you packed a suitcase
slipped a flower in your hair
and turned to say ‘good bye’
without so much as a tear in your eye.
but I must’ve been
the most heartbroken man
you had ever seen.
I guess it was in that moment
when you, too, realized
that you didn’t have to be
so goddamn mean.
Well, it has been roughly 2 years or so since I had any of my work [poems] published on another Online Journal. . .So I humbly thank Jacob @ Eyes+Words for accepting one of my poems.
And for the little Followers I have, I hope you enjoy “Lightening”!
Thank You, Jacob!
I watched the sun
as it rose from darkness
and slowly crept upon your sleeping face
like a stalking lover
inhibiting you in places
only a woman could phantom [on a man];
I cringed with envy
as I watched that same stalking lover
take flight over your chiseled body
while the vast rays of its translucence
pierced your flesh and ravaged your orifices ~
the same orifices my body
sweated upon
licked upon
kissed upon
came upon;
how I ached to strangle that stalking lover
with every strength of my hands
with every beat of my heart;
I took a step forward
with the intention
of abruptly pulling down the blinds
but the sun suddenly caught
the naked of my glory
into it’s stalking wrath;
I bit back my anger then froze
when my lover awoke
his eyes falling upon me
with a grin that echoed for miles:
‘goddamn, you’re beautiful,’
he flushed
I blushed
‘beautiful. . .like a poem.’
he took me to the point
of no return,
tore open my skirt,
ripped the panties
from my bodice
& dragged me
into the river deep
asking through a sensual man’s whir ~
‘how deep is your poetry?’
as spools of sodden moist
violated every center of my sanity
gripping the depth of my insanity,
utopia & euphoria
settled
in the holiest temple of my doom;
& there
did I occur to me
that poetry is in the eye
of the beholder
particularly
when I saw my legs
dangling over his bare shoulders;
but it was
in the harden thrusts
of his verses,
the orgasmic taunt
in his stanzas
had I realized the depth
of my own poetry
didn’t matter ~
orally
anally
vaginally
for I was Poetry
in itself
fields
of whisky
black
under
a sunless day
under
a cloudy sky…
heart is a
cardboard box;
forgotten rhythm(s)
& impotent stroke(s)
numb these thoughts
of thoughtlessness;
versus are shiftless
stanzas wander
prose(s) indisposed ~
drunk is the poet
with a leadless pen in hand
& a tattered notebook
with pages of dirty white
crinkle[ing]
against the wind…
scream;
in quoted brackets
I am read:
[Please Insert Poem Here]
Devlin De La Chapa 