Solastalgia

Envy paints me like a forest;

lush and vast and green

Sadness blues my skeleton

from buried bone to glacier creek

And nothing

congregates the masses like carnage

fusing into bile brown

It smells of death

but to them

it looks like love


via Daily Prompt: Planet

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Lamina

My skin burns

with the tinge of passion

Green-lit by a system of nerves

But this moment is fleeting

and by the next

It has me by the neck

and I am dragged by the nape

to the ends of an abysmal room

Where I will stand and serve

where I will sit and loom

Should she have forgotten

to wire me capable of joy

and instead

A surplus of marked confusion and

utter dread

If I don’t have a handle on

the emotions I’d been spoon-fed

Then perhaps it’d be best

that I renounce my position

in the blanks of the margins

Where bliss grows like wheat

wilts slow

and weighs heavy as lead

Starboard

Dancing on an orange rind

picking bits of zest out from

between the toes

Flicking them off starboard

What’s happened to the flesh

is anybody’s guess

It may have been eaten

in a citrus-y mess

I am out of ideas

but keep dancing I do

to create the illusion

that I am not plagued by

constant confusion

Marbles

Tell me

Does it embarrass you

That your son fancies lovely things?

He’s not a brick breaker

Like his father

Or his father before him

But he wears the seasons

On his fingers and toes

Occasionally

Should the mood arise

And he knows

That you’re a product of your era

And he cannot blame you

Nor is he inclined to

But the blood’s

A little thinner

Between you now

The heart has to

Pump a little harder

Now

The lashes sting

A little less

Now that they’ve become

The yolk to your egg

The routine

And he has all but

Lost his marbles

In a panic

He tries to collect them

Like little bits

Of a rolling sky

That used to be blue

For him

For me

Negative Current

I make jokes in self defense

Most of the time,

I don’t make sense

to anyone but me

But that’s the draw, the intrigue

I drink tea that’s

steeped in dreams

To regulate the breath I

breathe

Otherwise,

it’s too much too soon

And I’m half a mile

past the moon

You’re a tree, and

I’m your branch

bur we’ll parish if not rooted

at the stance

We’ll grow separately

But that’s the pull,

the mystery

There’s proof within

the insulation

That we are more than our

obligations

We are cut from

the same mold

Dying young in clothes

of gold

Loopholes

I’m mere feet from home,

but that doesn’t make me safe.

I think before I act,

but that doesn’t make me wise.

I’m far beneath the sky,

but that doesn’t make me grounded.

I don’t always tell the truth,

but that doesn’t make them lies.

The Equation

Fucked up.

We are both fucked up.

Idiosyncrasies rushing over

like schools of fish

caught in a current.

Psychoses biting down

on our heads

like piranhas,

drawing blood.

We found common ground

in our mutual self-hatred,

and from it

we built love.

Fucked up,

idiosyncratic,

psychotic

love.

Together, we became

the piranhas,

preying

on the school

of fish.

 

Buttercream

Nose-deep in a slice of any type,

and I am made a happy man

in that moment.

Savor every second.

Lest the final crumb disappears

in my gullet,

and back to reality I run.


via Daily Prompt: Cake

Le trottoir

J’ai fait une petite promenade

à côté de la rue

car c’est où

on peut regarder le monde

pendant qu’il passe


via Daily Prompt: Sidewalk

Interpreter of melodies

He sang to me, and I fell asleep.

Not because I was bored of him,

or tired even.

Quite the contrary, in fact,

as I had never known contentment

quite like in that moment.

I had never felt such tranquility,

as when I was cocooned in him;

tangled in the hair

on his arms.

He is fictitious,

and I am dreaming,

but his song remains

as poignant as it always had.


via Daily Prompt: Melody