Rough punk bluff stuff.

*( Just a few things I've jotted down, not at all good or polished. Please, give some feedback! It's how you feed me.
:-]
)*

Write the verse that hurts
Stings in your hands and gives a dull ache to your stomach like prolonged hunger.
It’s going to kill me, un-dramatically.


***
Life with backstairs is so much better
To taste sweet flower petals and sour coins
You strip raw the copper wire and the current will kill you or it won’t.


***
When summer nights bursts into sheets
Of furious whipping wind and wet,
They say it’s
Clouds at a funeral,
Grey and black and darker than black painted,
It's the finery of weeping neighborhoods

When you don’t know the time,
Evening is early morning is dead night,
The powers that be are and is out. And we,
Sit in
under thunderstorms
in this house
Dark and quiet,
Words whispered with care,
Why do my words become so meek?
(What do we fear?)
Why do the walls curve to cushion them?

The outside bellows,
Holy shit, the very heavens blast,
The loudest darkest thing that you will ever hear
And every ridge of dark in the sky has a face,
An anguished ancient face
That is yelling that sound
Because they are at a funeral.
A
HARD hollow RAW wail summmer TORRENTS CLASH mob-
THIS IS THE FURIED SKY! exclaims all the heavens,
Its too loud to HEAR.

But, beneath all the din,
There are candles
There are dim flickering last resorts,
They whisper shy words
The same words I was so apt to say once:
- ‘I do have longing, stay
Here with me
Simply, forget
All the world outside
All other times you mind
Please’ – whispered,
These words are whispered
so… quiet…
Because that is all I can muster
My bravery shrunk in mourning
Because clouds are at a funeral


***
Don’t touch me, I’ll break
Crushed under your fingertips
Shattered by your lovely lips
Just with whispering, oh

Shouldering the pain
Has made these blades brittle
You won. Did you have fun?
My backbone feels little.

Pressed by the whole mid west
On my chest it seems,
I go under the bus, without fuss
It’s not suicide if I tell somebody to push me, right?

I didn’t know you were a prize fighter
Until my teeth bled for the lesson
And you swung like a fucking champ
With nonviolent let downs.
After concussion I admit
I was kind of, sort of in love you.
That’s not a typo.


***
It’s the syllables slipping out from under the tongue
slitting my throat like the whispers of a monk
His words echo onto stone walls into long halls with high ceilings,
People’ve accused me of emotional stealing,
But I never even knew what you’d do
When I said I had misgivings
And that sneer was so near
To hard laughter that it coulda covered ‘modern living’.