Do not quicken my haste
I am always much too soon
Or much too late
Always working against
The lick of the clock
Trying to be calm
In the eye of too many storms
Arms burst through the bed
And pulled me under
I gasped for breath
As I came to a place
Where I didn’t wear this face
Just a toothless grin
That resembled no name
Juggling nightmares
Through the looking glass
I was a prisoner
A monstrous clown
A widower
A beast of silent horrors
Becoming a Munch painting
In the mirror
This is inspired by a story I started writing but never finished, sadly I lost much of what I had written and I don’t have the energy to try and write it all up again. It wouldn’t have been the same anyway. But I decided I’d at least give the characters a bit of a stage, as I kind of just love this imagined horse!
Dust swirled just above the ground
As a man named Calloway
Galloped through the dusty, arid town
And as he did, all was silent
Doors did creek and eyes surely peeked
And trails of blood spoke of violence
And anyone who saw Jesse’s devils eyes
Were sure to be forever modified
For there were no horses like him
All black with mane of white
Looking through his crystal blues
As he dashed on by
Spraying dust under his hooves
No one forgets that unicorn among horses
Tracing slurs between my lips
she takes me through hours of redemption
Dirty music for the deed
quivering, thrusting hips
ensuring each of our vessels
are justly pleased
from this divine intervention
Lipstick stains covered in sin
Silent, subtle secrets
Shared between sweat and skin
worming our way past cruelty
Forgetting the shadows that defy clarity
And here with sorrows kiss
Pearl necklaces are made for this
Boys minds grow
With wild exuberance
As their eyes lay their claim
On stretched out backs
The women they shall never tame
For men are the domesticated
Not the women with whom they mated
After all that time, he waited
He finds himself frustratingly sated
Though wild blood still runs
Pooled in his guns
Waiting till the trigger is pulled
And there lays a lion
Who shall not be culled.
Meticulously made
Self-indulgence dressed in plaid
Smoking pipes on resting Sundays
With the sharpest eyes
Of our yesterday’s
Music swinging between
Jazz and classical
For a man’s mind should only
Consume the fantastical
Something one can twirl his moustache too
No drooping eyes
Even if they’ve been up all night
Every day one shall wear a sheen of delight
One shall not drive Cadillac’s or porches
One shall be chauffeured in a Rolls Royce
And be terribly gay with the chauffeur boys!
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 