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The World's Loneliest Girl


by Darryl Price



 

is you. You made it into the latest dumping-ground in

spite of their voted insults. In spite of being told

you weren't even going to be dancing. The loneliest girl

now looks perfectly trim and trendy. Her shimmering shorts fit

her hips like a gently gushing waterfall. In spite of 

toes that flicker at the bequest of her candle shoes. 

 

In spite of a lit cigarette cough hanging around her fingers

like an astronaut dragging a Milky Way between the bars

of a space deck, the loneliest girl gets to sit

close to the camera at every show from now on.

In spite of no one wanting to take heed of your

purring at your new profile. In spite of hip young  

 

men interrupting your speech with a profane speech of their

own. The loneliest girl knows how to smile and mean

it.  In spite of being herself in spite of herself

this catwalk is now open for its pretty psychiatric business.

In spite of no lover boy in sight the loneliest

girl plans on not going home until dawn is gone.


The loneliest girl in the world has an invisible blanket 

thrown over her shoulders. In spite of being tuned out,

she dreams of a bath, she's likely coming for you. 

In spite of directors taking notice, she loves old books 

and movies more than the company of almost everyone. The

loneliest girl is glistening. In spite of no partner, writing


a letter. In spite of just waking up, feeling open. 

The loneliest girl will go back to work tomorrow. In

spite of the excitement of being in the room, breaking

inside at the tip like a wooden pencil. In spite 

of all the kisses, needing someone. The loneliest girl is

running away from the pale. In spite of pet sounds.


In spite of the wild world. The lonely girl is her 

own writer of sad songs. In spite of the tom-toms 

in her head. In spite of the slurred lines of 

fools. The loneliest girl is getting her feet wet. In 

spite of a poem she'll never read. In spite of

the slow down of all that soft swirling of drinks.





Bonus poems:



The Numb


by Darryl Price


The numb windows of despair closed on your 

chapped hands for good this time. They will never

open again to reveal a surprise,

not in this world, not for you, my friend. You

also shut us crying out of your house

forever, and that's what hurts the most. I

 

can eventually get over the

sad fact that you left, but never over

the cruel path chosen to embrace you

to its dark depth. It's a cold wind, there's no

real scientific doubt about it, and

many hot sparking layers will be now

 

required before we feel comfortable

again in our own skins. You said goodbye

in your way, but the question of hello

was never truly discussed among us

who loved you for yourself to my own known

satisfaction, and now there is a girl

 

with a frozen face sitting by herself

in the tall dry grasses looking at the

hardened clouds spewing chunks on the lakes who

no longer will take anyone's hand for

any reason. She was my soft friend, too,

once upon a time when we had new sweets. 





It's Started To Rain


a little, to sprinkle the world with

yellow leaves. Already, I asked? The park bench I've

finally decided on smells

pissed on like newspapers, old or


new, can't tell. Don't

really care, doesn't much matter at this point.

Blank pages are illuminated by what's left of

day, sky,  so I hear,

whistling birds, but don't


spot any, unless a

little faun hanging from 

a playground swing counts--he is laughing after

all. The ground beneath

my feet is brown


from earlier wet, old

leaves and acorn caps,

twigs and ants. Alas,I hear the cicadas

motoring through tall tree tops

like wind-up speedboats,


puttering in and out

of their set vacation harbors, diligent

as worker bees. The

last thing standing's an old

birch tree that's seen

it all centuries before. dp





The Poor Dumb Creature



I'm not back, I just wanted to share. I was looking at a picture of an unusual fish that a man had caught and killed. Scientists weren't even sure what kind of fish it was--just that it was rare, unusual and dead. Then the verdict was given on TV. These two things somehow meshed in my mind to create this poem.

by Darryl Price



 

was dead, with a spear stabbed in its fat head

and hung from a pole like an upside down

clay flag. The dumb creature who had killed the

beautiful one was grinning from ear to

ear like a flickering cat. And as I

 

studied the body I thought about the

natural grace it must have taken to

move it through all that water for all those

many years, stay alive, to actually

grow that large. Now it was no more than

 

a black and white  trophy for a picture,

its softening head making a crushing

dent on a wooden rug, its flopped fin a  

useless arm pulled through a rope, and nothing

more. On TV police cars were burning

 

like grotesque candles in a macabre store

front window, on main street smashed open stores

were being looted and tear gas bombs were

being sprayed like confetti on fed-up

balling, sad protesters. Two hate crimes were

 

committed. Only one was ever known,

truly decided. Another young man

is dead on our streets. It took seven mad,

brutal bullets to wake up a partly

slumbering country to its own petty

 

indifference. Those who protect us did

not protect us. Those who serve us did not

serve these.  Our lost children are not being

respected. Any harm done harms us all.

Politicians are quick to pass out some

 

newly minted campaign slogans instead

of genuine outrage or concern. But

the people became the living symbols

of a nation that has a voice. Let's hope

that walk'll be heard deep in our bravest new heart.


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