co-workers a wide wave,
And he had absolutely no doubt,
That he was better than his friend Dave.
He struts past all the buildings and shops,
Straightens his tie and suit in the glass,
And then he goes across the blacktop,
And checks his antique watch made of brass.
Now the city is dirty and dark,
Every once in a while it’s unsafe,
There's the constant sound of a dog’s bark,
This is a place where one might lose faith.
And the man slouches and drags his feet,
He loosens his tie and dips his head,
He is a man in total defeat,
His sorrow is heavier than lead.
His shoes are worn and old, but shiny,
His suit is rips and tears, only inside,
His soul suddenly feels much more tiny,
When he realized all he's done is lied.
Though he is tired and exhausted,
This is where he feels the most at home,
Which makes it worth more than it costed,
All the while he is here at home.
Home from a chemo session, uncle lights up
a cigarette and collapses
to the slick plastic that covers your chaise
lounge, auntie. He thumps the upholstery
with his legs and elbows for blood
to circulate again. A flake
drifts. Dehydrated lips, uncle
inadvertently kisses ash. Cushions
puff up, deflate. Uncle floats
smoke rings to prove he still has breath.
Your bulbous urn ruptures his rings
on contact where curvature
casts uncle’s warped reflection, all mouth and smoke,
as he would rise to reach your urn on the mantle.
Uncle slouches back, watches his sports channel.
I head out with his hamper
and forget to check pockets before washing clothes,
his soggy receipts - - once grocery lists? - -
and tissues, torn apart, clumped up, fake snow
I have to scoop out of washing machines.
Absent-minded tasks at the laundromat, auntie,
where you’d bend in pain. Lint trays reinstall
fluff. I snap
and snap airborne dryer-flakes off towels.
Once the future promised brilliance, but it never came to light
As the star I’d used to guide me dimmed and blended with the night.
The astronomy of darkness lured me farther from my goal
Till I stumbled at the crossroads where I lost my self control.
This magnificent amnesia puts the washboard to my shame.
Can’t remember where I’m headed. Don’t recall from where I came.
Empty cans amid the crossties, broken bottles by the rail,
Are the blazes and the landmarks that illuminate my trail;
Like conspicuous reminders of an unforgiving past,
Through a thousand level crossings, each more lonesome than the last.
But magnificent amnesia plays its lullaby refrain.
To memories asleep in the asylum of my brain.
Once the future wore the costume of a carefree, smiling rogue;
Now it slouches like a ragman down a narrow dead end road.
I don’t b*tch and moan, regardless; only mama’s boys complain.
I just trudge on in the darkness through a piss of pouring rain.
This magnificent amnesia is the perfect compromise,
And a cavalier expression is my everyday disguise.
Climb those many stairs, up to the stars.
“Cut!” Comes the child, the wee Pinkerton.
Stunt double, doubles down, with plethora of scars.
Fate is what it is, bumps, bruises...sorta fun.
Pinkerton rolls and bounces, ooches and ouches.
Then they call in the fingering ‘stache, for he smooths
the luscious hairs of his handlebar, never slouches.
Divine with his hands too, damsels-in-distress, he soothes.
Pinkerton pastes on his pastel beard, and breaks out
into a minor character. “Cut! Stunt dou—ble!”
The ‘Stache rips doppelgänger’s facial hair as Pinkerton shouts,
opens mouth, “Hey! Hey! That really hurt!” Now he’s in trouble.
Pinkerton pouts as he takes his final walk into the night.
Rubs his eyes as a werewolf runs by ready to attack.
Those mischievous stars yell, “Cut! Stunt double, fight!”
Alarmed, Pinkerton needs to know who has his back.
A werewolf snarls and twirls his whiskers with a pinky.
Suspicious and brave, the kid gives him a karate chop.
Pinkerton unzips the stinker from bottom to top.
Found out, ‘Stache grabs his blanket and binky.
11/3/2020
The scrape of tooth
on my bottom lip
as she pulls
her kiss
milisecs
away
agonise
the wait
...oh the wait
My breath deliberately
taken
Skin that tastes the flesh beneath
Muscles undulate
in untrained ways
Truths become elusive
Masquerading as the senses
Death slouches from the rooms corner
But pauses in politeness
Or watching
whose to know
Those moments space
is give and taken
Those spluttered grunts
and mewing purrs
A giggled snarl
words from banned books ripped
Skin pierced backs
as nails pull in unison
Rythmed beasts
Agonyistically unstatic
Run the gaunlet raw
Hold my gaze
with unkempt fire
let me kiss
your slipping breath
Oneness held
in tempered moments
For the devil to replay
Echoed musks the room
Ripping hearts
pulls breast
breath takes breath
Its roaring whimpered
in the cavern
of our
intertwined and wined
stems
Staring at the stars dancing
in the mirrors
of her sleeping sweat
911 Carousel
by Michael R. Burch
“And what rough beast ... slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”—W. B. Yeats
They laugh and do not comprehend, nor ask
which way the wind is blowing, no, nor why
the reeling azure fixture of the sky
grows pale with ash, and whispers “Holocaust.”
