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Crumbling Dictionaries and the Beds You Leave Behind
by V. Blakelook at you now:
sliding off this mattress so goddamn deftly
you might be able to convince another stranger
that even a single one of the rooms
your tattooed feet have tread in the last 20 years
had a floor that was made of lava. but i don't doubt
you've managed more silent exits than i will count
through toppled furniture labyrinths
in the morning dark of these motels.
and sweetheart, i know my way home
less well than your lies know their way around the smokes
that you take down to the filter, and then some,
but i guess i just wanted you to know
that it wouldn't take more than a match
and three syllables at a time
to nail you to a page and set you on fire.
these dumps charge by the hour.
how fucking perfect. 07/28/2010 Posted on 07/28/2010
Copyright © 2024 V. Blake
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 07/28/10 at 01:14 PM Very nice write Vince. Well said but, I sense a tad bit of bitterness here. It is almost as if you didn't want this one to slide away. Nevertheless it is well done! And we all have our sins. |
| Posted by Morgan D Hafele on 07/28/10 at 03:00 PM and let it burn... let it burn. quite a vivid picture. |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 07/30/10 at 12:57 PM One of those pieces that's going to stick around long after I've read it. Unbelievable write, sir. |
| Posted by Glenn Currier on 07/31/10 at 04:22 AM Those three lines with the match, 3 syllables and the fire are stark and sting like a well-wielded stiletto. Searing and vivid, I felt sorry for the stumbler knowing what she missed in her swift flight. Good write, Vince. |
| Posted by Linda Fuller on 07/31/10 at 09:15 PM nicely noir... |
| Posted by Therese Elaine on 10/10/10 at 07:27 AM In an hour you can live a whole different life, the kind your mother warned you about, and you'll quickly learn to slip through fingers, drift through keyholes, insert yourself into the whiskey-kissed nightmares of the ghosts of lovers and leavers past, but by the time that hour is up, I'm gone and you're still their, tousled hair, bitter taste in your mouth and not enough for cab fare if you even knew where you were going... |
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