New Blog, Follow Me There

I’m moving my poetry over to a new blog: Rhymes with Duck

You can find my writings here, https://rhymeswithduckblog.wordpress.com/

I’ll still update here every now and then with personal shit.

Thank you to all my readers. You’re all amazing.

Rose Cotton

wmuambermartin05

 

hapless fledgling
unable to move
unable to make a sound,
save the minute gasps and gurgles
(which I’m sure would
make my heart swell)

I am trying to get back to you

innocence
wrapped in rose cotton
I’ve a thousand names
yet none of them deserve you

I am trying to get back to you

there in a dark room
I dream of the weight
of your frame cradled in my arms
I dream selfishly of your
gaze weaving into my eyes
knowing you are mine

I am trying to get back to you

all the while
I am waking up to you
remembering a song made
just for us
my body is tired and stretched
with new scars, new lines
but they are all for you
I am all for you

I am trying to get back to you

even so,
I am not solely fixed on
the smaller you,
but all of you
to watch over you
helplessly in love
growing into happiness
growing into a place
I never knew (I love you)

I am trying to get back to you

and never on my chest had you laid,
instead
floating in red water
suspended in a spiraling
oblivion
I have watched your
grapeblue seedy pieces
over and over
and over
washing away from
my insides

I am terrified that I may never come back to you

I am harvesting smiles of the mothers
with ten pounds
of ten fingers
and ten toes

barren
barren

I am no woman
I am an empty shell

The Weather is Clean

The weather is clean
as well as the linens.
The dishes are washed
and are neatly put away into
their appropriate cabinets.
Bath towels fluffed,
cuffs pressed,
silverware polished,
even the pencils are sharpened.

Silence dances through the tiles,
bouncing off of vases,
old pottery from a classroom.
The children are away
in the mountains
on a camping trip.
And fish are well fed.

The shell of a quondam woman
paces forwards
paces backwards.
Even the mirrors strain
to recognize the near-familiar
lines on her face.
The eyes have long gone.
She is dissolved into an
asomatous oblivion.

In the basin of her stomach
the pills are floating
along with scotch.
As she soliloquizes to the red bricks
of the apartment
she teeters softly.
Speaking out in choppy
French words she learned
over the course of a mental breakdown.
Pacing forwards,
pacing backwards.

The children are in the mountains.
The fish are in the aquarium.
The pencils are in the cup holder.
The spoons are in the drawer.
The bath towels are in the cupboard.
The dishes are in the cabinets.

The letter is on the nightstand.
The bottle is in the trash.
The woman is on the railing.
The woman is in the air.
The woman is on the ground.
The weather is clean
as well as the linens.

The Pretty Blue Bows

Every now and then
I miss the lull
and low buzzing of a good high.
Wow!
What a thrill after you
plug it into your arm.
Liquid lightening climbing
through the empty spaces of
yourself.

All those spaces that mommy
dearest left deserted
void, cut up
like coupons in the garbage.
And father wasn’t much
help at all
taking it away himself
with a heavy load.

That incipient surge
that belts out,
all the while
making the eyes tumble
backwards,
staring off into
the tiny cranial stars
making up
tiny cranial constellations.

Of course I couldn’t
slip the steel into my
own arm at first.
He would tie such beautiful
tourniquets
that would make girl scouts
wet themselves.

Pretty rubber blue bows.

I was kneeling on the
bathroom floor,
bending over like a virgin.
Spreading my legs out
and panting out loud.
I couldn’t tie a pretty blue bow
but a decent one I did.
Minutes carried on and
I heard the child within myself
scream
before I got the guts
to inject it.

I guess it does make me
feel a little bit sad now.

Anyhow,
my hands were wet and
slippery.
I didn’t know what the fuck
I was doing
but knew what would happen
if I wasn’t doing it.
In it went and off I went
into this land where I
drool on the outside
but blissfully float internally.

Anyone that tells you that
drugs aren’t worth it
has never ridden the heroin dragon
over snowy peaks of china white.
And how lovely you become,
about thirty pounds lighter
than August,
eyes about five shades darker,
lips beautifully cracked, bleeding,
unkissable.

I am the Reverend
of my own ritual.
Delivering the wine into
my thirsty throat,
but the bread never comes.
I just kneel at the pew
and worship.
Prayer makes to forget .
Prayer is better than sleep.
The more saturated I become
the cleaner I become.

