Posts tagged poetry
Posts tagged poetry
I am meat.
A beast of blood
Creatures of chlorophyll.
I am violence.
A rage machine
From birth to death.
I am delusion.
The lives he ends.
I am hubris.
A believer in me
Who knows that
Else-life is mine.
I am man.
I am a man.
I am hu-man.
i am meat.
The stars hide from us during the life of a day.
Yet they remain reminders hidden above clouds
That we are tinier than pin pricks in muslin.
The problem under Sol, in our orbit eccentricity,
Is in how we pretend to conquer mountains
While stealing other people’s dogs
And standing in our sock feet in the slushy snow
We send balloons floating with cameras above our blue
With pretentions of understanding.
All is illusion we can’t help but see or feel
And be fooled by from each moment of waking.
They delude us that we are significant
In the face of all around us that screams otherwise.
Our daughters suffer from hypothermia.
Our lovers play games of emotion to save money.
Our sons rage against our injustice and die through our wars.
We stand ineffectually by and dream dreams of waking.
© Brad Simkulet, 2012
the sun kisses her
the way a marshmallow is roasted
to golden perfection,
licked by the edge of flames.
summer is her time
but she hates it, you see.
she hates the heat, the activities,
the days out playing.
she longs for pens and paper,
for glues and scissors and tape,
for worlds of imagination
passing through her fingers.
but the sun kisses her
whether she likes it or not,
and while she doesn’t like the summer
the summer loves her.
glacial cold tugs at her nipples,
pulling them to hard peeks.
suspended beneath the surface,
she peers at a shimmering vision
of sky. fuzzy. unfocused.
her skin tightens to goose flesh;
her lungs burn while her hair
drifts gauzily above her head.
she flexes her toes in the cold,muddy
lake-bottom. silky. alive.
beginning her adventure in the forest’s
womb, autumn opens her arms,
opens them to life and promise
to death and the lie of an afterlife
floating in transit. opiated. obfuscated.
misty wraith of end times, overdetermined destructor,
meets us, hovering over a rising hillock of asphalt,
manifests in haze the like of which we’ve never seen.
an impossibly serendipitous diffusion of fog
smoke and curvature and light and unseen dark matter.
hyperion’s disk, a golden capped mallow beyond reach,
smoking its way out of the embers on a stick.
violence, the red one, meets us with joy
on a web in the sun, dew flecked and tenuous,
as a day moth flutters and spasms to its sticky end.
pregnant, death slips along her strands
to sheath her prey in silk. spinning spinner.
a meal for her unborn in a time of need.
she tugs and pulls and drags her meal,
it comes to the verge of her dank hole,
an under-roof cave, ventilated with breeze,
hidden enough to tuck away and dark enough
to pounce upon the tremors of her invisible weaving.
gagged and bilious, vomitous in the sinuses, on the tongue,
a reflection that skews our synapses into abuse,
calories of non-nutrition, flavours of toxicity,
distended bellies of glutinous, intestinal corrosion.
our senescence is everywhen, our conception’s twin rider,
pale, putrescent, gangrenous, mortified, rotting our flesh
cleaning our bones, dusting us to nothing. without fail.
now our pillow begs for our repose,
as the world continues its disintegration around us.
the world dies large and small for us, and will always.