weaponsofmassdelight

Mutual Assured Delight

Archive for the tag “Rose”

Polite Poetry 9

Superheroes

A mistake was

made it is

cracked. I said it was

broken

and I told Rose

it was our fault for buy-

ing it that way. But she

said that it was fine and that

it was simply just a

scratch

but I was listening

to the sounds of

false lions. In the

plains

of red and green

they roared and

I returned it and I

was wrong. I guess it was

perfect-

ly fine the way it was.

Oh well I guess

that’s life

in the wild

plains

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Still Roses

Oh wow. It has been a while. Those first weeks of college can be hectic.

Summer is the month of regret.

As I sat on the oven top stoop, with tear stains or sweat stains (To be honest I can tell the diffrence between the two anymore), I pricked my finger on a Rose stem. This Rose had seen better days in months of yester, for the few petals groping on the stem had decay to brown due to lack of water and nutrition.  The everwatching big brother of light had no mercy on the majestic flower.

I swatted away at  battalions of flies that seemed to stalk me like a pack of carrion birds. The insect vultures neither bit nor landed but waited with carnivorous expectations. The cacophonous buzz of nails on a chalkboard.

But the Rose, Oh the Rose!  This treasure, long lost to the nature that binds and separates us all, did not die alone though it did die in vain. As the barbed beauty rolled betwixt my frail fingers a hemophilliatic event occurred. A most grotesque humor can be found in the bleeding out of veins. We expect the dams  to break and Niagara falls to occur. Poseidon’s wrath is supposed to occur underneath that thin layer of skin.  All of the gods and the angels and the devils within these unholy celestial spheres are supposed to wage war for forty days and forty nights underneath the garb storms and over the tarp of earthquakes leaving no survivors nor space left to breath in the toxic air that they created.

But that does not happen. The blood slowly drips upon stoop, like a leaky faucet. And through no fault of the Rose (for I indeed am the one picked it its beauty and not the glistening pricks) the petals and and blood continues to helplessly fall until they mix together and become one.

And so I lay on the stoop in this horrid season of regret, with the eye of god blinding me. The blood, our blood, still falling  over itself with no hope of return to the way it once was.

And the the blood still falls to the stoop.

And the vultures still descend to feast.

And I still  sit

and

exist.

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