Christopher R. Kennedy Poems

Wouldn’t it be strange to meet a psychopath
Stand three feet from his demonic skull
And stare into his sunken eyes which
You know must crinkle with warmth
...

Earthy brown, thick fingers
That seem to have sprang
From a cliff side’s red clay
Handle the petals and stems
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Amethyst eyes of petrified light
Shine through the silky darkness like
A flashlight through a bedsheet
Moon beams lick the sky where purple cloud
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Cigarette smoke clings to his teeth
His last rhyme’s scent lingers
On his red-purple tongue
He uses Crest toothpaste
...

I confess I play with matches
I stash them under the fattest pillows
Still they never bloom with yellow fire
For I prefer to count them with an enormous finger
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Enormous shrubs adorned with candy roses
That stretch from left to right like
The horizon
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Between beams of soggy sun,
Streaked by the shades of weeping gray trees,
And trapped between walls of ice-cold mud and
Gray grass and twigs like green, jagged skeletons,
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I see him stand in streetlight rays.
He shivers from the dark.
Every night he shakes hands
With the incoming night.
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Before I’d call it morning
But past the point I’d call it night
Every day I wake from murky dreams
To an impatient alarm’s clock’s scream
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Somber flames dance on their wicks
Which are coated with ashen ice
They bend their legs and
Tug on the blanketed dusk just as the
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