Formerly Badass Horrible Poetry

This isn't just a poetry blog. Let's be honest, a lot of what I post is poetry but there are more often than not also postings about short stories. I do try to keep this blog separate from my others and post strictly creative work here. Some of it will be better than others, and much of it is in first or second draft stage when posted. These are raw works, and there will be spelling and grammar troubles at times because I use this blog to gauge what works and what doesn't. I use it as a place to get feedback. That's the reason it is "horrible". Because it's not finished-- And why should it be? We all want feedback but most of us are too afraid to put ourselves out there.

Welcome to my word.

Sunday, November 30, 2014

that we'd become smoke


that we’d become smoke

I could burn the taper
of a flame
for every hour
we wasted
and the whole world
would be masked by
titanic waves
frozen and entrapping
millions in a turtleneck
of wax. Nobody,
he’s dead. and all the rest
entomb Nobody’s body
in the clearest crest
and when we gaze at
No One contorted across his tomb
I think of us
and your desert cracked lips
so I rub my fingers
along Nobody’s sepulcher
until the pads are moist
and slather my own thin mouth
because I cannot reach across
from where I am stuck, waist deep
in front of Nobody,
to slap it on your face.
Instead we should forget
that we were wicks
that we were still
that we were tall and slender
that we believed to burn
to be intoxicating enough
that we’d become smoke
that we’d float among constellations
and laugh when we looked up
Orion’s manly skirt.
But we melted with the wax
and are stuck
pretending to ignore the other
though each our flame shines
brightest. 

©2014 Lex Vex

Friday, November 28, 2014

what the rope on that tree saw


what the rope on that tree saw

gravity lulled the swing back
the swing of greying board
the fraying rope on the
right, discolored and cold

was no twin to the twine
of the left
hand side
she dangled
limp and gaunt
left to haunt the hanging tree

the day the broker moved
into the tree’s backyard
he laced his hands
in burlap and
tossed a line into deep fog

in surprise the line grew
taught and the rope
wound like witches fingers smelling
of ivy and gingersnaps
she beckoned and her wolfhound sang

so he took the line
and he took the swing
and snipped the seat
in the wind the rope’s hair
unfurled and when broker’s happy feet
blended over each
other he tripped up vertical

his toes dangling and
the careless twine
cleaved against her weight
to hold another lover
aloft with molted wings

when it was done
and another broker
moved into the backyard
the splayed fingers of rope
were forced to prayer
and she bore another child. 

©2014 Lex Vex

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Schrodinger's Voicemail

Schrodinger's Voice-mail

the girl next door tap tap
taps on her screen
judgement pours through me
when my own
buzzes on my thigh

my blood turns
the light of stars through each vein and artery
diffuses the nector
of the spider leaving me
cold

how am i supposed to know
if the static electric
of my phone
is joy buzzer
or taser?

it's like you know
when you phone
and their voice
cascades through your palms
which really are sieves tactile and misplaced

It's only when the voicemail litters your mailbox,
and you wait, poisoned by
the serpent of caller I
D that i realize
i wait with Schrodinger's voicemail


at the bottom of the stairs
when bell's voice has died
an art department atrocity
stares vacantly in sloppy voyeurism
as my finger fails to linger on the delete key

If I never press the play
button
I will feel
your veins are still
the flavor of fresh gasoline

©2014 Lex Vex

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