17 April 2021 Saturday Poetry Prompt: what about the pace?

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

Sometimes the life is so strange (how have I come this far without being institutionalized? have I come far at all, for that matter…), nothing fits nothingfuckingfits

and every alteration exhausts in the extreme, nothing slips not even the agitation, fingered cold bottle-with-strike-to-the-head, close acquaintance with beer spilled ash spilled patio stones

and all it takes to breathe is to get up and face another round of poison, a taking nothing at face value because you lost your face, somewhere along the half-healed joke you forgot about it…

J.D. Harms 2021

Prompt:

Every writer knows about, or is familiar with…


A Poem

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Treated to an ordered insanity, I think gods are still kicking around somewhere, while dogs are hogging all the flies and dandelions wilt as quickly as they burst, the starlight so muddied, now, the bricks of streetlight irradiance and the irruption in the heart reveals another constellation of shame, begging in the closet or whatever that room is supposed to be, now hollowed of everything but its clinical gaze, the magnificent grotesque of the face that cannot see itself, will not see itself, ironed out in panic in panic, the tricks of fate come loose a bit, will meet you…


A Poem

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Like a missing hole in the wall, something slips through your vision, your view of the graveyard at dusk, gravel from the last road still coughing up into your window, the lines directing everyone haven’t meant anything for a while now, your belief in solipsism coating every nice word you once thought to say, but now the lines are pure disarray, like you were supposed to remember something that is just on the tip of your prefrontal cortex, but like a tattoo has given up its claim to permanence, witnessing the birds come back seems like a great event, swallowed…


14 April 2021 Wednesday Prose Poem: getting off work

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Grated, churned, unrecognizable, you faint into your car, your care for the world now shaped like a deflated balloon, squished waist for taking between two fingers the idiocies that spurned your head today.

Wander alone into that room, the one with a bed, crying to have to strip, to tell the darkness you’re ready for it, occasioning no comment from the gallery above you, no other storage needed for this plain desire…

to just cut off the eyes from the churning, agitated water, motion distinct now with the falling door, and the summer’s hatred for the night rolls indecent and…


A Poem

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Taking the road up to float down shit’s creek…I heard they keep the broken paddles there, too, reminders, they said

before sliding the banks down further, like pulling down pants, the groan of the roots

exposure, toxic night and don’t see the current on the Red as well, how many rivers with that

name, or the reverse, you told the trees something right before we left, told you not to tell

them my sarcasm has become a disease, a thrusting boil heat temp scarring temerity

through the resistant throat anyway, there like pricked by thistles, those soft knives the dandelions

J.D. Harms

Former hairstylist, perpetual philosophy student, swallowed by poetry, writing, ideas

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