A Visual Poem
Transcript:
it’s an abstraction
these tell-tale moments
these double entendres
that make up what’s left of you
why does everyone have to be your friend?
Continue readingTag: writing
up your efforts
A poem.
i’m sitting in her truck
as she drives through an expanse
and i’m hopelessly stuck,
watching for the tells on her face.
my love is late.
my dreams always end this way.
tick tock anticipating,
still staring at a big stupid screen
with Sinéad stuck in the CD player
that needs to be replaced
but these days there isn’t anywhere else
for me to be.
cant get away, rolling
over myself again,
relentless, blistering, reddening –
an early Spring and long-passed petaling,
her ride, her music i’m listening,
lording
how many times before have i
fallen on my sword
because i was bored?
how many afternoons past with plans on plans to get
on track
only to find my way back?
more than the fingers
and toes and
Geppetto’s nose & cock can count.
life wears its hair how one likes just to spite
with a perfect white smile which bites.
//wd 7.29.2023
Photo by Mehmet Turgut Kirkgoz on Pexels.com.
Jay’s Take: The House on the Edge of the Park
A spoiler-free revisionist movie review.
Ruggero Deodato’s “House on the Edge of the Park” is straight up “genre trash”. Terrible movie. Review over. For those wondering why this lesser-discussed grindhouse rape-revenge “most disturbing movie of all-time” nominee is so bad, let’s talk. Come on, I know this spot over by the park where we can groove, baby. I’ll be quick (probably not).
a reminder
A poem.
we sat side-by-side the other day –
so close and yet so far away,
and i could see the sunlight reflected off your steely-blue eyes
as i wondered if you even knew i drew breath.
so many sleepless nights, drained but restless
wishing i had your body against mine –
because i believed you alone could soothe me,
mitigate me,
love me and my touch
this time.
but i’ve been wrong before.
so like a thief i’ve stolen what i could
to fuel a fantasy that would.
your face, your look –
the freckles that dot like weathered wood.
placing you in-phase with others who came before,
dreaming that maybe i could enjoy those times more.
your life continues
and mine stands ignored.
i have to move on. i do.
theory of a daskeman 