VOWLESS 

homaloidal,
and
tragic
to the touch,

she let me do things to her,
to ensure i’d stay,

silly woman.

these days,
fewandfarbetween,
yet, still,
no feels better.

throw memories into satchel,
hit the road,
retrace tourbus blowjobs
and soundroom quickload releases,
just enough for me
to smile while i tell you
no.

you are powerless,
even when you spread those
beautiful legs,
even when you scribble
something clever down on
ringed napkin,
no.

that is,
unless you are still married,
then maybe
we can talk.

others have failed
in remaining constant,
folding when chin
ends up snug in chest,
hand traces
treasure trail,
or
when they need
you to see the
damage under shirt
or inside panty line,
to warn you like
california’s
lemon law.

all useless to me,
tragic,
because they fail me
even before I can get
to their true beauty,
past the insecure bullshit
colored and flavored in
betsey johnson pink
or fuerte como un hombre
doublefisted drinking,

your words and your body
mean nothing to me,

I only want those
who have lifted their veils,
looked into eyes,
raised those hips
for another,

i only want
what is no longer real.

 

STARS

for three months,
I've been consumed,

blood splatter,
stars,
a fucking inch
to the left,

illuminated high rise legs
and the elderly wading back
to a different life,
staring not at me,
yet knowing them,
just the same.

three months,

rows,
columns,
tables,

mathematics and
distance, relative,
 blood spitting
soliloquy
nightly,
weekly,
monthly...

spray painted walls,
a fly,
and a list of real desire,
only to end with
images of the beautiful.

tonight,
i sleep well.

BY WjB

WjB writes because he doesn't know why. When he was young, he tried to invent god, but got bored and found masturbation, instead. He is just as confused about his poetry as you are. He co-owns Kill Poet Press with Jason Neese.