A Million of 'Em
To balance the fragments of her many
disconcordant lives,
she must paste together their shared connection points
Creating for herself a kind of
Frankenstein Existence.
She is the deadringer of a gumpopping
hairy hardwarestore highschool dropout.
She is an August rising in
resplendent instigation.
Archfiend. She has.
Secret lives.
And she'll eat away at your goodness
like viral pie.
She is sweet. She is wellmeaning.
But she's on constant patrol
to arrest the angry urges in her
villainous soul.
She must catalog what others know about her
so as to dodge her damnable inconsistencies.
She looks up and to the left,
then drills a hole into your chest
to fall asleep there
with a bottle of milk.
Defusion
He has chemical breath she tries to tell him
Creosote like poison syrup leaks
into the dying ocean
From the corner of his mouth
He tries to speak
But his words are only puffs of smoke
Inaudible
And he forgets
She tries to tell him and he
Listens, needs the sound like water
But every speck of dust is a microphone
scorching
his soul.
Defuser of his delusion, she
Tries frantically to tear away the smooth
Pink tissue long enough to tell him
He is dead.
Pin-up
Nothing on his walls
Eggshell white
Like a hospital, he said, I know.
Two years and no time
To decorate?
Blank, blank walls
Arctic wasteland
Not even a calendar
Not even a strip of
Photo booth pictures
Not even some trashy
Pin-up
Girl with eyes as barren
As the walls on which
She doesn’t hang.
I’m not creative, he said
Easily Said
Robbery did not
Throw me
Because it was inevitable
Still I placid offered arms
To those thrown
Weeping for the ruinous remains
Squalid bard and seedling
Robbery could never
Throw me
Under the freckled rise of the sun
Perversely recurring:
It is the night sky that throws me
It is the morning moon that throws me
They mourn possessed,
The promises of things to hold
Shrivel
It is the displaced scent of apples
that throws me
The Innards of Father Tupelo
Dopic heart, a salty character
Portrayed in shits and giggles
Scarred hands
A person cloys of all prettiness
Wishing for
Freakish disfigurement
To balance lofty claims
I only look good if my face is hidden
But you are always beautiful.
All Poetry © Copyright Annabelle Buck. All rights reserved.
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