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

The sound of an African funeral

20150627_120913

They sing for him,
Swinging from heel to frail heel,

Growing earth between the ground and,
his casket,

Bleeding love into the air
Like orchids,

Humming,

They rise again
And again their gently swaying busts,

Move the air to and fro,
To and fro,

Intending that mother be comforted,

Intending that her wet eyes,
Smile at new wives, that

though her son was gunned down, the
Rhythm of the occasion,

Brings life.

-short evocative poetry-

Problem Areas

It’s summertime, ladies.
When the living is uneasy,
For those of us with,
Problem Areas.
Those imperfect parts of us,
Endlessly discussed,
How they offend and they disgust,
And should be always hidden.
Away from view, forbidden.
Cover up your Problem Areas,
For they only want to see,
Bodies flawless and magnificent,
Smoothly plastic, prepubescent.
Wear a minimizer, for the girls.
(That’s a bra that shrinks your assets)
For nobody wants to see them,
Particularly, the men.
Who, as we know, cannot stand,
To look at women’s breasts.
So before someone arrests you,
Cover up those Problem Areas.
Contain yourself in lots of shape wear.
Suck everything in everywhere.
And never ever remind anyone,
That you’re an actual woman.

Talking to Myself

In the woods
Around China lake

When I tell myself
The things I already know
I’m talking to you.
The friends I haven’t met,
The stranger on the bus
Who’s willing to listen
I tell you in conversation form
My childhood stories, and
The travel tales from the 90s.
I tell you of the pedal mashing
Moments
Fast downhill
Car dodging
Oil spot skidding
The long ones
For no other reason
Than because.

K. Shawn Edgar | Gyoza | Bone Machine | NIGHT KICKER

Lead

Maybe we say pencils have lead

(It’s really graphite, I know)

Because of how heavy it lies on paper

Superman can’t see through that

So we shade in the corners

Hoping the impression

Of the bedside pad’s previous note

Will be more transparent

Revealing some half-asleep line

A dream you woke up from 

And tried to capture 

Before it dissolved

You let that dream

Lie lead-heavy on the page

So when you’ve had your Saturday coffee

And you look upon it quizzically

It will reveal what you forgot

To tell yourself  

Runic Rhythm

K. Shawn Edgar:

show us more, we scream more

Originally posted on Eva Von Pelt:

my mouth a scabbard

bespoke

you slide in

and fill me

in runic rhythm

 

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