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A Poem

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Image for post
Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Trying to ignore the solid loss
those blank spaces in front of you
and me
stuffing plastic bags into sock
calling them grenades without pins

The conversation blew up
then
sloppy weeping in the corner
conflict wrapping around the forehead
one huge wrinkle
one scathing disgust

I retreat; I try to blame it
all on the daylight, on the breath that
was so hard to get
I retreat
conceding you the room for your rhetorical
rehashing of my mistake

The flammable yarn that I used
torn by the edges of my fingernails
disappointingly quiet

And now you’re knitting your revenge
something that might work
so I leave the sentence where it stands
and make an exit

J.D. Harms 2020


A Poem

Image for post
Image for post
Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

I am through giving history lessons
scarred and cross-hatched narratives
changing in the bare act of telling
I want to go iconoclast
I want to bury my work
under a flood of skeletons that have
no fucking interest in being resurrected
This motel is keeping me institutionalized
I have not had any rum
for almost a decade
This is sickening and delightful
a package of fingernail clippings
for pointing out the news
I can’t bear this
I am throttled in a forgetting haze
and tangled in half-dressed visions of a past
I still invent
If there’s a process to your wanderings
beyond the foot thing, I mean
the slowly weakening back under the strain
of the diary
Blistered by the occasional blast of levity
then sat down on the unpainted concrete
rippled with texture for your displeasure
then exhausted
so soon after opening my mouth
considering just how to form this…


24 October 2020 Saturday Poetry Prompt: use this title prompt

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Solid candy gold hidden in a camera
lucid flying goes dripping through caramel sofa
bubblegum flavoured beer strings from your
lip to your nostril holding them in unity
unison a mixed up synthesis without
a grasping framework a silence that will last
but just disparate alliances
Hel, we get to the bottom of the car jacked up
shit that slips on our icy sidewalks
reviles the remark that was a courtesy
an engine of change or some such device
you can think it up again real quick and limn
your treehouse with branches of clever repartee
you shake up the neighbourhood with your
juice shouting; you have never bothered
to clear with your mother if all those pretzels should
have been left sprinkled behind the couch and rotting
like a fair that never gets taken down, the snow
sagging on top of every luckless tent
swallowing tiny bites of heat from far below the dirt
because sleeping on frost doesn’t make for magic
remedies; let’s just say that for now
and you should make a Hades worth going to if you’re that
damned desperate to…

About

J.D. Harms

Former hairstylist, perpetual philosophy student, swallowed by sex, ideas, writing, & poetry

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