02.06

I’m late again. I know. I’m a terrible person. We’ve had nothing but horrendous computer problems at home so I’m at the library now typing my 02.06 poem…

0206

(kingdom.)

they kept the stones stacked properly
replaced any cracks with newer stronger ones
the moat was only dug deeper
and the ropes of the drawbridge
were always taught
unfrayed and prepared to open their door
to visitors

the prince and his sister, the princess
played together in their room
away from echoing yells down corridors
distorted and unfamiliar to innocent ears

the walls grew taller each day
the halls were repainted
and the flowers well-mended
the windows overlooked the mountains
massive and unflinching
but they crumbled each day
small bits of rock rolling into river

the king dressed regally
his gold polished his robes as neat
as the careful steps he took
through the palace alone
the queen was gorgeous
she grew older as do we all
but she grew better
her dresses flowed beautifully
she carried herself with the stature
of some great bird

and the king and the queen danced
in the ballroom alone
to the sound of the gramaphone
red curtains and waltzes
they danced til they were done

and when they were done
they looked at each other
dead in the eyes
and said i love you
and it was the last time they ever would

the castle was up-kept as well as it could be
no detail went un-missed
no imperfection went uncorrected
but sometimes decay just happens
from the inside out

nothing could save the kingdom
the empire of their love had simply vanished
a silent foreign enemy come in the night
stole the love they harvested like gold straw
the castle was hollow now
and the king and the queen
just the pages of a fairy tale

they closed the book
looked up from the pages
and had to find where they were
without the love
they thought they were promised forever

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ 02.07, DAY 7 OF THE 28 DAY 02.2013 PROJECT

02.2013 is a thirty day project chronicling my february of 2013 through poetry. to read the entries from the beginning CLICK HERE

About these ads

CAPTURE

capture me in your film reel
put me back inside your toxic head
give me the angst i crave
give me the perfume of wastelands
give me the perfume of wastelands

it’s insensitive of you not to call
i swear to god i’m hanging over the edge
of this building and i’m gonna jump
i swear to god i’m gonna jump
without your visceral voice
i will hit the concrete headfirst

i’m not trying to be the bull in your china shop
i’m not looking for romantic disney love song
give me your health insurance
and all the disease that comes along with it

let’s pursue the american nightmare
let’s try to put the past behind us
let’s bury our children in the yard together
trauma bond with me for life
won’t you trauma bond with me for life?

i know there’s not a lot of hope here
i know there’s some spaces inbetween
they don’t fill in
they’ll never fill in
but let’s continue through shitstorms
umbrellas open now
umbrellas open now

we are children who played with lead paint toys
we are the island of misfits
let’s just close our eyes and hum the garbage disposal
let’s let go of that shiny diamond ring of hope

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013

READ “FAST LANE”

WINDSTORM (A DREAM)

there is a windstorm in my skull where leaves rustle endlessly
where a man with an inside out umbrella is thrown about the post rain streets
the sky is overdosing on clouds and the sun is laying under the table drawing red beams on the underside
there are heavy stone angels in parks in my skull that serve as a paperweight for my heart
there are dead trees that fall into streets and onto telephone line where birds scatter as headlights swerve the hilly city trying to seek refuge from the wind and the constant chill and the dangerous roads that twist like a benzedrine high

there is a church in my skull
a great basilica where homeless seek shelter and sit in luke warm circles praying to the most loving God they can imagine
the stain glass windows flash with the lightning outside and the pews rumble with thunder as the candle chandeliers swing from the ceiling like indecision
i am somewhere lost within my own madness, behind a trash can down a back alley
and like a savior

you walk through unabashedly

apathetic to the windstorm around you

and your eyes reach out their warm hands to me and pick me up off the dirty ground

and you carry me home to my warm bed where I read this poem to you.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2013!

READ “A TOAST”

Interesting in submitting to Flashlight City Blues?

FEATURED POET: ANNA SERAFINI

god drowned himself in a bathtub fully clothed while my heart sunk further into my chest

last night i got a cup for my tears and drank them all down.
they tasted like salt. it was gross.

here is me looking at you and slipping under the water table
so i can drown and be buried alive at the same time.
my air goes blub blub blub and i am choking.
no one can hear me and that’s okay.
i tie a bag over my head because i don’t want anyone
to hear me choking,
and i whisper to myself
“it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay”
as the bag fills with water and dirt.

i jab the back of my mouth with the head of my toothbrush.
i need a new one because the bristles
are sticking together and hardening, i think.
i am trying to brush the taste of salt off of my tongue
but it lingers like the frustrating stain on my sweater.

now my stomach has seized up and i am ignoring my responsibilities.
i bury myself in my blankets and try not to think of anything.
the fantasies of warm boys with soft hands have soured, i think.

i need to get off tumblr.
i need to do something productive.
i need to get better grades.
i need to keep my job.
i need to take harder classes.
i need to rehearse for my poetry slam.
i need to rehearse for my poetry slam.
i need to rehearse for my poetry slam.

oh my god oh my god oh my god
i’m so sorry.

please give me a shovel for christmas i am digging
a hole down to the water table and it will be okay,
i promise, everything will be okay.

ANNA SERAFINI IS THE WORLD’S SHYEST INTERNET “PERSONALITY” AND THE BABY COUSIN OF ALT-LIT. FOLLOW HER ON TUMBLR AND TWITTER.

INTERESTING IN SUBMITTING A POEM TO FLASHLIGHT CITY BLUES? FIND MORE INFO HERE.

MAMA, I AIN’T SAD (I’M JUST SINGING THE BLUES)

i can see you now
in a nighttime gown
by a windowsill
with that mother’s frown

but mama
i tell you all the time
and it’s always true
i ain’t sad
i’m just singing the blues

i know you worry
but mama, i’m grown
as long as there’s blues
i’m never alone

this is just my way
of kissing goodbye the day
it’s just my right
to stay up every night

cause mama
i tell you all the time
and it’s always true
i ain’t sad
i’m just singing the blues

that telephone ain’t gon’ ring
after darkness falls
but mama, won’t you hear me
that i thank you for it all

this is just my way
of kissing goodbye the day
it’s just my right
to stay up every night

but mama
i tell you all the time
and it’s always true
i ain’t sad
i’m just singing the blues

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “RUINED A PERFECTLY GOOD MOMENT”

HANGOVER

i sold most of my books, almost sold my guitar
i have cleared the shelves of this apartment
emptied the attic and the stale memories of a different me
i have burnt break-up letters
and let go of friends like a hand off the edge of a bridge
i have kissed goodbye the roads i thought holy
i have watched the sun be swallowed by the mountains
and thought that maybe if i head west i too will be lost
in the gut of the earth, alone with echoes and hollow
i took down the pictures of a younger me
and now i spend my days painting a portrait of an older me
and now i just don’t know what i’m doing
i’m looking at ants through a magnifying glass
and i can’t look away when the heat condenses and they start to set on fire
i put my car up for sale and i sell viles of my blood in the wanted ads
i sleep in a white room with no posters, hopeless and cold
on a perfect bed with one half severely empty and i wonder
in porcelain moments like these
that knock on the door at two in the morning
am i practicing how to die
or trying to give myself another chance to live?

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “WHY I WRITE POETRY”