I feel like... feeling more.
The floor is lined with
living bodies,
like they've outwitted the morgue.
Nights like evaporated whiskey,
wild whispers on not-so-young tongues,
seep out of my age group.
A very generally dull generation
of beat up nickel spinning
tricksters with hip retro glasses
custom fit,
all cracked from their awkward angles as they lay perched
across the ground.

This used to be some sort of purgative passageway.
But it is a basement,
in the suburbs, and the stains on the floor
are more apparent to me now.

Can't get the taste of wanting what I've wasted out of my distended, longing throat.

Years lurk in the shadows while morning
drips through thick glass curtains
and the ghosts of angels,
passed out,
play their slumber to the theme of a
hissing humidifier - too necessary to be discarded and too broken down
to be of any use.

Any use at all for these days.
Sitting and wondering.
Constant despair spelled out in
philosophical tongues,
reading poetry against the cat-call
of a dead "meow" that crawls up on my lap
and scratches at my ribs.

The ache of this scene no longer reminds me of some existential freedom.
Where feet danced the live sleep - so still.
Possible OD's, even.
The sound of breath moving across
a stained basement.
Unfortunate victims of my free-verse mind.

I am left Speechless,, With a deep aching

Powerful

P_P, this is great!

a perfect blend of texture and taste...you know, like when you finish a nice big bowl of rocky road ice cream, you want more, but you know if you get it, it wont be the same...

very well done!

Each word you printed carried your feeling to me until I felt what you felt. It was a melancholic, yet wonderful to behold at the same time.

poetic justice to dark places....

((((pp))))