He hit her
Across the mouth
With the back of his hand.
I could taste her blood;
Run, salty tears
Her lip bitten, hurt
He stood over her, threatening
Displeased,
Tensed to kick her.
He did.
Sweet Jesus;
I can’t watch,
Disinterested and clinical.
I can’t look away somewhere
Pretending not to see it happen.
The party when on;
He picked her up
And she followed him away.
I bet she has before.
Posts Tagged ‘Blood’
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Light Blues
Posted: February 5, 1991 in PoetryTags: Blood, Blue, Eye, Father, Green, Light, Mother, Orange, Red, Yellow
I don’t care for white light any more.
call me vapid scumbag; call me gromore.
I have red and green and blue and yellow
lights; to read by, an orange fellow,
friendly to the eyes and each is good
to set a certain kind of mood.
red for temper, salt and blood
yellow to dapple, caress, and flood
blue is patience, like being underwater
green is crayon, like a mother or father.
Untitled Poem #101
Posted: January 10, 1991 in PoetryTags: Blood, Blue, Eye, Green, Leaf, Mountain, Ocean, Pain, Sky, Star, Trees, Untitled, Yellow
I crawled and crawled and crawled through this
Dark mountain of wet bloody clay clawing by chunks
Of big puppy chow kibble breaking my nails
From the dirt wedging under them inflamed and
Painful falling clumsily at the side of the precipice
Barking lacerations down the cliffside thousands
Of feet to the tree leaf ocean below where I
Crashed through the pretty green carpet to
Pachinko my way limb to limb from limb
Down to land crawling my way under hot wet
Underbrush wiping my faces with their
Leathery-thorny branches twigs under my
Eyelids parched streatching burned by the
Twinkie-colored sand under the trees
Broiled by a starry yellow sun in a blue sky
Chopped up by the stringy branches of the jungle
Dissected sunlight lay strewn on the ground
Pulsing, heating the loam and roots to consciousness
As I crawled and crawled and crawled to be with you.
Melanicus by Phone
Posted: December 27, 1990 in PoetryTags: Blood, Friend, Girl, Hacksaw, Kiss, Lead, Melanicus, September, Smile
Yes, Melanicus came to me
With a hacksaw and my jugular vein
He said that these belonged to me
Then smiled and said my girlfriend
Kissed him just last night.
First I said thank you for my hacksaw
And apologized for his neck wound
Second, I offered him a needle and thread;
He said “I’m fine, I have already bled”.
Then I took my jugular back
Replaced the lead pipe I was using
He offered me a rusty straight razor blade
I acquiesced politely with the flourish I made
Third I said she had already told me
About your dimension adventures in the roof of your mouth
I know you back from the 24th of September
1971 – you’re my father, remember?
People say there are always times in your life
When you feel the answer is the blade of a knife
A quick slice across the wrists
Then a convulsive clench of fists
As the blood wells, spurts, and drips
An intake of breath through parted lips
Crimson health pouring out of your hands
No more problems and no more demands.
Untitled Poem #11
Posted: June 24, 1987 in PoetryTags: Blood, Cry, Earth, Echo, Heart, Life, Sky, Tears, Wish, World
My life is with what everybody has toyed
Shuddering, quaking, my will is destroyed.
I fall to my knees with a heart-rending cry
That echoes around in an empty blue sky.
Now the tears come, they come like a flood
But it’s not saline moisture, it’s dark crimson blood
Coursing down my cheeks, staining the fair earth
While my life is waning, they giggle in mirth.
Pounding in my ears, pumping in my chest
Why is it that I’m cursed, never blessed?
I hurt so bad, I writhe in pain
Consciousness is so hard to maintain.
Nothing cools me or quenches my thirst.
The throbbing in my brain keeps getting worse
As I see my life spill out before me
The sand turns black with my misery
There’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say
To make the world shut up and go away.
Sorrow overwhelms me, with blood I cry
My last remaining wish is that I wish I could die.
Untitled Poem #10
Posted: June 24, 1987 in PoetryTags: Beast, Bird, Blood, Cry, Eye, Heart, Ring, Sad, Sand, Song, Spirit, Window, Wing
Little bird sitting on the windowsill
Why is it that you look so ill?
What is the matter? What is wrong?
You no longer brighten the day with song.
Your eyes are sad, your feathers ruffled
With what unwholesome beast have you scuffled?
Your spirit is broken, like your bent wing
The clear notes of your cry now have a dull ring
Dirt is matted, dust is caked
Blood on your shoulder where you’ve been raked.
With agonized heart, I search the sands
As this little bird’s life bleeds out through my hands.
I hope that the Principal spontaneously combusts
And nobody will rant and rave and fuss.
If she blew up while picking up trash
Whether bagel a-stomped or burger a-mashed,
Or violently exploded while giving a speech
Hanging around spying like a socialite leech.
Implosion to add flavor, it wouldn’t hit others
No blood splattered clothing, no curious mothers.
But the problem with this idea is simple, you see
‘Cause you know how awful the results would be.
The solution is apparent, yet the problem’s the same:
The next Principal would pick up the first one’s remains.
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