akledge

Usually, I start the day 18 minutes
from home—a reverse lobotomy; awareness
driven into my brain by the glancing gaze
of train passengers. And so I hide
myself in watching as the sun wakes—
sketches warehouses and dormant concrete,
kisses gleaming liths of glass.

Usually, the riptide world slows
to a pregnant pause, and the cargo whisper
theories philosophically to one another:
now a failed subsystem, now a lot of blood on
an engineer’s conscience. At any rate,
we are subjected to twelve
more minutes of sapience in the grey
lullaby of the air conditioner.

Usually, the PA creaks and spits,
dribbling soup of lightning howls
and upside-down English. And then

I've never etched on parchment in my life.
Nor written by the glow of candle light.
A murdered-bird-pen brings me no delight.
And inkwell—I think he makes dubstep, right?

When I am bitten, I don't hunch over
an antique desk and vomit cursive thees;
I shove pretty words into my hard-drive heart,
with violent fingers bashing faded keys.

I don't dip a pen in blood and sweat, instead
I type through tears that crawl down my phone's screen.
Herd pixels, bend electrons to my touch;
a poet-god like gods have never seen.

So the next time that you feel compelled to write
a slant piece on the gloomy poet's means,
perhaps give this millennium a try,
and don't use cli

Rain-glinted bitumen lies
in the blue air
of a winter dusk,

as exhaust fumes ride petrichor,
to throw themselves
against my tongue.

Cars thump music past,
skittering puddles.
Unaware of us.

And you are
wall-splayed, as though birthed
from rattling cans
at three AM.

But you exhale,
and as your ribcage slackens,
I wonder
what you're thinking.

 

---

(Previously on /u/akledge Attempts Poetry.)

If I'm going in the wrong direction let me know!

1 [2](https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/sfy182/sevent

Rain-glinted bitumen lies
in the blue air
of a winter dusk;
diesel in my bitten nose
and petrichor
on my mind's tongue.

Cars thump music past,
skitter puddles
without seeing us;
and I watch you slowly exhale,
and I wonder
what you're thinking of.

---

1 2

But she is looking elsewhere, tending
foreign continents across the black.
And he, in alien places, tangles
with her, ripping sheets
by wind and looming gravity.

And yet, abreast the shoreline
now, he knows me, kisses
ankles,
thighs,
my lips; the salt is sweet
and the cold is heavy
and my toes flirt with sand on the downswell.

---

1 2

I'm the raven, and your shoulder
is the branch on which I dwell.
So I'll lend my glossy feathers
to the cauldrons of your spells.

I'm the toad that fills your vials
with hallucinogenic slime.
I will croak in any tune you wish,
just keep me paid in flies.

I'm the tawny owl that shuffles
in the rafters of your shack.
But don't make me carry letters
—let the pigeons handle that.

I'm the green-eyed cat, and loyal,
though my whims are quite bizarre.
In the absence of a keyboard
I'll leave prints on your grimoires.

I'm the familiar. When you're feeling low,
with Pinot potions and Netflix,
I'll snuggle close, because I know

it must be lonely as a witch.

Tides of sound rush city streets,
but rarely grace our rooftop eyrie.

Salt twinges in my throat.

Eyes are found by eyes, and teeth
by lips, but always words defy me.

Quartz clouds drench the skyline.

Something in the future grips
the moment, soaks our nerves with meaning.

I've never looked over the edge.

But every time, the moment slips—
I wake and hate myself for dreaming.

I'll see you again.

 

---

1 2

I struck lemon rind and coriander
five hours out of Adelaide,
and sharply, the kilometres seemed wasted.

 

To the clock hung in your old apartment
five floors over Sydney,
as gin and windchimes frayed the summer air.

 

I bled aniseed and hotel perfume
five flights after Melbourne;
at roads I'd always look the wrong direction.

 

To the slanted blinds we hid behind for
five nights in December,
building that sweet-ass LEGO fortress fuck it was so awesome PLEASE send me the photos.

 

---

Suggestions for alternate ending lines welcome, serious or comedic.

[1](https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/robfu7/the_stopped_heart_ill

A comforting phrase

lurking in my head.

I run into it unexpectedly,

around mental corners.

 

Ripped from

a foetal poem, a

 

metaphorical

 

green field

littered with decrepit stanzas;

rusted, broken thoughts.

 

Standing among them;

an unprotected child.

 

---

1 2

oops, the sun

has come again to

spite me

spike me

riding hateful scents

bandanas

training bras

i should have known

all

last season

monkey bars

all

over my head

caching frisson

in the bushes

on the bed

before, or after

death—what

does it matter

who i kissed?

it's all

aesthetic now

autonomously packaged

in the aisle

i find

depression

lust

and wonder

how i came to this

 

---

Sup, this is pretty much the first poem I've ever written. It's a bit all over the place, but I did want to evoke a stream-of-consciousness vibe so let's call that intentional. Feedback greatly appreciated.

[1](https://old.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/rmn58a/garden/hpnsxw