Talkin’ Bouquet Blues

by Poetry

I could say you were a rose & take
the well-trodden path to some old lover’s lake
there to recite words written for other flowers

roses are only beautiful because they are weak
& you are not weak
but filled with the ghosts of a thousand lover’s bowers

you have outlived a thousand roses
& survived a love that flowers find corrosive;
loves & words that leave their bodies finely pressed

your soul, your chi, whatever bullshit you believe
has you standing taller, stronger, eye and soul of trees
& a holy body standing soft & hard & blessed

you are impossible to press as flowers &
could never wear a robe of rose
                                a hood of foxglove
                                a wreath weaved of orchid strands –

& you could never be
a flower to me;
lost or loved in wine-red towers;
                              you were always the killer of flowers.

I’m sick of a lot of things and I’m dying from flowers. We don’t need anymore sensitive types writing about flora and fauna. We don’t need beautiful people taking on the gentle form of roses, orchids, lillies or anything else you cut at the stem and tear up at the root. The people I love and have loved are never flowers. They don’t need to turn their faces to the sun and trace its path along the sky.

The people I love and have loved are mountains and ocean, holding the sky for flowers and trapping the greatest of demons in their depths. The people I love and have loved give off more light than they steal from the air; the people I love and have loved have played the role of pesticides, protecting the gentle flowers and the brutal scaffolding that forces them to grow tall and straight until they’re strong enough to hold their own heads high.

I’ve never loved a flower, though I have held many. I love those who allow the flowers to grow. As I love those who get their kicks from cutting flowers down so cruelly.

Fuck the flowers; one way or another. Fuck the flowers.

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Carey Poet

Coal Carthage

The bars of this cage, tightening nooses now; still Broken britain; legs & fluttering wings beneath scaled metal eyes twitching, humming lenses; glitter and stand resolute! wings blinking in nothing, rust against the wet night despite pleas of rattle-high footsteps ‘cross the cobblestones & the grass & the mud dirt.

Where’s the A, huh?

is your ragged calendar marked? some
black date crucified where I first began
to lie to you?
Or was I honest & numb &
you chose a face to fit your dreams & pre-
conceptions

Night Terrors

When Nox and I go panting beneath, we
have asked the same black questions;