Pride, Guilt, and Bleach

The throat is turnips.
Acrid. Lump. Stiff.

The eyes are lemons.
Seemingly sweet,
They are tart. Stinging.
Curdling my milk.

The pride is packaged,
in butcher’s paper.
It leaked a little.
Seeped into fibers.
It reached the skin.
Felt. Burns.

Add another layer.
Add a plastic bag.
Back of Freezer.

Guilt packaged tighter.
Scent seeping from seams.
Smell of old flesh.

We’ve bought the bleach.


The Eyes and the Ceiling

The ceiling and the pair of eyes have bonded greatly. Though it is disputed whether the ceiling can see. The eyes have indeed become very familiar with the physical appearance of the ceiling. They know each uneven bump, and offwhite worble.

Their acquaintance has greatened in these last days. One cannot know how this relationship shall proceed.

Same and Opposite

Fingers lodge between rocks,
As dust settles in the air.

Sparkling through the particles,
The sun is half light.

At its top, the rock has warmth,
but at its base is frigid.

A scowl perches on my lips,
as giggles bounce in the chest.

Ripples patch the surface,
as fish nibble oncoming fish.

Pulling up the rock,
it is a matte grey,
with little marking individual.

Face warm,
shivers in shoulders.

Constantly, leaves rearrange,
a crow chattering into place.

A song bird sits, a ball of feathers
its opposite.

I wish I could say I was opposite,
but I’m probably the same.

Human is Animal

Anchoring accolades after ashtrays.
Taming candid alcoholics blaming an era.
Are all humans animals?
Feral and announcing calm?
Applaud an archetype damned a falsity claim.

Hypocritical. Attempts of actual ‘human.’
Banishes as an animal, all are.
All applied. All apply.

Happiness acheived as animal.
Relax and apply animal traits: ant, cat, bear.

Antiquated societal arithmetics
Assigning ‘human’ assets.

Focus in Muttering Silence

His chin sank into his palm, fingers pacing his face. Delayed, forced exhalations puffed out. His shoulders twisted, searching a place of just-right.

Noise sputtered from the adjacent room, at a irregular time, and a mumbling volume. His attention pulled, trying to decipher the sounds, but also not caring. A twinge akin to biting into something sweet you expected to be savory. The laugh-track plays on.

Sticky-notes filled the wall, like a kindergartner’s collage. Some were written in smudged pencil, some in thick marker, and others in pen, the pencil not being raised enough. In some roundabout way, they probably said the same thing: ‘procrastination’. They were his wall’s nicotine patches none-the-less.

Books cover surfaces, partially finished. Some are for learning, some for ‘creative inspiration’. Musical instruments are shimmied in small breaks between furniture, collecting dust. Though, he attempted to wipe it off periodically, as to not make him feel guilty.

The floor creaks from pacing roommates. Whether it was due to fear of talking to him, for pure irritation, or just due to indecision, he couldn’t know for sure. But either way, it left him unable to make his thought clear and stationary.

The chattering, and shadows from under the door make the television seems unnecessary. So, he gently prayed they would silence it. Not too hard though, inaudible discussion was most definitely a more distressing.

As the night settled in, silence finally came.

As his hand made motions of productivity, his eyes slowly stole darkness, and he sank into a silent dream.

Stale Summer: Relief

Stubs of straw spurt into a beige mat. Plants wither, reaching up a fence, roots pulled. The breeze is plush and cool. Eyes blur, and heatwaves wiggle. Flying low, a darnerfly assesses the damage. Undulations circulate through leaves and branches. As muscles relax into the evening, a soreness is noticed, sinking into a demi-relief, that is somehow better. There’s a purr from the traffic. Empty, pensive thoughts circulate with deep breaths. Oxygen tastes like ripe melon.