Cli·ché

chris_remi_3_kevin_truong_the_Gay_men_project

We garden together, He and I,
Uprooting rocks, chiseling Fuchsia,

We,
Argue a lot, and;

Frames, in morning, golden light or,
Flaming red sunset,

Help cool raging fires.

Birds join when we are not too loud,
Sipping cool water from clay pots,

Serenading nectar onto rhamphothecae;

We squash bugs, and
Bitterness.

pictureKevin Truong @TheGayMenProject

-evocative short poetry-

Pillow talk

short poetry words move ozan kose turkish wrestlers

Quantum physics dictates that
Looked at directly matter will disappear.

Big physics says that electrons can be bound,
Entangled, still

Unified theory does not allow multiple existences.

These are matters of the heart;
Sometimes looking at love directly can destroy it,

And we don’t want lovers disappearing,
To burnt, brawny, Ulan Bator without us, we

Want them flourishing and,
No matter how ribald, how

Cherished they are, at times a
Gaze averted can fertilize love,

Can parry an argument,
Can better the road ahead.

Dew off fingertips,
Off eyelashes,

Sweat,

May glisten brightest,
When appreciated askance.

Not everyone is free.

Picture – OZAN KOSECGettyImages

-short evocative poetry-

Vanquished

Large-scale_structure_of_light_distribution_in_the_universe

 

Aliens have been vanquished before.

Dolphins,
Whales,
Elephants,

Orchids all,

Intelligent,
Cannot look after Earth,

May have seen the end coming, not
Had the means to pollinate,

Thought life,
Conscious, must

Be responsible,
For life, have

Missed the archer,
Choosing the trajectory,

Been the arrow,
Aliens,

Forgetting that food
Chains,

Are best when,
Dolphins,

Whales,
Elephants,

Orchids all,
Are cared for, reefs

Unable to do so,
Visible from space like,

Large Scale structures of the Universe and,

Remembering just in time to,
Be the ones that save.

The asteroid went unnoticed.

-short evocative poetry-

Picture – Large Scale structure of the Universe; Andrew Pontzen and Fabio Governato

Rail Rabbits

See the rail rabbits running,
Running down the tracks.
You better run,
Little rail bun,
Before the train attacks.
See the rail rabbits running,
Among the ties and stacks.
Do you live down there,
Little rail hare,
Within the platform cracks?
We weren’t always rail rabbits,
Trains always on our backs.
We lived and ran here,
Before appeared,
The station and the tracks.
We lived and ate,
And bred and died,
Right where the station is.
And we’re still here
And will be, still,
After the station disappears.

on the road to vegas

Brothel

rented jeep cherokee
adds up the miles
from reno to vegas
nevada scenery
that never changes
desert and mountains
little dusty towns
gas stations and
greasy spoon diners
souvenir shops
with their gemstones
and beef jerky
and 100% authentic
native american jewelry
and there it is
a sign that screams
the word BROTHEL
tall white caps
with a red background
impossible to miss
framed by silent
blank billboards
little more than
desert landscape now
off the highway
one can just about
spot a building
painted a pink
color not often
seen in the desert
perhaps that’s it
somewhere between
reno and vegas
hours from civilization
lies a getting laid place
a place to come
to pay to come
on the road to vegas

Dead Lot Revisited


Stale, dark rainwater
pooling.
Gray cars punctuate
smooth black asphalt.
Nighttime atmospheric.
Unknown, empty spaces.
Engine, off. Deep breath.
Eyes blinking up
starbursts from greenish
hazy lamplight.
All movement wavers
finally stalling, as lids close.

Silence.

K. Shawn Edgar | Florid Star | Cat Panda | Monkey Wrench

Insurrection

image

I have always liked,
Defiant Africans,

Nelson, Patrice, Kenyatta,
Martin Luther King,

Groovy black men,
Niggers with attitude,

But they intimidate me,
Black men.

Freedom fighters,
Bar room brawlers,

And I rise from sleep,
Sheened in sweat,

Running away,
Scribbling my number,
On scraps of paper,

On foreheads and trousers,
On outstretched palms,

And I’m breathing heavily,
Feeling stained,

Because,
That one there,

The white man in Navy uniform,
With hair on his balls,

I know him,

-conquistador-

He smells of garlic and grease,
And my black friends call me,
Nigger, whore, bitch.

Will he take the lion tooth offered,
Can he make the tribal dance?

-I can teach him to love the earth,
Teach him to plant his feet in, deep-

I masturbate from sleep, supported
By thick, colonial, muscle.

I am forging steel,
Industrial iron,

I am engineering a white lover
Beneath the sheets, whilst

Apologising to freedom fighters,
Who call me nigger, whore, bitch.

 

♦photo – personal

evocative short poetry – words move