The Family
smoking dope
behind the school
with the elders
who teach with fists
what it means
to be family
with promises of
protection
growing into
pubescent manhood
secretly hoping
to get caught
This post was written for One Shot Wednesday…go visit…read more poetry….
the language of poetry
is the language universal.
so, what does this mean
to the writer of words,
creating worlds,
interpreting the models
that society uses
to inundate the being?
red-checked gingham
skirts swirling soundlessly
around jaundiced legs
gaze at the paper,
a dry, yellow leaf
lying on the desk,
not read for many
seasons.
a laugh emits
as a snort
“language universal?
more like the language
of the foolhardy who know
nothing of what life
is”
enter into something unknown not realizing what It is going to ask or expect. It sits quietly, in dark corners of the mind, hiding behind shrouds of the soul waiting waiting to be approached waiting to be embraced waiting to inflict its power It lies there in that Neverland between between sleep and wake between conscious and unconscious between sand and shore, only exposing itself in brief, unexpected places, where It is allowed ...
biting, tearing, ripping grinding, chewing, gnashing, gnawing, mutilating, mastication, swallowing, traveling, sloshing, processing, it all comes out in the end. Image Courtesy of Phtotobucket
phosphorescent fingernails dipped in twelve year old scotch glow in a black lit room, trace rivers of gold liquid. wet lines on translucent skin she remembers pigtails and grape juice and being pushed on a swing
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