They think to seize the ring, life’s tinfoil prize,
and, breathless with endeavor, shriek aloud.
The voice of terror thunders from a cloud
that darkens over children adult-wise,
far less inclined to error, when a step
in any wrong direction is to fall
a JDAM short of heaven. Decoys call,
their voices plangent, honking to be shot ...
Here, childish dreams and nightmares whirl, collide,
as East and West, on slouching beasts, they ride.
Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Mindful of Poetry, Gostinaya and Scholasticus/Fullosia Press. Keywords/Tags: 911, war, violence, children, visionary, surreal, power, retribution, twin towers, terror, terrorism, east, west, dream, dreams, nightmares, error
A party is to celebrate
one of life's happy occasions
A get-together reaches out
to folks of diverse persuasion
Going out on the town
gets us up from our couches
Though going out to eat
may turn our stomachs to slouches
The main thing's we keep busy
as we move through life's stages
Birthdays, Weddings, Anniversaries
all use up work's wages
Just make sure before you die to leave over a tip
So you can spend eternity comfortably, R.I.P.
I was gifted a little gem; her name is Polka Dots.
She's an English greyhound wench, stands as tall as a park-bench.
She's white, full of black spots, slender stem, and loves apricots.
Her previous owner use to race her, my gut would wrench.
She's an English greyhound wench, stands as tall as a park-bench,
eyes that melt your heart, lies around on my round leather couch.
Her previous owner use to race her, my gut would wrench.
We're both old slouches and once in a while, she becomes a grouch.
Eyes that melt your heart, lies around on my round leather couch;
she's white, full of black spots, slender stem, and loves apricots.
Her previous owner use to race her, my gut would wrench.
I was gifted a little gem her name is Polka Dots.
1/9/2019
Poetry Contest: Polka Dots
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
They stand, silently,
shoulder to shoulder, upright,
save one at the end, leather bound
who slouches, James Dean fashion.
Six with blue covers, gold blocked,
uniform, like Trumpton Firemen.
All wear their heart on their sleeve,
honest and trustworthy,
patiently waiting
to be picked by my mood.
A tome selected, opened,
the smell of old paper, as if
it had been holding its breath.
Whispered greetings as the leaves turn,
flickering candlelight warms the words,
and in my mind
they dance.
Her sword glides,
Slicing through scorned hearts.
Change is seen only in my eyes.
Gold fills the hilt
Seething the rage of past abusers
Her song sighs,
Placing spells upon an old fool
She's hiding lies
Stars of which man's imagination built
Lying in the eyes of her beholders
Her tattoos,
Mezmerize her prey
All she loves hides
The grass in which flows claims her,
Pulling her,
Tying her to her damnation,
Placed in the hands of men
Her sword,
Broken
Her song,
Cracked
Her tattoos,
Powerless
Now she is nothing,
Now, she slouches
Now, she cries
And now, she slices
Bandit
Un chat en noir et blanc, Bandit,
Itches for owner’s departure
Slouches on gray couch
Leans against webbed blanket
Lowers and tilts its head
Wrinkles its fluffy fury chest
Fixes its eyes on the camera lens
And Freezes for a still image
Owner scratches and pats its head
And goes upstairs to nap
Bandit stretches its limbs
And licks its paws
Bandit claws the jaune et bleu yarn
Rips its webbed crochets
Loosens its thick fibers
Bandit flees
Covered in yellow and blue lint
By Marckincia Jean
Free Verse
11/26/17
Monotone some would say
black and white this is true
but not like simple nothing new
sitting comfortably on the couch
a look of intensity
seriousness
as if almost reaching bliss
paws out front
haunches bent
tail forthright between two back legs
he slouches
upon his head he wears a mask
like a bandit
as he is named
Tex’s shadow defines him—cut-out
from the heat haze of Karnak’s quartz,
a scintillating contrast to Egypt’s questing sun.
He slouches among the other black castings of
denser composition mottled with grays,
and Prussian blues, incongruent in a cowboy
hat. This six-gun scenario’s frame
disrupts the crafted precision of
a chiseled arch.
****-kicker, lizard-skinned, boots point
toward the desert’s dunes—death hides.
Needing no words to enjoy a taste of antiquity,
Tex shuffles sighs and takes a draw on
an American cigarette. With a flick of his fingers,
he deposits the butt alongside the others
in the white sand. His contribution
to posterity.
First Published in Spank the Carp Issue 21 2016
Images and haze spilling from nowhere,
Like a faint whisper mumbled then aligned
In hours distant as life’s crushed timepiece… *
She gazes at the mirror; how unfamiliar
Could this face look pieced into a broken puzzle…
Her vacant mind gone in wasteland of dead roses.
~
And a gentleman reaches out for one mild waltz;
His fragrance and the song bring tears of nostalgia
Yet memory grows blank while smog chokes her head
Into obscure nights of brittle rain ) …
That her arm slouches under a dim lamplight
Pleading on glimpses to take her… away, away.. ~
.....................
'Help Raise Alzheimer's Awareness'
Broken Wings' Contest: Two Stanzas - Two Only
7.24.2016
Related Poems