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Thursday, 14 September 2006

Olds '88 & his Mate

Darkness surronds
his meat fist of ale.
The '88 olds drives him outta his mind.
Engine rumbles
like a lion on the make.
Exhaust fumes leave a trail of bad breath.

Crazy mouth bastard
drives a nasty streak
Lean as an old dog
breast fed at the pump.
Oil burning loser
mindset on mayhem,
while the full moon directs
this piston shot drive.

Radiator face has seen more
than his share.
He'll rip through your lungs
in the middle of a cough.
He's a sick puppy
snorting through life
Filling his tank with
high octane souls.

Peeling leather booths at
the midnite truck stops.
New cuisine his apparent choice.
She's young and tired,
just enough curious
and he likes the way she wears
her heart on her sleeve.

Inviting her out to the '88,
he caresses the dent by the door.
Licking the grill and
quelling the beast
he plays with the curls now escaped
from her net.

Pushing her down on the hood,
the '88 growls
as he sparks her plugs
and lubes her valves.
Behind the wheel
they chuckle together,
olds '88 and his mate.

RachelSent
(c)1996 - 2006
First Tango in Paradise

No longer sleeping on my back
for fear my angel bones
will not sprout wings
in time for my dance
with death.

How would I look
in my diaphanous gown
if no wings were visible?

Who would cross the
holding room floor
to ask a wingless soul
to Tango?

These fears increase
at night before bed,
rustling in my starched
earthly cotton gown,
arranging my face,
not to crush my nose,
lips in half smile,
arms at side,
I wait.

Listening for the stretch
of flesh,
the tear of cotton,
the release of soul,
the click of heels,
the first chords of Tango.

RachelSent
(c)1996 - 2006
Junkie Whispers

he lanquishes in his haze
stumbling on his words and thoughts
I envy him and his needle
missing the closeness they share
all I have are memories
          I do not get to live this again
         I am jealous of his angst and fear
          I am jealous of his hard life
          I am jealous of his walking death
          I wish to take it all away from him
            hiding in a corner, sucking on
            heaven, never coming out and not
            ever caring.

he whispers his junkie thoughts
while he scratches.
          in wonderful words I say that
          things are not that bad on this side
          being here gives me freedom
          in what I can see.

I lie through my teeth as my soul
aches for the fulfillment his needle
can bring.
          I explain in heartfelt sentences
         that we evolve and change
          that life goes on and then

I stumble
realizing that all I want is
what was and I silence myself
listening to his whispered junkie words.

he stays near me
because I understand
I search him out
because I can savor the taste of something
that is so close and so many lifetimes away

           I remember how to whisper junkie
           words
           and nothing, but nothing takes its
          place
           when I wake with chills in the
          morning.

RachelSent
(c) 1997-2006
Requiem for a Silent Man

Living in a trunk
of discarded memories.
Sucking color from old cloth,
convinced that the keyhole
was a dangerous place to peer through,
you settled in like an old dog
waiting its last day.
Lying quietly,
you made believe you were dead.
I covered you with
blankets of breath,
exhaling pubescent warmth
on your rotting bones.

Throwing away any words you
might have said,
I gather your thoughts
for the memory album.
Your life,
viewed from the balcony,
was lived in a trunk of
cast-off costumes.
I want to know
why you never tried them on.

Tell me that you never heard
the applause of life
as you acted out your days
and I will seal the lid
so that you may die
wrapped in moth-eaten cloth.

RachelSent
(c)1996-2006