A Disappearance

A grimacing clay water bottle exhilarates me.
Dour black freezing in the skin of my forgotten lover,
I am deaf to her lame silence.

Stuck in her mouth are vowels and consonants,
They stay there, like punches pulled.
It is end of days in her world: unscrupulous

Ideas stay dirty and hide away.
I do not give a f**k about these assertions.
I am naked, I stand upright.

This is not love, this pale Formica
Flattened to the counter that sits so astonishingly.
It rests large cups and bowls.

It shall uncover singularity.
Her spirit closes and opens -
A German car. Reich-like in the sinews.

This stone, what disorder -
No planets are dying like joyous letters, might.
One, two, three. Her dumb retinas stay shut.
 
 

Reviews

[Mark]

'Stuck in her mouth are vowels and consonants,
They stay there, like punches pulled."

Love those lines. I also love the universes you create in your poetry. Magical fun houses; scary but fun.

[Baby Ricochet]

I've had a few lame, silent lovers I'd like to forget. Some interesting metaphors here with good flow. Reads angry and frustrated. Like " f**k that b***h " good poem all around

[John Alexander McFadyen]

This is an expression of frustration; it is dark and says the protagonist is brutally hurt. They are wanting to give but getting little in return from someone anally retentive.

[Mickey Hilts]

more excellence from another under-viewed poet. I don't write that much, I like to read, and you and a few others are so good, it's a crime you don't get read. I'm published under another name, (nothin on here) and you a few others know this, there's so much s**t on here from people who are so popular, it's a disgrace really, poetry is dead, except for you and a few others (on this site anyway). This is full of odd images and painful observances, great 2nd stanza as well, great great poem.

[Pryde Foltz]

tuck in her mouth are vowels and consonants,
They stay there, like punches pulled.
It is end of days in her world: unscrupulous

Loved this stanza. Nothing hurts like not getting the truth.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

love the imagery in the second stanza especially...

this reminds me more of Plath...

especially "this stone, what disorder/ No planets are dying like joyous letters, might/ one, two three. Her dumb retinas stay shut"---

a potpourri of interesting images in this...

she opens and closes...a lover who comes and goes, and the only way i can survive her is enjoy her while she is here..and not care when she goes...i must be stone.