A Puddle of Dud

Obviously fictional stories. Occasional bad poetry. A workshed for a word lover who's written too many marketing pieces.

Tag: Poetry

A New Constellation

The stars came down
when the sky closed up.
Clouds plucked earthward
rolled and pushed and stretched
pleated and kneaded
thrown then fetched from sunsets
with long lonely fingers
that lap at the lips of the city
spreading cloudy children,
covering houses and homes and homeless
swallowing suburbs and streetlights
creeping, peeking over twin peaks
leaping over towering altars of television
then rolling and tumbling and bowling down the hill
reaching over itself and turning itself
inside out and inside out again
faster and flowing
two rolling armies
to siege the city
and sack the suburbs.

Now see the fog-faded lamps steal into opacity.
Homely windows lightly limned
spill rumors of other people lives in other people’s castles.
Thousands of lights telling thousands of stories
in blankets of scattered stars;
a city-street solar system.

The stars came down
when the sky closed up
and made a new constellation
that we call home.

Dead Cities

Shine on me softly
Lights in the city streets
Talk to me slowly
Tell me your stories
Your women
And vampires
Your whiskey
And glories
The living
The fallen
The cries in the morning.

She said, I’m still here
I just don’t remember who came
I see silence and ashtrays and winters all dressed the same

Living so loudly
Infected with feelings
Teach me their callings
The words they were screaming
Their gambits
And gang-signs
The visions
And dreaming
They’re marching
And leading
They’re sleepless
And reaching

She said, I’m still here
I just don’t remember their faces
I see silence and ashtrays and winters all frozen in place.

Turn on me slowly
Take the controls
Carry me home
Wrap me in plastic
The lies
The concealing
The gloating
The peeling
The paint
And and the feeling
The skies in my ceiling

And she said, I’m still here
I don’t know who I am
I know silence and beauty and the dead cities we became.