Concrete umbilical cord I wouldn’t have wanted to come out either.


You were born to the son of a retired axe murderer and that’s no one’s fault
but the local news channels for making it look so glorious afterall.

Ironic that everyone always said he looked so sharp when he wore the plaid flannels of Paul Bunyan.


Here you are.

You’ve joined a nation of pink and brown sweating demolition
Our shadows are the puddles of the army of saints
The organic soil of the soul is the same frailty of the shaking white birdcage
Speak of fertility,

How did the blood make you blind you poor child
Did you get it in your sandbag eyes
Send your flayed luggage away without its bony leash,
It’s time you stay home with the kids.
I thought you were just born, or rebirthed. Reincarnation instant breakfast.

The gardener’s first meal of the day is sore bones and bad back.
Plant another lamppost above your midnight down comforter.
It’s whose turn to make the books feel safe and read them bedtime stories?
What will happen when the dreams have nothing to think of when they go to sleep?

Put your crackled porcelain babies back in the muddy river
The sun is well on its way, stuck in the stop and go traffic of the stars
Five minutes late.
SPF 75 while they’re still too young to sink the battleship.

01/23/2010

Author's Note: once upon a time there was a man who became exhausted of writing love poems

Posted on 01/23/2010
Copyright © 2024 Steven Kenworthy