UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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DEREK RICHARDS i should be outside discontentment chews thick and slow of bite. prefers the seasoning of lazy afternoon. you're too thin she whispers red and bruised beneath the eyes i explain i hate sleeping without the benefit of a coma. she grunts shallow against the windows. children are playing outside in the park and a small voice says i should be outside playing too but i miss things, like destinations, saltwater, like you. so i write as an old piano, snarling and out of tune. not in tune with the way things work when nothing works. hurry up she consoles you're wasting too much damn time clocks frustrate me women frustrate me sobriety frustrates me i've tied a perfect noose around my thoughts. she warns of poisoned promises and thick dead summer. i can only wish to be outside playing in the park. i wish i could. but i would only feel lonely, now, and out of breath. about a kitchen and not much else stale bread mimics the verses in my gut wood-green with black crust on the edge of crumble waiting for an infection rodents nibble and shit on the counter barely missing the coffee-spoon on this night my song discards refrain rambles like murderous jazz chord-stained-wrong are my fingers thick and indecisive tap-water adequate with a hint of rust you sleep within your familiar hiss i know your thighs will feel like hard miles your breath will talk of regret the hunger of ailing questions all this desperation fits inside the solo the cracks between bread slices the iris of the evening rats apologizing now would be like carving moonight a waste of knife and calories and so another songwriter dies in the kitchen another lover abandoned by burden their will a flush of pills a flutter of soul an obituary of verse chorus verse chorus black handshakes feasting on crumbs last words, careless noise and the sting of bleach worry the bones, simon buckley dear mother cancels the cable when rain is forecast five straight days bakes the family parakeet with garlic and onions anticipating your brothers funeral any day now there is a sad disco song pretending to be a trampoline in your fragile skull it drips from your sisters room like razors from balconies three weeks ago you caught a glimpse pink pajamas and potato chips the dog runs from you two years of stealing his bones poisoning his water with murky depression growls when you flush the toilet hisses when you masturbate the whole house seems to hiss these days the white roses in the refrigerator bloom beside rancid cider anticipation for your brothers funeral your guidance counselor left a voice mail applauding your decision to skip college and join the local union i think it's a good move, simon, i believe it is a good time for you to stop thinking your mother leaves notes the dog will die she writes here are the details and if you ever see your sister tell her she's next your doctor has prescribed you a different pill blunt yellow and beetle shaped they shake your teeth and stretch your eyes now you're not so anxious when you ejaculate and milk tastes better so worry the bones, simon buckley, your best black suit is waiting anticipation for your brothers funeral any day now After performing for years, as both a musician and poet, in and around the Boston area, Derek Richards has recently decided to begin submitting his work for publication. So far he has been accepted for publication in Ghoti Magazine, Lung, MediaVirus, Alpha Beat Soup, Word Riot, Right Hand Pointing, Tinfoildresses and The Legendary. His poetry aims to be direct and honest, brilliant and lucrative.. He is currently residing in Gloucester, Mass., happily engaged and cleaning windows for a living. |
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