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Barking at the Moon's Silhouette


by Darryl Price



 
We took our turn at the younger stage. One good turn deserves another and all that crap. But does it 
always have to strong-arm the world's latest lovers apart with so much pushed and shoved ultra violence?So far away and
so completely reversed from each other's misery loves company company? Nobody else could hold onto all that kind of sadly spun about momentum and live
to tell about it in their right ended
 
mind afterwards. That's why so many grim young people tend
to mumble broken sentences unto themselves. It's like telling a secret to no one who's listening but expecting them to bear it silently away anyway. Mmm and mmm and mmm--
and mmm to you too, brother. Trouble is no one believes in its blessing and its curse until the train
is finally touching their own shoestrings. Perhaps that's where
 
the language of vivid dreams
comes quietly soaking in. But that seems to be mostly spoken in angelic animal
deities' chatter and with certain gathering lights splayed out on the different surfaces more than any alphabet not nailed down deep into the daily dirtiest dirt. And still we
 
understand it like we
understand anything about the air, that we are inextricably linked to the purest spots
of its occupancy, molecule upon molecule, until all the stars will wink out on us
permanently. After that it doesn't matter I guess
 
but until then it's
the only thing that makes any real kind of thankful sense to us true non believers.So
go on and gas us away like you always seem to want to with your rising luminous sadistic
parting snarling lips of filth and defiance. Maybe it's finally time once again to sing that silly car song to you, the one you so brilliantly taught us to memorize way back when you were caring and alive and driving around in the love places like a stoned out teen aged messenger from the other side of the garden wall, eh? Okay then. Listen if you will. 
 
Darryl Price    032910



My Giantess
 
likes to shake
 
her fluffy hair
down into
 
the space
in front of
 
her face like
a thickly stranded mop
 
being strangled
by unseen hands.
 
Darryl Price   033110



Beauty, On My Birthday

by Darryl Price



 

I wouldn't want to let

You down, but asking no

Questions, forgiving the

Times, I've seen the paintings,

All yourself. I wouldn't

Want to let you down, but

 

Am undone, broken, and

Without a fire extinguisher

On my person.

I wouldn't want to let

You down, God knows, but aren't

You tired of leaving?

 

I wouldn't want to let

You down, I sing over

My shoulder, but days get

Quite lost and lonely here

Without you. Wouldn't want

To let you down, but I'm

 

Not to be released from

Your company so easily

As that. Wouldn't

Want to let you down, oh

But I adore your face!

I wanted things tender

 

Before delicate—dreamed,

Not yet doomed. I wouldn't

Ever want to let you

Down, but if you like, I'll

Write and say it. Wouldn't

Want to let you down, please

 

Show true meaning, Oh weeping

Woman. Wouldn't want

To let you down, but like

Others, I'm thunderstruck

Through and through, feeling a

Wrist for pulse, blessed below.

 

07/10/2017  




Bonus poem:




The Yellow Mustard by Darryl Price

 

“Life is not solved.”—Hugh Prather

 

“I think I'm gonna be sad.”—John Lennon

 

(I love it when he does that.

I hate it. Who does he think

He is?) I only want to

See you in sun dresses, you

With your hair mussed. I want to

Watch you eat a hot pretzel

Dipped in yellow mustard. Look

 

Into your mouth as you smile

For the picture. Oh no, I

Haven't forgotten that you

Also exist in this funny

World. I don't know why I

Was given a glimpse of your

Amazing presence. (When he

 

Does that all his sentences

Run backwards. I can't decide

If it's demotic or glad

And innocent.) A warbler,

You are anything but a

Dry meadow. When you stand and

Dorsal me I want to start

 

Immediately to save

All butterflies, but now it's

That time to say goodbye. I

Knew in the moment you stretched

Yourself in front of me like

A hand-painted dragon shade,

But the dart was already

 

Delivering the poison

With an almost not-there kiss.

I don't want to stop looking

For you, but I'm afraid if

I found you I might not find

You. (When he does that I want

To snatch the poem out of

 

His head and bury it in

The backyard. I can't decide

If he's real or a disguised

Minefield.) You can't possibly

Know the cut you've made across

My chest the moment you left

The spot of our togetherness

 

Without a word. But I

Felt the look back, it hit me

Like a magnet, slapping all

My senses—as if someone

Cleared their throat like there would be

Nothing left in the morning.

(He ought to go back to bed.)

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