I wrote a poem, it's been ages.
I write too many poems about crappy relationships and sex with too little experience. Hm. Not that I'm complaining.
Under
the impression of stilted relations,
love and denial and the wooden clap of a paint mixer
sledging the color that burns on inside of your eyelids
in that last moment of passion,
wrecked with despair and screaming through your grocery list.
Until, strewn in base listless lustlessness, veins pump sluggish ache
on either end of damp sheets and blinking windows,
and polluted prayers break through the sound barrier.
Please, God, not again.
Suggestions welcome. I orginally had a different idea for the last line involving domesticity, but it didn't pan out. I think as is it's a little anticlimatic, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not for this particular poem.
*Note to self: email stories and poetry on old computer to self and save, transfer music too.
Under
the impression of stilted relations,
love and denial and the wooden clap of a paint mixer
sledging the color that burns on inside of your eyelids
in that last moment of passion,
wrecked with despair and screaming through your grocery list.
Until, strewn in base listless lustlessness, veins pump sluggish ache
on either end of damp sheets and blinking windows,
and polluted prayers break through the sound barrier.
Please, God, not again.
Suggestions welcome. I orginally had a different idea for the last line involving domesticity, but it didn't pan out. I think as is it's a little anticlimatic, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not for this particular poem.
*Note to self: email stories and poetry on old computer to self and save, transfer music too.