my friend died
and in the burning heartbreak
and in the acid tears
the memories of how we laughed together in the olive groves
returned
and there was joy in sadness
death
sprinkle my ashes
sprinkle my ashes
where weeds in icy streamings flow
there is so much more to feel
Violets are blue
Roses are red
So is my blood
Violets are blue
So are my lips
Dead People’s Stuff For Sale
I was happy when the furniture went, and the dusty, cracked ornaments. But I broke down when that guy bought mother’s false leg and teeth.
(Prompt from @CreativeReview)
I held the old man’s hand
I held the old man’s hand. I had never asked his stories and now, as his last breath left, the library inside him burned.
Zeta is leaving
Zeta is leaving
He calls once then… then… again
Life’s early winter
Your nails dig deep
Your nails dig deep into my hands
We are scared, but trusting, shiver
All is for the best and all will be well
Sirens call the people
The lights of the aurora fade in the sun
and then a sudden darkness
The stone is pushed with silent force
Dirt, torn fingers, scarring
The light again, the screams, the silence
Nobody breathes. No-one says the word.
Bus stop, Sunday morning
The bus shelter must have been hosed down afterwards. Frosted ferns spread across the clouded walls. Thinned-rust ice dribbles meaninglessly down to the gutter. People frown at the sooted lamppost then see the torn blue tape. A robin cocks its head, challenging our gaze.
Together, holding hands
Together, holding hands,
They went to sleep
And, in the morning,
Did not wake.
The printout on the publisher’s desk
The printout on the publisher’s desk was his autobiography. One day, she thought, it could be famous and she could be rich. But only if the writer somehow, mysteriously, died. She looked at the nervous, eager man.
Yes. Yes, I think we can, she said.
simonsalento 