It takes away the sin.

I forget how I’ve been
torn apart limb by limb.
I forget the men that came by
the apartment to see me hazy-eyed,
panty-less
propped up in a cheerleader’s
costume.
I forget how he said to smile
and they exchanged money.
above the bed.

Here I go… nodding off.
Prayer is better than…

I forget how old he was
when he sat me on his lap and
pulled my hair back,
pushing into my prepubescence.
I forget how they all denied it
when I came crawling
out for help,
still raw.

Sometimes when I’m praying
I begin to feel that
I am more beautiful
when I am soggy with poison
and bruised from a grip
and broken into.
Kissable.

But then I begin to remember
when all of the fairy dust wears off.

TV Screen at the Gas Station

touch the handle,
it’s gritty
clean your hands

push the card in,
pull it out rapidly
like the screen tells me to do

rapidly

a man in a grey Camry
pulls up behind me
I note the license plate number

and repeat it over
and over
and over

pump the gas

I unscrew the cap
and guide in the nozzle
the TV turns on

Are you talking to me?

23 dollars
maybe I can get coffee
from inside where the

cashier is playing music
and it sounds like
it’s Turkish

I could win the lottery
if I bought a scratcher
but the only problem

is I don’t trust men
on the television screens
that try to con me

Roadkill

it was Friday
that I came wheeling down the
5PM freeway
which was lit by limited sunlight
and everyone was pushing on their brakes
my head was thick
I remember the saturation

suddenly above us there was
a still-warm ungulate beast
lay sprawled in the middle of the
yellow lines
the baskets of eyes
were wide and dark
unrecognizable
poor deer

I wanted to stop among
the traffic and peel it’s
head off the concrete
maybe I could
sit while it slipped
away
but the cars kept
buzzing and
the drained
employees of America
were too eager
to sit down
to gluttonize
to tear off their ties
and fuck their wives

meanwhile I drove all
the way home
wondering if it
had died suddenly
or if it had to wait
until the blood drowned
its brain

Ballerina

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I am the ballerina
in the music box
bending and twirling.
when you need me,
twist the spindle.
I’ll dance.
Pretty pink shoes
revolving counter-clockwise,
the same way every day and every night.
When you’re done, close the lid
and I will tuck myself quietly
beneath my own body,
folded up neatly where I belong.
Tucked away in my own
felted cave
alone with the rings, the copper
and silver metals.
I am quiet and undisruptive.
I will keep myself contained.
Hidden I stay
in the little juke,
always tired,
always wearing thin.
Until you lift the lid.
Happy I am, again.

The Mechanic

my feeble Homunculus
red Jew
the top of your hat
is carved out
to fit a small light
I have called you brutal names
my albatross
looking back I see the film
loosely lifted
peering
outwardly your small eyes
in contrast my
hand
raising
to the space between us
as uncertain as dice
you remain
I am not a graduate
nothing on white to
tell that I am licensed
I am a mechanic
like him
rewiring myself, instead
always battling the
electrical currents
always zapping my fingers

Girlfriend Sweater

what it feels like:

thieving, merciless.

black bitch grasping for
both my calves.
stomach bile bubbling in the
cauldron, spitting up vodka
and half-digested pills.

this is the thrill?
I was walking on two feet twelve
hours ago, laughing and absorbing
September sun on my face.
now I am crawling like
a veteran.

this place no longer welcomes me
with open arms
instead
she cracks her jawbone in my eyes.

tottering on a child’s set
of bipolar la-lee-da.

I bet if you were to crack open
my egg-y brain you’d see the
walnut fissures my father gave to me.
folding up like a shoebox

I’m wondering if the man’s hum
is a television commercial or if I’m
just
that
tired.

sequels.

part II.

hey, I’m not dying, okay?
my fucking brain is sizzling
but I still feel like clutching on to you
and kissing you
and loving you.
this part isn’t going to last.
it’s a fucked-up thread
hanging out from my sweater sleeve,
but
I’m not going
to let the whole sweater unravel.
(not this time, I’m done doing that)

this is the sweater you helped me knit.

it gets cold in October.
I won’t
let
it
unravel.

I have to keep you warm, too.
come here.