Poker Love

Sub me a two fingered drink
let’s play poker by the fix on my face.
Pull up a chair – I’ve no liking
to this vast interspace

Two neat paranoid drunks
with no compromise for hooch on the rocks,
let me dine out, on your sin
sugar coated in my rebirth of youth.

Always you can write my number
on the back of your face
twisted in the contours of a bluff…

Poppy ~xx~
May 23rd 2015
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Names.

Wilderness – against the raw naked wind
days of futility – torn between
these empty lands of fortified migration.
Gravestones on mass, innocence fallen
senseless tracks
cut deep amid the whining grass.

Intense of red
the flowers of fury, placid folded.
Heads frayed, touch the ground
between the rows of sleeping.
Killing time, eyes closed
bare footed, waiting for their
mother, brother sister – lover!

Dust of battles long time wrestled.
Therefore, shall the young ones remain
in all but their name…?

Blank Pages.

I should have written sooner – posting
the words going round in my head.

I wanted to tell you – often
how sad and depressed I was
not seeing you this time.
And yet I feel your distance – more than
these footsteps, that have come between us.

Before closing this letter, I taste
the malignant saliva of my haste.
Would that I could
forget your face, wipe unsoiled all taste.
Blameless are they not;
those who drink deep of their disgrace.

I trespass stupidly, amid
the fragments of remnants censured
of all blame

Yet still these white vacant pages
make me realise, that
I should have written sooner …

Poppy ~xx~
May 12th 2015

No Say.

Do they scatter flowers in hell?
I am anxious and both pitied to discern.
Their exquisiteness climbs my memories wall
their perfume, crafts you effortless to recall

Shall you miss our relationships desire?
Think of me when night, wraps cold
its friendless frame.
I know I made you smile, if only for the moment
then a moment, sometimes lasts a life.

I fear the cold abstract progress of life
knocking ever explicitly at your door.
How soon –
I ask, shall you forget?

Should I lay in heaven or in hell:
Of that, I simply have no say…

 

Poppy ~xx~

May 6th 2015

Soft Brown Earth.

Not for her this slam of day
against those, violet rays that talk
of calmer reason.
For when she hears the trees, who dare
to catch the breeze, then laugh with ease,
she sets aside her mind to bleed.

For all about each season – behind
the windows curtained glass
she watch’s, bridled not for hope
of long, beyond forgotten –
then blown to scatter distant brown
with toss of hand
amid that bed of earth, still warm.

Then all about did listen
as the sun set down her light to drop.
Quietly setting over them; as the day
dropped to her knees.

Poppy ~xx~

1st May 2015