Author: poetryfest

Loving him like a Fireball shot
Burns all the way down
A fucking disgusting aftertaste

——-

Love is like ice in your mouth,
force it, it breaks
let it sit, it melts away…

——-

Coffee rings on table
Rings resembling wedding bands
Circles of eternity

I can remember it
like it was yesterday.
The day I had to
split my fathers’ face.

Dinner was just that
in our family.
It wasn’t a ceremony,
it was just the pleasure,
of eating food.
We never
said Grace.

We had just sat down to eat
when the phone rang.
It was an old rotary phone,
an ancient relic nowadays.

I got up and answered it,
on the other end
was a high school friend,
who must have been forgettable
because I can’t remember who it was,
or maybe it’s what happened next
that blotted it from my memory;
“Get off the fucking phone”,
my stepfather yelled.

He was a large man.
His arms were the size of some mens legs.
His hands were hard, rough,
and stained with motor oil,
and when he closed them,
they were like boulders.
His neck was red from the sun,
and the skin,
thick and coarse
like leather.

“I got to get off the phone,
my Dad is trippin” I said,
then I hung it up.
I guess this angered him,
because he jumped up from the table
and came into the room I was in.
Then he squared off with me.

I was a skinny,
and innocent teen,
I was not yet the hard,
jaded man that I would
unwittingly become,
very soon.
He pushed me,
I pushed back.
That’s when he struck me,
with a closed fist.
I don’t remember it hurting,
but when your biological father
dies from a heroin overdose,
when you’re eleven,
not much else after that,
is truly painful.

When he struck me,
I retaliated without hesitation.
One swift blow to his face.
Then the mountain of a man,
I had admired for years,
ran into the hall,
and I followed.
His back was against the wall,
when I continued to strike,
until I felt something wet.
I looked at my hand,
and saw blood.

You see,
my hands aren’t large clubs
of stone like his.
They are the hands of an artist,
a lover,
a writer,
delicate and agile,
and when thrown with force,
will split flesh.

I looked up from my blood-splattered hand
and the look on his face,
is still eternally etched in my mind.
His eyes were large,
and on his cheek,
a single, small red slit,
like an open,
gaping mouth.

I took a step back,
he turned and darted into the living room,
and as he did I pushed him and yelled,
“Don’t you ever hit me again.”
He tripped over a chair,
falling against a window curtain,
dousing it with blood.
That was about the time my mother said,
“We are going to take you to get stitches,
then you’re getting the fuck out of here.”

That event led to their divorce,
and she resents me for it to this day,
but at least now,
when I’m eating dinner,
and the phone rings,
I can talk as long
as I want.

3/27/24

Oh, Death!
Life’s twin brother,
Two states of the same,
You could vanquish it all.
Bring my beloved
From the valleys of shadows
Where you hide his light.
My soul agonizes
without its better part.
We’re divided, apart –
Two star-crossed lovers,
split by abysmal deception
Of vengeful gods.
Time is a pitiless river,
And I’m nearing the shore
Where no mercy exists
And near bridging the gap.
So, claim me as yours, Death.
I’ll ask you for only one favour –
To fall gently asleep.
Give me a peaceful, short end –
Just closing my eyes
And forgetting it all.
Come to me,
Unexpected and uninvited,
Stealthy and quiet,
Like a deadly dancer,
Take my hand,
With your withered fingers,
And bring me to the land of my beloved.
Chase away the anguish,
Of hope and desire,
resentment of lost chances
And unfulfilled expectations.
My soul would sing,
Freed from its mortal shroud.
My soul would dance,
Free and unbothered,
By human disappointment.
And my spirit would flee happy,
In the land of eternal youth,
where dreams and fairies dwell.
My Anam Cara awaits me.
Smiling and impatient,
Bright and resplendent,
Like the morning sun,
He’d take my hand
Leading me to Heaven.
And our souls would entwine,
Until the end of time,
No longer divided by fate and time

In an age of black, four decades back,
There’s a place I never go.
Suppress the thought,
Of the things I was taught,
That I didn’t need to know.
Having innocence stolen,
Made the conscience disappear.
Morality’s the victim,
It’s the sacrifice of fear.

I still hear the footsteps
And see the shadows of the thing,
And remember all the terror,
To my heart that it would bring.
And memories more painful,
Is when it chose to pass me by,
And I would just pretend to sleep,
As I heard my Sister cry.

Ever living with the guilt,
And the secrets no one knows,
Of the times I hid in silence,
And the younger ones it chose.
Souls destroyed of generations past,
And those of yet to come,
Paying for the sins of their Fathers,
But maybe not for some.

