Submissions by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
💚
Puncture
12.13pm. Domestic.
A conscience always comes two seconds
too late. You punctured my heart.
I lived for the internal bleed,
I felt you.
You became the intestinal parasite, didn't you?
...in my digestive tract,
I was aware
of you
ever poking around
at my
organs.
Of course, I expected no less.
A pulmonary artery
aneurysm took a final stab
at my lungs. What a glorious Sunday!
But it's Monday and you must try not to laugh ...
A conscience always comes two seconds
too late. You punctured my heart.
I lived for the internal bleed,
I felt you.
You became the intestinal parasite, didn't you?
...in my digestive tract,
I was aware
of you
ever poking around
at my
organs.
Of course, I expected no less.
A pulmonary artery
aneurysm took a final stab
at my lungs. What a glorious Sunday!
But it's Monday and you must try not to laugh ...
848 reads
8 Comments
The Drug
Sometimes the bed comes to me
when I'm flying on a heavy cloud
and still suffering with dry mouth
and too bruised to reach the tap,
marvelous,
in Mother's arms where she passed the buck. Are you still with me, kid?
Take one of these. Snowflake upon tongue.
Filth, you love it.
When the shop's shut
two hours early, only got me to rely on for cigarettes now.
Keep the conversation snappy,
explain where the hypodermic goes
and if you're happy
keep it to yourself.
Pull your coat around your throat ...
when I'm flying on a heavy cloud
and still suffering with dry mouth
and too bruised to reach the tap,
marvelous,
in Mother's arms where she passed the buck. Are you still with me, kid?
Take one of these. Snowflake upon tongue.
Filth, you love it.
When the shop's shut
two hours early, only got me to rely on for cigarettes now.
Keep the conversation snappy,
explain where the hypodermic goes
and if you're happy
keep it to yourself.
Pull your coat around your throat ...
811 reads
8 Comments
"Wife and Mother."
Fold the last ironed shirt,
put it in the drawer,
shut the drawer,
walk to the window,
watch the girl on her way to school
with a skirt shorter than you'd ever have dared,
phone the school council for news on Matthew,
wash up,
fill a Sudoku,
tidy away the toys,
wipe the surfaces,
fill the dishwasher,
empty the dishwasher,
fill the washing machine,
empty the washing machine,
peg clothes out,
shop online.
Monotony,
the joy of my life.
put it in the drawer,
shut the drawer,
walk to the window,
watch the girl on her way to school
with a skirt shorter than you'd ever have dared,
phone the school council for news on Matthew,
wash up,
fill a Sudoku,
tidy away the toys,
wipe the surfaces,
fill the dishwasher,
empty the dishwasher,
fill the washing machine,
empty the washing machine,
peg clothes out,
shop online.
Monotony,
the joy of my life.
748 reads
4 Comments
Phoenix
From the wall of the closest dock
to the furthest traveller's point
I would run to know freedom here.
Time,
it ticks so steadily, so patient as it waits on me,
there are days I forget it waits for no one.
There are check lists
sitting unmarked in my drawer, not for fear of wanting
but liable time, as I hate to let down others.
What of a weekend on the closest dock
or the furthest traveller's point?
Will freedom wait?
Maybe I'll write about it,
when those lonely hours pass and I can't...
to the furthest traveller's point
I would run to know freedom here.
Time,
it ticks so steadily, so patient as it waits on me,
there are days I forget it waits for no one.
There are check lists
sitting unmarked in my drawer, not for fear of wanting
but liable time, as I hate to let down others.
What of a weekend on the closest dock
or the furthest traveller's point?
Will freedom wait?
Maybe I'll write about it,
when those lonely hours pass and I can't...
768 reads
2 Comments
A friend.
Where the lines are drawn,
behind the pixellated image
and across the 'stop' sign
when you need to
get home,
I will be
quiet in your pumping organs and peaceful as a plastic bag's shadow and in the fantasy of a star at the cinema.
Open up your eyes
while I create footing
and fulfill myself.
"Glaze the photograph, tarnish it and waste it in your wallet
where it's keeping colour."
Where the seas seem too wide
and the day becomes another pill to take
we can escape,
you and I.
From the path of...
behind the pixellated image
and across the 'stop' sign
when you need to
get home,
I will be
quiet in your pumping organs and peaceful as a plastic bag's shadow and in the fantasy of a star at the cinema.
Open up your eyes
while I create footing
and fulfill myself.
"Glaze the photograph, tarnish it and waste it in your wallet
where it's keeping colour."
Where the seas seem too wide
and the day becomes another pill to take
we can escape,
you and I.
From the path of...
768 reads
7 Comments
Human
A book-bearing man is still as a wall, like the blue attached to the sky, momentarily paused.
Anxious, a white sheet covering his shivering,
silver skin, he looks ready.
His lips break and ooze like
wet cracks in recent paintings.
The carnivores are at the waterhole,
watching. Open are their pipes of cynical shit
heaving into this world.
Head to the ground. His dark, desperate eyes search the setting.
Holy hands hot on my throat and patient, wanting freedom.
The wolves take his...
Anxious, a white sheet covering his shivering,
silver skin, he looks ready.
His lips break and ooze like
wet cracks in recent paintings.
The carnivores are at the waterhole,
watching. Open are their pipes of cynical shit
heaving into this world.
Head to the ground. His dark, desperate eyes search the setting.
Holy hands hot on my throat and patient, wanting freedom.
The wolves take his...
