Here is the Good Hell

Here is the good hell;
The wee hours of the morn ripe
With an old-apple-red sky that smells
Like rotten dew.

And I feel a huge knot in my gut
Cooing in Morse-code.
I pick at my writer's callus,
The menial bump where I keep my politics,
Sex is fair so long as it could be now
When I wouldn't even notice it.

I have no need for skin,
No matter how flattering, or even my own:
I know I am at peace, a temporary
Truce with the times.

The entire early morning is distilled
By the dirt on my windowsill
And in the bottom of a roommate's lidded eye.
There is nothing that bothers me for now;

My joints are soundless,
And the only dissonance here
Are some distant sirens.
They wonder through the sleepy dawn
Like chirpy sisters
Gossipping about the person they'll be escorting.
But I am not he.

Author's Note

It's old.

Reviews

[Passingdaze]

Damn...That's good stuff. I just randomly selected this one to read and review and I'm very pleased that I did. You have so much talent,the form is top notch,and the poem seems to have a life of it's own. I'll be reading and reviewing more of your writings. Thank you for the enjoyment.

[Bella]

I liked this poem a lot. My favorite part was definitely:
"I have no need for skin,
No matter how flattering, or even my own:
I know I am at peace, a temporary
Truce with the times."

Great write!

[J.Black]

nicely said, i liked this.
"My joints are soundless,
And the only dissonance here
Are some distant sirens.
They wonder through the sleepy dawn
Like chirpy sisters
Gossipping about the person they'll be escorting.
But I am not he."

[Jane Doe]

I really enjoyed this piece. It is very well written, and I along with the great writing, I loved the title!