These Streets

It bends no other way

cold shapeless walls

ribs bitten to the nub

my hand sits inside a can of acid

melting while I watch

 

In these streets I walk a cold isolation

the ports and trains are kites that disappear

life fixates on raw digestion, and

in this moment I dare to trust or see

once here then gone but then

I taste the air and scream out misdirection

salvation laughing me to sleep 

in the tunnel's hair

Reviews

[barleygirl]

Reading part 1 & 2 together, I see why you had to give this idea another stab. Sometimes that happens to me. I write about a thing one way, then I have to write about it another way later. Perspectives are always changing. This poem feels a little "crimped" compared to the other one, which is intensely spilling (both are great, in different ways!) Being a country dweller most of my life, I do not know what the city streets feel like, but this poem really brings the sensations alive for me (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i think we often live inside our own walls, starving for salvation, starving for love, for contact.
And each day a part of us disappears like a hand in acid...one finger at a time...one sorrow at a time...
and does anyone hear us scream? doubtful...

[Perdition]

Some people chase that disappearance into the tunnel just to get another poem or two...Check!..lol. If we listen closely I think most people do somewhat recognize that scream...now do they do anything about it...that IS doubtful. Thanks j.

[Gypsy Warrior Queen]

I think I hear a howl and caw...but maybe Im just dreaming :)