At 3 a.m. the water sputters
as the loosely twisted 7 grooved
chromium knobs are turned toward
warm with my sleek swimmers
legs and delicately carved feet shaped
like cling peaches posed in recline.
I sit with my long brown disheveled
hair hovering over my half mast
eyes in a blue tub. I pray for
an end to this volcanic
morning where I have had to
fight silently sick and apathetic
while almost metamorphisizing
into a fallen angel
plummeting from a spiteless
death. I want desperately
to wake into a refreshing mist
flowing from the electric tar-
paper covered well that
scrounges water from
beneath aged rocks
and that had once courageously
hidden my wounded sweet black
cat crouched and scared
under its' roof.
Am I so far away from
the stiff cotton clouds that drag
me deeper into old age, past
this eternity and back into
centuries millions of years ago?
I awaken in a dream that prettily
paints only modern luxuries.
I can't imagine that this yellow
stucco house that I have
lived in has grown old.
I can only remember this
as I listen to its withered
water pipes cough deeply,
then choke and sputter dry.
I like the sound: a fight
aghast for breath, as I linger
in its' shadows that
need me to see and feel
anger, so as the lights
went dead, my aunt's revenge
was dancing in my head.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The first stanza drew me in at the most basic level, but the tension built, and there was something more coming into view. The swirl of uneven images dropped your vision onto my lap, and before i knew it, you had successfully moved a fully erected house into my mind. Not sure if it's a plea for help, a warning, or a celebration of madness, but it works for me. Nice work.