Love On Baker Street

All_4_Love said:

*happily slides over*

I'll make all the room you need here, youngin'. (that better? )

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Is that your tongue i see in your cheek?
And stop hogging the blanket!

The Perfect Storm

Let's forget,
that ever we were lovers
swindling the moon,
claiming rivers
and defining God
by our love du jour
You
were a bloody period
with bad breath
And me? just
weather beaten bullshit
led by a dick with
downs syndrome.
So,
is it really
any wonder?
The moon, rivers,
and God
have better things to do
and never noticed us anyway
So let's forget,
be shipwrecked together
and pretend we were special
together, simply
for being disasters alike.

The marching band waves
all french horn, rat a tat drums
and the occassional tuba
tickle the toes
of plaid skin tippy tourists,
tugging at bikini tops
and stealing frisbees.
My, what a kiters delight
But oh how I long
to be the rogue wave
toppling sailboats,
smashing fishermen
into matchsticks
and swamping villages.
All this,
to square the tale
Instead,
I'm the middle rip~
that place far off the shelf
where the compass implodes
in boiling chaos.
Here there is neither up nor down
nor sense to the flow
but rather
a maelstrom of percolated pretense
I long to swell
into a tower of fury
wiping the slate clean,
bereft of even bones
to be buried
for even bones
lie in their telling.
I long, I long,
but for now
and perhaps forever
I only swirl
unseen and indignant.

Woke up to a damp chill.
I looked over to the dusty fan wedged in the paint chipped window and listened for the sound of the summer jackhammer, the kids hanging out, but only heard the barking of that damn dog that somehow survives.
I lit the day's first cigarette, stared through the smoke, and tried to imagine, or simply remember.
And who knows what, but it didn't matter. The well was dry.
Getting dressed, which meant putting on my shoes, I decided to skip the coffee which was really only a game I could no longer win.
I stumbled down the stairs, shuffled across the street, and went into Wally's.
It was 9 am and the place was empty except for Wally and Gladys. Wally was staring up at Wheel of Fortune because he's addicted to Vanna White, Gladys was staring at her glass because she's addicted to her misery.
Neither paid me any notice.
I was a child once
in never ending summer
all Babe Ruth, G.I. Joe,
and dirty pockets
full of imagination.
I had a mother, sort of
and a father
liquidating regrets
all to no matter
in the ageless summer.
And no crystal ball
to warn me
that the things of
no matter
would build the steps
to a room
over a worn out summer
on Baker Street.
Wally silently brought me my third beer, Gladys was reaching under her ragged dress to scratch her thigh.
And the quiet was too perfect.
I glanced up at the calender.
"Hey Wally, August is over."
He shrugged as he turned back to Vanna. "Does it matter?"
And I wished it didn't.

She was back on Baker Street
Beating the bushes of all the abandoned houses
Hoping to startle a memory or two
Of what it felt like
To be young and wild
Into flying free
But it had been too long
And appeared as if
Everything had moved on
Leaving only imprints
Like the feet of furniture
Until she turned hers to go
And spotted the old tire swing
Suddenly she whooshed through the air
Laughing half in fear
As toes touched the sky
She felt him standing behind her
Again, as always
Pushing her away
Waiting for her to return

The world was younger
bright eyed and star struck
every sunrise
a new big bang
Yes, Love
I remember
in the old five and dime
now a vacant lot.
I'd watch you gum snap
and smile
as old man Grittner
would laser glare us
over his half rim glasses.
He knew we had no money
to buy his magazines,
crappy paperbacks
or those ear rings
I always knew you wanted
but together
we always managed an
orange popcicle dime
perfect
for a curb sit
and all those
somedays....
we stained ourselves with
before Autumn
called us home.

wow, some amazing writing happening in this thread. kudos, poets

butters said:

wow, some amazing writing happening in this thread. kudos, poets

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Lol, yeah but i had to pay her to write here.
I signed trix to a 4 poem contract.
It's a bitch dealing with free agents who hit the big home runs.
Thnx Butters

I had to walk down to the Shell station for cigarettes and detergent.
She was standing near the ice machine, far more obvious than she should have been.
She had eyes like a pair of moon dogs, teeth like buckshot, and hair like a drunken spider had spun it.
For lack of a better term, she smiled, and I smiled back just as carefully.
"how's the day treating you?" she exploringly asked.
And me? I gave her a hint of hope.
Her face was 65 but her body was 35 and I figured it was because eating never made her daily planner.
Eventually, I passed on her, but took her number so she could keep the hope, and I could keep the option.
A penny for your thoughts
my pussy for a Jackson
three quarter cotton
soft to the touch
one quarter linen
durable
through many a fuck
the image of a bloody man
who died
with a wallet full of compassion
never spent.
And Hannah,
What should we call it
to make it pretty?
And she said,
Let's call it Hermitage.