“That dress surprisingly fits you well.”
And surprisingly, I didn’t flinch.
A backhanded compliment once felt
like a car’s backfire to a veteran.
I’m used to it now.
The wound is so old, so sore,
there are no more,
nerves left to fry.
Category: Poems
My poems that I interpret as done
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Unnamed #1
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Insatiable
It stood stark against the sky,
a monument of steel and single-minded purpose,
indifferent to the waves
that crashed against its legs.Below, the deep earth held its secrets,
ancient and patient,
a dark and silent promise
of richness buried under immense pressure.First came the whispers,
the seismic pulses sent down into the crust—
a rhythmic, percussive questioning
to find the softest, most vulnerable point.
A location was chosen.The great drill descended,
its diamond tip: a hard, insistent truth.
It broke the surface with a shudder,
a violent intrusion into the silent dark.There was no gentleness here,
only the grinding friction
of steel against resisting stone,
a relentless drive downward
through layers of ancient memory.The earth groaned under the building heat,
the structure above trembling
with the force of its own desire.Deeper and deeper it pressed,
until with a final, jarring breach,
it broke through into the hidden chamber.A sudden moment of pressurized silence,
the anticipation of the void.
Then came the release—
not a gentle scent,
but a hot, black, uncontrollable surge.The crude rushed upward,
a primal and ecstatic gusher,
coating everything
in its dark, viscous lifeblood.The raw fervor eventually subsided
into a steady, measured pumping,
drawing the ancient wealth up from the deep, sating a hunger
that could never be filled. -
Sweet Lure
a scent that incandesces the glade,
baiting animals and man when laid.
a concoction, blooming by the sill,
majestic in form, sitting still.
dark as the under-rock
or at the back of a stock.
its inside, soft and filling
like a brownie spilling. -
Halo’s Edge
A streetlamp is buzzing—
like a clumsy beetle,
it blooms amidst gloom,
an electric sun illuminating
the city’s lost sons.One solitary figure stands beneath it,
bathed in dim solitude,
burning up a cigarette
like his life, chasing quick pleasure
before it all goes to black.A chill wind breezes—
carrying the street’s grim stench,
putrid reek of dead dreams,
and the bitter slurry tears.Claws crawl their way
into the halo on the pavement,
enticing nightmares on the mind,
screaming like horns of impatient drivers.
But the light keeps buzzing,
brighter and brighter.He flicks the cigarette into the road,
turns his back and walks into the dark
that will lead to another path,
even if it means fading to black. -
Balustrade
Balustrade bars on a bridge of hearts,
Swain confined in whispered art.Bound to his mate and fate,
or free to create his state?Bold yet so weak to define –
be a balustrade and realign. -
Alleys
Beneath the dark torn cloak, shadows
of a specter stitched from fear and plight.
Eyes burn with borrowed menace,
shielding a porcelain body.Each step echoes hollow strength,
clinging to the cloth’s shroud,
a second skin.
But the figure quivers, silent and small,
a fragile soul, fleeing fleeting sorrow. -
Collared
In the call of the night,
beasts start to howl and fight,
to break the collar and chains
that bind them in my hell.They run rampant,
rattling through the corridors,
so loud I cannot sleep.
They are me, and I am them. -
Masking
Silk hands conjure specters,
wisps of memory clawing through dusk.Fingertips etch sigils in dust,
veins pulse with ache and distilled hate.The air thickens, weighted, restless—
a name nearly spoken.The figure manifests,
a smile infested,
a mask dawned for a new day.