697 reads
8 Comments
The Body
Close and closed and frequent conversation
where the fried sky bleeds peach,
words freeze like unopened buds in ice
waiting to be melted by Lucifer's dusted fingertips.
Her blue hands flutter, signing the death of fish
on the wet. Her white eyes predict the plague.
Cruel clusters of stars set out stealing Heaven's
brother, behind the smoke screen
where the Lord broke down
under gallons and gallons of petrol
to get us home
with sparklers of misused faith.
I ingest the map He hands me, with laughter.
Judas...
where the fried sky bleeds peach,
words freeze like unopened buds in ice
waiting to be melted by Lucifer's dusted fingertips.
Her blue hands flutter, signing the death of fish
on the wet. Her white eyes predict the plague.
Cruel clusters of stars set out stealing Heaven's
brother, behind the smoke screen
where the Lord broke down
under gallons and gallons of petrol
to get us home
with sparklers of misused faith.
I ingest the map He hands me, with laughter.
Judas...
736 reads
6 Comments
1809
He adjusts the grey and hits a minor key
ten times with the stub of his
left index finger,
keeping the sound distant and
facile and
dismembered like smoke from his lips.
A plaintive melody moves on the air, lapping up the walls,
in essence of
caprice and vision.
The deaf phantom ducks his head,
with aid of his silver crutch,
to the auditorium
bountiful with passion and luster and light.
He pens a label and an alias above the notes,
and watches them lose themselves in embers.
Another exhausted devil...
ten times with the stub of his
left index finger,
keeping the sound distant and
facile and
dismembered like smoke from his lips.
A plaintive melody moves on the air, lapping up the walls,
in essence of
caprice and vision.
The deaf phantom ducks his head,
with aid of his silver crutch,
to the auditorium
bountiful with passion and luster and light.
He pens a label and an alias above the notes,
and watches them lose themselves in embers.
Another exhausted devil...
804 reads
4 Comments
Big boys and guns.
"Catastrophe."
whisper kids,
with pale candles,
no longer playing
in our street
and they knew
of you
as a boy, as a man
kicking balls
filled with fury
no fear,
no fear.
and they knew
of a soldier
and a lonely, little wife
cooking for one
on a blackened stove
late into the evening.
disintegrate
in the wings,
in the sidelines
where we know nothing
of your name
or your face
covered in the British flag
your not welcome
here
anymore
when they bring...
whisper kids,
with pale candles,
no longer playing
in our street
and they knew
of you
as a boy, as a man
kicking balls
filled with fury
no fear,
no fear.
and they knew
of a soldier
and a lonely, little wife
cooking for one
on a blackened stove
late into the evening.
disintegrate
in the wings,
in the sidelines
where we know nothing
of your name
or your face
covered in the British flag
your not welcome
here
anymore
when they bring...
774 reads
2 Comments
To kill time
Shudder
when the drum beats
into the silence,
into the nothing.
Where the sickness
lingers, with disdain,
leave your excessive
stench on my clothes.
Kill time
for the thrill,
take my white kitten
with the deep blue eyes
behind a shed
and stamp
with your steel-toe caps.
Brain against cement.
The final squeal echoes in the air like pollen for the allergic.
"Now that's release, kid." The spark of a cigarette.
The killing of time.
The drum beating into the silence.
I look up
and the incineration
of...
when the drum beats
into the silence,
into the nothing.
Where the sickness
lingers, with disdain,
leave your excessive
stench on my clothes.
Kill time
for the thrill,
take my white kitten
with the deep blue eyes
behind a shed
and stamp
with your steel-toe caps.
Brain against cement.
The final squeal echoes in the air like pollen for the allergic.
"Now that's release, kid." The spark of a cigarette.
The killing of time.
The drum beating into the silence.
I look up
and the incineration
of...
928 reads
1 Comment
Extra-Curricular Relievers
Option A.
You run
until bare feet
burn
against frozen sand,
until the intense view
is hindered by
stricken tears
and the birds are lifted from bitter blue
at your screaming.
Option B.
You sit silently,
on a particularly dark piece
of driftwood, and carve
rouge lines into it,
with a sharp object.
You clutch yourself
and rock,
aiming to preserve the cheerful disposition
a little longer.
Option C.
You see a kid holding her Mother's hand ...
You run
until bare feet
burn
against frozen sand,
until the intense view
is hindered by
stricken tears
and the birds are lifted from bitter blue
at your screaming.
Option B.
You sit silently,
on a particularly dark piece
of driftwood, and carve
rouge lines into it,
with a sharp object.
You clutch yourself
and rock,
aiming to preserve the cheerful disposition
a little longer.
Option C.
You see a kid holding her Mother's hand ...
726 reads
7 Comments
For a father.
The humble house existed
beneath peeling exterior walls
and two inches of besieging ivy. My suitcase dropped.
I swallowed an ache while the walls stank out
perspiring melancholy. A sombre agony, one I
quickly remembered.
A familiar buzz played until every moth was
a burnt out star
laying beneath the canopy
that offered shelter,
between fallen beams.
Dad's war days had run
their course and we'd no purpose
for the...
beneath peeling exterior walls
and two inches of besieging ivy. My suitcase dropped.
I swallowed an ache while the walls stank out
perspiring melancholy. A sombre agony, one I
quickly remembered.
A familiar buzz played until every moth was
a burnt out star
laying beneath the canopy
that offered shelter,
between fallen beams.
Dad's war days had run
their course and we'd no purpose
for the...
750 reads
3 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)