Jagged little pills and other intoxications
he seeks adrenaline in alleys and streetverse.
the yearning is provoked by a scorching hell
from a blinding urge
it overcomes him, becomes him.
tonight the sheets are too loud with light;
he cowers in the corner,
extremities, limbs, viscera, all throbbing,
burning in confusion,
from a drug flowing like cheap talk
through his veins.
but if he should call on me, ever need me-
i will come to him----------------------
drink the poison from his lip
and in that final moment, pray he regains footing
in calmer waters.
Fingered By a Wind That Tastes of Goodbyes and Far-Off:
and when i walked out into the parking lot,
it hit me; i am alone in this city
of the departed.
i try to seize the day, sick on my own,
but with little effort since i cannot seem
to break from these chains. and i thought
i heard you say
'i am here', no.
i am here, you are there.
patience is fading, my love burning, lips wet
with morning tears and morphine,
but even though
i know you are not
i still count the second hand
like shed skins.
- i need you.
and i bury my clothes in fields far from here,
my screams going unheard. cold and damp;
i lie in the stillness,
my feet six months into the dirt--
the burden of given name
and vicinity in my hands.
English Summer Rain:
some women master mirrors
in gas stations and motel rooms,
learn to get by
when july deepens fastbreath
or uncertain hands.
they count tips in denny's,
lying themselves into poetry,
blending into the pavement
in pigeon shit gray,
elegy clinging to pores
or an old drug.
the ashtray girls, their bodies
tree stumps in mud, fashioned
in the light of sour milk
they buy french sleepers to weep in,
whisper abandonment, carry
love, light like a wafer
on the tongue.
they pick up pennies, study them
for signs of age, see months become
smoke in still rooms along
the back streets of eden.
ladies, hardened to glass,
they lose children in supermarkets,
but if sang to
they splinter like glass.
they will sink into the cold,
minutes becoming urgent and everything
will be counted, like meter money,
like days that pass
with rain and nothingness.
Cherilyn Ferroggiaro is an Italian brat from Sonoma, California. She is currenly in
school to become a Physician's Assistant and has appeared in a variety of poetry
journals, both online and in print. She is the photography editor of The Surface -
Online Arts Magazine and Gallery, and spends her time enjoying photography and
Her most recent publications include: Reflections, Thunder Sandwich, Spent Meat,
Underground Voices, The Melic Review, Surface Online, All Things Girl, Erosha, Poems
Niendergasse, Locust, Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry, and Babel Magazine.
Her current projects are becoming a partner in publishing with Meeting of the Minds
Journal and Blue Steel Publications, a one time owner of Spitjawreview, she was an
editor with Tony Spivey for The Regal Quill Quarterly, and she is currently working
on her book "Scenes From the Station and Other Poems".
Photography Editor: The Surface Online Arts Magazine and Gallery
Visit me: http://pathetic.org
© 2004 Underground Voices