The silent one inside (beatnik728) wrote,
The silent one inside
beatnik728

My extended verse

Well I told everyone that i would post my final draft of my extended verse for everyone to read. so here it is. Any comments and feedback would be greatly appreciated. Also, i promise that i will start updating more. I feel like i need to get back into the swing of journaling just because it keeps me semi-sane. ok enjoy.

"Two-part desperation, One-part salvation"


"Rum Soaked Deity"


The softened wood thumps

with every slammed glass

against its whiskey-stained surface.

Crumpled bodies littered

along the tavern's edges

methodically

hoist, gulp, thud

drinks in syncopation.

Their rhythm echoes ceremonial

drums attempting to bring

peace of mind;

their search for god

Eyes pointed up

expose red veins crawling

from pupils

prophesying

the walk home.


The palpitating cadence

pounds out an S.O.S,

a tuneless psalm.

A percussion section

composed of

sweat-drenched,

white-knuckled mourners

of dissolved faith.

Sundry sagas tremble

from their lips

rippling their confidant.

They raise a chorus

of desperate pleas

for salvation,

connection,

an end.


The search for truth among

the speckled burns

of the slick façade,

reveal reflections

enclosed by the beaded halos
of rum-flavored dew.
These images breed blurred,
fallen angels,
illuminating false escape,
a mock ascendance to grace.




"Star-light, Star-bright"


The glow reflecting
off her mirrored halter-top
manifests tiny sparks of light
dancing in the pores
of gawking spectators.
Their jaws, muddied
with 5 o'clock shadows,
stand as a backdrop

for the shafts of light,

creating a galaxy of stars
resembling those
she wished on
as a little girl.

Her skin made golden
by false rays imitating sun,
squeaks against
the metal pole
as she flings herself around
in frenzied circles, allowing
beats of chugging voyeurs
to pulsate through her skin.
Her hair, a ruby twilight,
trails her body in fiery bursts.
A supernova:
A star at its brightest
just before it explodes.
Spinning, she crafts
a solar system of orbiting bodies
with her at the center.


Eyes closed, legs open,
she entangles
the glossy silver shaft.
She morphs
into her 12-year-old self.
Her pallid skin and
murky tresses cling
to the swiveling merry-go-round.
Rubber-soled Nikes scrape
the splintered pine.
She imagines the friction sparking
a fire, like a rocket,
fast enough to propel herself
into the darkness
where everyone will know
she's beautiful.

Now, she descends from her silver rocket,
her black stilettos smoldering
with every
crackle, pop, and snap
against the linoleum.
Bright, red welts made
by snatching hands
tattoo her tired legs;
a reminder of her reign
over the Milky Way.


"'86 Cavalier"

The light from her
torso, like probing
high beams,
crashes
against his narrowed eyelids
as he lifts the glass of Wild Turkey.
He filters
it in and it lingers
in diminutive spaces
between his teeth
as tongue,
like a windshield wiper, slaps
the rhythm of her spinning hips.

The bitter taste,
dripping
from his overgrown whiskers,
reminds him of several
hapless nights
nestled,
face-first, in the concave
of his favorite bar stool.
2 am unexpectedly
shuffles
him off to his next
drink swimming safely
in the flask under
his driver's seat.
The clink of his keys
dangling from his back belt loop,
serenade his stammering strut
back to his '86 Cavalier.

Flaming wisps
spinning frantically
from dancer's scalp
jolt his body
from a drunken trance
like screeching lights
of the ambulance
that night, now
ten years old.
Red circulating
on top a bulky truck
lighting the rain's decent;
crimson splotches
on the white car
sealed to his bumper.

Muscles strain to balance
as he leaps up.
Gravity's seize over
his plastered body.
Clattering nails on copper
keys grope for escape.
They chip with
fumbled grabs as he bolts
from the bar.
He rummages
through the lot of cars to find
his Cavalier parked
at a skewed angle.
Clanking the door open,
he throws himself into
the spongy comfort of his seat.
Hands quake, jingling
the key in the ignition.

On route 5, he lurches past
the familiar mile marker now
home to drenched, stuffed animals
and white lilies cradling a sign
saying "WE MISS YOU".
The gust trailing his car
flutters white petals,
like feathers from an angel
not ready to leave Earth.



"Imaginative Clouds"

Mary, with a Virginia Slim
teetering between her middle and index
fingers, haphazardly flags the bartender for another Cosmo.
Warmly, she slides the filter with soft creases of her lips
forming a sticky seal that blends their features into a seamless bond.
Her pursed mouth welcomes the caresses of smoke as it slinks
in and out, leaving no nerve untouched.
Mary wafts the storm of stratus clouds
shaping the atmosphere beyond her reach.


Stirring billows mount with light shafts across ceiling rafters
And highlight wispy shapes. Mary fixes her gaze
on puffs that crash and reform.
Each collision mimics late night encounters
with slick legs melded at the vertex of two bodies,
hers and his.



3 am, when his family's asleep,
he sneaks to his car parked
half a block away
and glides towards Mary's apartment.
With gentle tapping and a wink
he's in the doorway
and then in her
before exchanged hellos.



Each morning after,
awakened by sunlight
streaking through drapes,
she rolls over and reads the note
"Thanks, see you Thursday".
The Sheet still lingers their mingled scents.



The ceiling fan whispers currents that manipulate
her thoughts: velvety movements of silhouettes
that converge, shudder and dissipate before height is reached.
These wisps then join the fog of others;
a haze of forgotten memories.


"Philosophized Drinks"


The smoky, liquored breath
of the inn smacks Mac across
his face as he mounts
his place behind the bar.
Towering two feet above,
he sees pairs of blackened eyes looking
up towards him
for an ear and a drink
to indulge in.
He nods to the rhythms
of the thumps that splatter
gin across the wood
as he sops up their sorrows,
saying nothing.
His counsel manifests slurred sayings
and long numbing nights of loneliness
that strengthen with each swig.
Mac philosophizes each drop
as it plops into the pint
that chains them to the only
life they know.

Many nights he's heard
the clatter of dangling keys
that lurch out doors while
witnessing saturated
eyes glistened
by neon Pabst signs.
Lips fastened shut,
he slithers spirits
spooned against crushed ice
along the bar; his only wisdom."
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