Charles Malcolm Poems

I asked not
for these rotten feet.
Black boots and jeans
and thrift store chair.
...

'I can shut the door, '
I offered.

'Don't. I like the blue, '
...

As the rough edges become smoothed with time,
I find myself
more and more
in the floating dust.
...

'Show yourself, ' he whispered weakly.

'Wait, ' the woman said. 'Must you speak your truth so meekly? Speak like me instead.'
...

I feel that faint burn again.

Harder to explain
than things learned on LSD
...

I heard laughter.

Then my name, maybe.
I had headphones in and can't be sure.
...

There's a corpse in the corner
I try not to see.

Try not to smell.
...

Swollen and pulsating.
An open, festering wound.

Too stupid to dry up
...

No.

I won't
tell you.
...

The bartender smiled
like a death in the family
and poured me two shots
and passed me two beers.
...