So in my youth I devised a plan,
To wipe my memories free,
That children of my own I’d have,
And guiltless they would be.
And if I could complete this task,
As impossible as it seemed,
That I could finely live in peace,
My conscience been redeemed.

I did the job I set out to do,
Despite the price it cost.
And raised three children to adults,
Without their innocence lost.
Now came the time, I’ve paid the price,
For the freedom that I crave.
But for me there was no salvation,
There was nothing left to save.

Survival is overrated,
From the nightmares that never leave.
To hide the truth consumes the life,
In this tangled web we weave.
If given the chance to erase the past,
Without a doubt I would.
And wipe the mind forevermore,
Of this thing called childhood.

I turned fifty this year
Which made me reflect
That at best I have twenty
Good years left before
My life is basically over
As seventy is pushing it
For a man these days
This of course assumes
I don’t get hit by a bus tomorrow
Or even later today
Or have a heart attack
Stroke
Aneurysm
Staph infection
Or anything else
That could end my life prematurely
This realization shocked me
As I basically now have the lifespan
Of a small dog
Or cat
Wow
That kind of thinking can depress
A man such as me
Who in the best of times
Is naturally pessimistic
So I won’t think of it again
Until I’m seventy
Unless I die before

I don’t know if I’m still in love
It doesn’t feel the way it used to,
Like fire bright and wild within,
Now the embers fade to blue.

I search for warmth, but all is still,
As if we’re shadows in the light.
We touch, but it’s like touching glass
The surface clear, and cold to the touch

I don’t know if I’m still in love,
For time has softened every spark.
The way we used to burn so bright,
Now feels like walking in the dark.

Your voice, once thunder in my chest,
Is now the whisper of the rain.
I don’t know if I’m still in love
Or just afraid it’ll never feel the same again

I linger on the edge of us,
Now I breath in memories that feel so wrong,
as they weave and fade leaving me raw
Each glance a question, unanswered still,
A haunting echo of what was once bliss

I don’t know if I’m still in love
With every heartbeat, doubt intertwines,
As time slips through like the tears down my face

You’re going to the motherless,
Sleeping bags spread across a one-bedroom apartment,
Razor blades and prescription bottles,
Sticking two fingers down the high-school bathroom throat.

You’re mature for your age and Age doesn’t matter,
Swallowing stacks of pennies just for laughs,
I’m from PlayStations in pawn shops,
and lit cigarettes with car windows closed

Please, don’t kill me, Mr. Ghostface,
I wanna be in the sequel.
–Tatum Riley, Scream

I should’ve known I was dead meat the moment I let you fuck me. Everyone knows sluts spill their guts on sin-soaked sheets. Moonlit and lovesick, I let your calloused hands creep under my ivory nightgown’s lace trim, mouth ravaging my perfectly pink lips, leaving them swollen red. Each moan is a death sentence, each breath risks being the last. I imagine the camera cuts

right as you unhook my white satin bra, straps falling from shoulders like angel wings. A single pearl dangles from a gold chain gracing my neck like a halo as I fall into pillows. Wailing wind billows through bonedust curtains, convinces me the killer lurks outside between oak trees. It doesn’t warn me about the knife you’re holding behind your back as you thrust in-and-out, stabbing

through my purity. I only notice it’s my final scene when black swallows your iris, when your head tilts and your lips curl, when you tell me I haven’t been a very good girl. They’ll find me surrounded by carmine blossoms blooming from seeds you planted in my uterus. They’ll twist my story into a cautionary tale about what happens when the girl-next-door decides to be a whore.

We always say
We love peace just
Before the war begins.

We always say
We will never leave
Just as we put our coats on.

And we always say
There are always reasons,
Perfect explanations

And we are always right,
No matter how wrong we are –
Always, always.

i.

the mind is not the brain.
the mind is
mysterious
foreign
ambiguous.
the mind is not confined to the skull.
it defies
possibility
expectation
reality.

ii.

when i close my eyes
i see sparks of color
dancing the tango.
they are
azure
chartreuse
emerald.
their psychedelic dance slows
to a waltz.
they become
familiar
warm
sensual.

iii.

this is what i see
when i close my eyes.
her hands around his neck
his hands around her hips
her waiting by the window
for him to come home
her dripping mascara staining
his shirt charcoal
her body fully relaxed
against his embrace.

iv.

the mind is not the brain.
folded tissues can’t be
daggers
guns
arrows.

v.

this is what i see
when i open my eyes.
crumbs of wheat toast
tumbling into a mug of hot tea
faded sunlight peering
through an old window
a dog at my feet and
a blank wall to my face.

vi.

the mind is
thief
trickster
villain.
vii.
the mind is alive.
it says
you
will
never
be
her.