Sappy Love Poem

12 Sep

I see you as above

A spectrum beyond

The blueness of heaven

I bate my breath

Waiting for you

To close my hand

In the mirror of your own

Is this what it is to love

Without question?

Slides

9 Sep

Slides


 

Hey,

safranine-blooded sea creatures

swimming so far away, microscopic.

Do you see the stain as a shallow grave

or think of it as your giant, endless ocean?

Flash to a time when shadows didn’t need

light to exist.

Casters rolled them out like a Yo-Yo,

spreading darkness around on puppet

strings.

Pretend like it’s the weekend before

you were scooped, prepped, and dyed;

Swimming in a cool cluster, naïve.

What kind of images were you casting

deep in the refracted light?

Could they have shown a dual future

sliding along below you—parallel,

self taught, self-aware, and emotive—

controlled by forces they might not

understand…?

Maybe they played a larger scene?

The one that motivates the Casted

to become the Casters.

Eyedropper releases a teardrop-shaped

capsule of familia, still swimming.

And you sigh.


K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Lounger | Freelance Human

 

 

The Sleep Assassin

3 Sep

Teenage ninja cat,
Moves through the darkness,
As swift as the autumn wind.
She pounces without warning.
Assassinating your sleep,
With extreme prejudice.

Ninja Cat

31 Aug

She’s at that teenage ninja cat phase.
No longer a kitten, but not yet fully grown.
All legs and feet and tail and stomach.
Her body needing constant refueling,
To fill in her slender frame,
And as energy for fantastic feline feats.
Across the room, she bounds and leaps.
A blurry jingle-belled bookshelf bandit.
Midnight with two greenish yellow moons.
On top of you before you can blink.

Wading

23 Aug

Their monochromatic faces hovered at the store again,

flying like black dragons at a seaside kite festival,

making me wonder why no one ever laughs at them.

Stoic humor is dead, I guess; lost in the bright-siding.

Oolong tea, better served hot, first withers in the sun.

It’s left to oxidize, tortured for taste, and later it’s twisted.

That’s how it is in our stockroom, but we laugh at our ills.

On the floor, we glad-hand our customers without guilt.

Even Mr. Thomson and the Peck family are welcomed.

Then, by lunch time, we’re back laughing straight faced.

We employ the art of Wade clowns and Chekhov plays

to get us through long, dark, boorish days. Fishermen!

We’re trolling the backwashes, waist deep: Set the hooks.


K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Telepath | Fixed Gear 45×17

Index

17 Aug

side

I knew the day would come

When you’d undress me

And find that there was nothing

But a blank canvas beneath

Like a moon indexing shadows

Hoping that her contradictions

Were all well and accounted for

Tomato Tulips

13 Aug

 

I like to picture you in a torn-up kimono

Dehydrated flowers in your new blue hair

The toothpick belt we made on Gluten-Free day

is cinched high around your 19th-century waist

 

You linger now near the rifle rack, spinning tops

on our GE Wildcat, solid state stereo

 

Stub your toe on a Paris curb, blood kisses fly

Punch your face while sleeping, blood kisses fly

Water the garden no underpants, blood kisses fly

 

Tulips have grown together with your tomatoes

since the deviant craft fair of September 2008

They came from the fertilizer shotgun syringe

my entry into the Projectile Weapons category

after Slay Gorgon’s impregnation attempt of Sally

went south, covering your tomatoes with seed shot

 

I often picture the petals curling under their weight

The fairies danced bare-knuckled, high on torchlight

You brought them forth as a chuckle for the kids

You spun tops, made from Mryia Jackalope’s heart

 

The fairies, born to follow, stamped and collided

Enthralled by your heady music and promises of a feast

their jolly leaps, grand l’aire to a jete´, turned violent

toes were stubbed, faces punched, blood kisses flew

 

We hoed their lithe bodies into the newly turned soil

standing adjacent to the long rows of tomato tulips

You threw pigeon wings to Walter the White rabbit

Slay and Sally bowed and excused themselves, dedans

 


K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Humorist | Fixed Gear 45×17


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