Submissions by edwardsbragia
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
3rd Oct 2015 2:10pm
3rd Oct 2015 2:10pm
between the trees
it’s hard to believe
but I haven’t been inhaling
properly.
I’ve only just
taught myself how
and so when I did
I got light-headed.
it was the same today.
listening to louis
i danced through the trees. between
the trees
of the common.
then there were children, and I wondered why
and wished that I could light
my other cigarette.
but I needed to save it.
I came to some artists.
before, I’d seen
an artist
in this clearing, but now
there was a group of them.
they mostly had kids, and they
were...
but I haven’t been inhaling
properly.
I’ve only just
taught myself how
and so when I did
I got light-headed.
it was the same today.
listening to louis
i danced through the trees. between
the trees
of the common.
then there were children, and I wondered why
and wished that I could light
my other cigarette.
but I needed to save it.
I came to some artists.
before, I’d seen
an artist
in this clearing, but now
there was a group of them.
they mostly had kids, and they
were...
473 reads
1 Comment
SELF POEM
Published
20th Aug 2015 2:29pm
20th Aug 2015 2:29pm
Lemon Pips
in the kitchen
i trod
on a lemon pip.
years ago, i spent several months
occasionally finding
lemon pips
in my bedroom.
i had no idea where
they came from.
i got paranoid about them.
it was only a few
years before that
i'd been obsessed by the idea
of
boggarts
and other crap
so i put the seeds in a little
Chinese open-top box.
i probably still have them.
i guess
i'd expected to use them
in solving some great
mystery
about the pips.
i never figured it.
today, i picked up
the pip...
i trod
on a lemon pip.
years ago, i spent several months
occasionally finding
lemon pips
in my bedroom.
i had no idea where
they came from.
i got paranoid about them.
it was only a few
years before that
i'd been obsessed by the idea
of
boggarts
and other crap
so i put the seeds in a little
Chinese open-top box.
i probably still have them.
i guess
i'd expected to use them
in solving some great
mystery
about the pips.
i never figured it.
today, i picked up
the pip...
422 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
6th Aug 2015 1:04pm
6th Aug 2015 1:04pm
The Stag-Beetle
my feet are still blue
having torn off socks now and
seen how they are patterened
by the sweat that i sweated walking
home in bare feet against suede
and made the dye run
and so my feet are still blue.
my feet are always strange, i endeavour
to keep them that way
i think
especially when ive bought new shoes
say black and rigid, and dont
think or dare to wear a plaster
and instead let the heel rub into me so
that now you can trace the history of my shoes
by scars on my achilles.
even the scars of my brown boots, which
i wore...
having torn off socks now and
seen how they are patterened
by the sweat that i sweated walking
home in bare feet against suede
and made the dye run
and so my feet are still blue.
my feet are always strange, i endeavour
to keep them that way
i think
especially when ive bought new shoes
say black and rigid, and dont
think or dare to wear a plaster
and instead let the heel rub into me so
that now you can trace the history of my shoes
by scars on my achilles.
even the scars of my brown boots, which
i wore...
772 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
5th Aug 2015 5:14pm
5th Aug 2015 5:14pm
After Night
Spit on grave foot truth.
Absolute as face, shining,
enlightening the page with slow
notes of green. And within the green, blue.
Sounds of humanity are broken,
distorted and caressed
for all.
With the heavenly darkness
of nothing and me I sit,
now alone
and wish weep would
come, from inside dog-mind.
Ephemeral dusk parts,
and faint clouds make clear,
the written vitality is nothing
more than a plea.
A plea within me.
What it does is not spoken.
Truthfully
Absolute as face, shining,
enlightening the page with slow
notes of green. And within the green, blue.
Sounds of humanity are broken,
distorted and caressed
for all.
With the heavenly darkness
of nothing and me I sit,
now alone
and wish weep would
come, from inside dog-mind.
Ephemeral dusk parts,
and faint clouds make clear,
the written vitality is nothing
more than a plea.
A plea within me.
What it does is not spoken.
Truthfully
472 reads
0 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by edwardsbragia
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