Carruthers had half a face. He actually had a whole face, but the bottom half was so magnificently beautiful – perfectly dimpled chin with just a hint of stubble, lean lips curling to reveal straight, white teeth, and skin so creamy you could dip strawberries in it – that everybody just forgot what the top half looked like. His forehead (probably quite charming too, if left to its own devices) faded from memory, his nose lost in the glow of that breathtaking zero-point-five of a visage. Not that it bothered Carruthers especially. He just enjoyed being admired.
And admired he was. He was the only man I ever knew to get seedy remarks thrown his way by builders, and Carruthers would wave back at them, generously offering a smile.
a city in rhythm and jazz -..an entire city in tearsa city in rhythm and jazz -..8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
singing jazz and rhythm
and jazz and the blues,
singing rhythm & jazz & the blues.
an entire city in tears
with hands held
twisting the wind into whirlwinds of sound
& a red handkerchief flicking on the wind,
whipping & lifting the sound of the wind
& the necks of the crying
in one motion, one
waving, swaying, lilting, loving manyperson,
singing rhythm & jazz & the blues.
an entire city in tears
craning from windows & weeping,
sweeping the dust dragged past the parks
with their eyes.
with their eyes: dust-dragged
past the parks with woodchips & leaves.
with their eyes: worshipping
the centre of a congregation of walking widows
short poems - 5short poems - 510 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I want to kiss you
so I can try
to go past
your lips -
into your mouth -
to the back of your mind
and play again
The Railing Thought
I got on a train this morning.
Gave my ticket.
Bought my coffee.
I was the only passenger
multi-colored wax monuments.
Out of focus.
Spilled my coffee.
The hot liquid in my lap
to my destination
like a bullet in heat.
You were there.
I stepped off of the train
you're always on my mind
Girl on a train 245.Girl on a train 2459 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
There should be a poem for every girl
with black hair and black eyes
who's sat across the aisle on a crowded train
and written pointless beautiful things
in the notebook in her lap.
I might write my name and number on a bit of paper
Drop it on your page as I'm getting off.
But I prefer to think it and write it than to know
What might happen if I actually did.
I'm sorry I've been staring. But you see
SpecterSpecter12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A figure maneuvered memory's periphery
tossing greeting, smiles and winking
low brow antics blurred by ripples
of whistles and crunching gears
shuffled gawks missed him
commanding childhood bunker buddies
poised at sunrise
on a destroyer
lead-pumping fishermen from 300 meters
while hiding at night, paused
in haste shooting trees and shadows.
Shrouded over years
in pus transfused
through tubes and blips
echoed crayon kisses -
though my side glance dismissed him
as an epitome of middle-age
in forgetting another hobbling specter
that twenty years ago
I could have been a fisherman
standing on a boat
palms and chest thrust
gun-scoped by a glare of despair.
the likelihood of Losing sleepthe likelihood of Losing sleep10 years ago in Scraps More Like This
She has become one remarkable appendage.
Among the slop of barstools we were introduced;
had her pulse, perhaps, become any sadder
I'd have thought her a reptile.
"But this is about mammals,"
slunk from me, suppressed
by the stature of my sweating tumbler;
and I boiled to beat my extinction out the door,
then very swaggered, watched a swallowtail
swirl on the landing of an arid alleyway
to tatter its wings, so pasted
to a piece of warm gum.
"A correct assessment, butterfly."
"But this is about mammals."
Though I wish, I am not exempt from interaction.
I've been writing about her for months but
my nerves are that shape of a beaten cur.
So I bought one to keep me company,
to keep me remembered at night and
to dig holes for staying cool in this weather.
I put it on a leash and named it nothing.
The whimpering has become comfort,
and I feel much more pleasant about
never confronting her to comment on
just how the rafts of her skin
can bring me rapture;
The Garden of Ethelart deco fruit punch spouts,The Garden of Ethel10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The Garden of Ethel.
but if i keep my mouth open,
will the sun rays damage
my sunbathing throat gums and ridges?
Why do the palm trees slouch?
Why can i see the creases and wrinkles between the obvious
puzzle pieces that construct this constant blue sky?
God: Ethel was fond of her slender ember sticks and she passed by
way of emphysema. This world is the fallen eyelash of Ethel.
A woman's flawed life and the sky cracks mark no sympathy.
Margot in PiecesMargot in Pieces9 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
I'm meant to be a writer, say I, but my mother doesn't understand. She stands over me and my tiny room, towering like a giant. She is the birth beast, the originator, she gave birth to me, and yes, she could kill me too, no jury would convict her. But then with imagery like that, perhaps I'm not quite the writer I claim to be.
Writing won't pay your bills, Margot. Writing won't get you married. Writing won't feed your family. She says this in a warning tone, the type mothers always use when they want to appear benevolently concerned, or at least hiding the self-loathing at having created the worthless beings they call children.
No, but writing will save my soul, I want to shout back at her, but it doesn't scan well, the words aren't enough, they need to be reconsidered, rewritten, reedited, perhaps double-lin
108801PLANESCAPE108801PLANESCAPE9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
your shiver-smile is exultant.
i thought that
while i waited for the
suns to fall,
i would sing quietly
of the planescapes;
and how we, hand in hand
held the rising
jewels of the eternal apex
in that void, brimming with
life and interstellar
"your shiver-smile is exultant,"
i breathed in your ear
while you frosted over
and when again the suns
did climb to their zenith,
we were seen
as nothing less than
made of superstrings
Theme and variations.Theme and variations10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Today I saw a young man with a cello. He
sat primed and alert for some minutes while
the CD orchestra strode firmly to his stave.
Drawing his bow, he groaned the strings in
catgut agony the space of one fuzzing bar.
Sheepishly returning the baton to 00:00, he
shrug-smiled and glanced at his earnings.
Today I saw a nun on a bicycle. It seemed
Hipster personal*Hipster personal9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I just want a girl who likes Belle and Sebastian
Who thinks they're fantastic, loves their muso monasticism
Happier with Tigermilk than out on the lash again
And cups of tea and equine dreams and volumes by Brautigan.
I just want a girl who likes Camera Obscura
'Cos they're even obscurer so their indie-cred's purer
Like a Hubert Van Eyck to the Belles' Albrecht Durer
In the grammar of pop, they're a subtle caesura.
I just want a girl who likes Helio Sequence
Who's aware that they're decent notwithstanding their recency
Whose indie curiosity will surely be piqued once she
Starts buying Sub Pop samplers with unhealthy frequency.
I just want to find a girl in love with The Who
Hüsker Dü, Silver Jews, Frou Frou, Q And Not U,
And I'll set aside Hatherley, disdain t.A.T.u
If you buy them and then pretend you like them too.