the elevator sticks half way between
almost floor six and floor six.
high rise and hollow
its grey weight pushes down
onto five suffocating slices of stale life
that blanket your wounded words
so carbon cold and sandwiched
in mellifluous mêlée.
and though I can see you in the tiers
no-one hears you in your screams
that merely skulk out
through the timid crack
to trespass truth
amongst the half light.
surreal feelings stumble down
laundering aimless confusion
skin sticking emotion upon the tight, steel drum
where rolling emptiness
sees and seals
your spirit wrapped in damp
newspaper pages
and Jupiter bruises of
prodigious dimension.
and you
lying dying in a pile of weeping rags
huddled hollow in the corner of
this bold, old elevator
crush crumpled
with Japanese seams at your folds
tumbling in the wash & waste of tidal love and
dream-ascending dreams
remember,
no more than ten grey minutes ago,
the bony-faced guy on the street corner -
selling empty hope bouquets to no-one -
well, you’re lying on his bed of
fruitless, fallen petals
and you conclude that
no one should buy flowers that smell
of stale piss.
And still
nobody comes
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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OMG what a brillant piece with such dark and deep meaning mingeled perfectly throughout. I admire your ability to pick a subject nmatter and write as if it is so personal to you. BRASVO
S -
Oh my!
This was starkly beautiful, Kezz. Powerful and gut-wrenching - I could smell the stale piss flowers, feel the stuffiness of the elevator, the despair at the emptiness of life.
Perfect for my current mood... really amazing writing.
Should be published, you know.
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Dear Allie B -
In England we call an elevator a 'lift'. They so rarely are, unlike you.
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This is so god damn real and raw that I find myself almost suffocating . . . Please do not revise too much, I love it just the way it is. Sometimes when we go back and try to polish a piece it loses some of the initial power that conceived it . . . This one speaks to me, gnaws at me with an uncomfortable poetic and probbing finger . . .
Marc
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Marc - I accidently clicked the revision box - but I did come back to change just one word. Whilst I think the poem is better for it, somehow I feel cheapened!
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i read the fourth stanza so many times i almost memorized it. even in my head, the sounds flowed together effortlessly, fluidly, perfectly. perfect.
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Well done Kezz!
I like your new work. Visual and full of expressive words. The ending is what I liked...of course no one should purchase flowers that have been urinated. Keep it up!
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