A poetry junkie's journal (h_dorn_poetry) wrote in poetryworkshop,
A poetry junkie's journal

This one was an experiment

... After this, I'll try to stay away from free-verse and venture into other kinds of poetry, just for the sake of being able to say that I've ventured.


The stone carver spat at her feet after he poured
wine in her keyhole,
spilled oil on her paralyzed door,
a door that would not melt,
a door whose flames licked his lit
match crumpled through the crack.

She could not see him through
cement-filled eyes,
she could not speak through
a cement-filled mouth,
she reconstructs white lies, what lies
red wine. He said he would sell
his mother for sweet wine.

He loved her bricks and mortar next to his
tortoiseshell suburbs.
She flattened tortoiseshells with elephant feet.
She drove him underground, under
water, under sound. He smuggled
bootleg discs and headphones through a ring of fire,
underwater, under sound.
When blood howled through his salt tracts,
and crickets burned bridges, he loved her
underwater, under sound.
He loved when she stitched wounds with train tracks,
when her fingers formed webs crystallized
words she learned him, unlearned him in shared silences,
dial tones, keystrokes tapped swarms of gnats, he found love in
wireless underwater, under sound, in a sand trench

She, his surrogate mother taught him speech,
she shaped his lips, she stretched the muscles
in his jowl, cracked the bones in his jaw and
his tongue belonged to her.

The stone carver spat at her feet as he lay dying,
she force-fed him peace,
she heard the crickets singing,
and Napoleon stared at her.

I struggle with line-breaks and I have mixed feelings over repetition.
I won't be able to reply for about a week though because I'm in Taiwan right now, killing time with my boyfriend's laptop until my jet-lag subsides, so I apologize ahead of time for my lack of response to any (if any) comments/queries.
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