Smell of night, mumble-pawed, teary and sorry
Drifting into a cupboard of chairs, food, dishes;
Patrons unloosing their jaws for a meal,
Mouth after mouth to a purpose;
In-between a smile, etherizing their square white heads.
A curtain of neon-lights exhausting the dark,
Hunting the shadows while quietly humming;
A colorful veil that molds to its face,
Its mind is searching, the moon is no door.
The noble gases bury it like a wounded knee.
At the dead end, the pushers bonging on their white sticks,
Tremulous death at the end of the line for a user;
Their lives are snapped out of breath like a dead eyelid.
Black veils on a family smell so sick;
Here they come in their hysterical hearses.
The night will not be got rid of, it closes the old day chambers
And the gullible sun-heads shaking hands with the long horizon;
It is dark weed silk, and the blind will not notice,
Yet, they will take off their veils tacked to their pupils;
Everybody is nodding a square black head.
After the publication of your poems translated on my blog, Francesco Marotta, a well-known Italian critic / poet, has noticed and admired you. He asked me to be able to obtain an ebook with some of your poems to let you know about your work in Italy, I have translated a fortnight, but before closing the job I would like you to authorize me.
I have the highest regard, dear friends, for your continued support of my work- through your follows, your generous comments, and your likes. Thank you, Lance.
My heartfelt thanks and most sincere appreciation for all your wonderful thoughts and comments. I will keep you apprised regarding the progress of my book. I wish you all continued success with your own unique art. Blessings and hugs!
You have done me the great honor of reading and reviewing my poetry. When I wrote, it was a promise to you that I would make your time here fulfilling, enriching, and perhaps even transformative. As far as I’m concerned, we’re good friends. I will be off WordPress for a while to write my book. I sincerely wish you all the best in your endeavors!
Peace and love,
I struck a match; being so tired
Of the old faces of bureaucracy
Grinning, grinning as they drove
Past in a ’33 Ford
With rolled down windows
And not a grain of dignity,
Stepping out in white colored suits,
Rolling the poor who live in cardboard boxes
The color of coffins.
Hatred, hatred, and well, I was tired
No longer being able to keep it in,
I am not subtle,
I am as merciless as a glass case with a
Fist shoved through.
Shards of flame melt and sag a roof,
Bend and cringe a bureaucratic look,
Do not touch;
Eyes like tin, dead fish in a bowl.
Firemen poke at the carbon remains,
Flake up and flutter off in a draft
Down a city sewer;
Mix with ripped bags and gutturals
Of the dying.
Stuffed expressions in wastewater,
Flowing, flowing aimlessly to the sea,
Dyeing the air, particles in a cloud,
Bursts the silver lining.
Do not touch. This is immortality.
Copyright © 12/27/2018 lance sheridan®
Of clay and earth
Walk the soil street
My eyes closed,
Dreaming under a dense lid cloud,
Leafing through volumes of poetry: free
From all bullying. The rough boys,
Fit nowhere in my sleep,
Like unwanted pages on a bookshelf.
Under the moon’s onion shape
Am unaware of how
The marionettes dangle,
Expressionless and getting drunk,
Soon will seize a prize
Will take me hostage and waken my nerves;
Blenched, as one shaped into a
Crypted into a drear headstone.
No place it seemed
To laugh, kiss, seize a living,
The simulacrum of a breath too tough
For an ending;
To forbid a sullen ash heap fitting into
A thick foliage of hate.
Yet, despite my tears, my praying,
A rendering evil in a blink;
My mood like an unforbidden flower.
No longer claiming a feeling,
In my flesh the sling of arrows
Maltreated my body, outrageous blood,
Collapsing into a dwindle;
Glowering over me,
My mouth silted with flowers
In a shocking wise.
All my beauty, my wit, descant for a pyre.
Copyright © 04/01/18 lance sheridan®
Who are these unresolved’s at the Tudor court to meet me? They are the marriages – – –
They are Katherine, Anne, Jane, whores of the king.
In my veil and paper dress I have no protection,
They are sumptuary laws, enforcing social hierarchy.
They are smiling like new virgins winking murderess eyes.
I am naked as a corpse, do they not love me?
In blackwork hoods with beheading axes,
They’re all nodding heads; my skin is milkweed white;
They smell fear knotted under my armpits.
Blood clots are dragging up my spine.
I cannot run, I am rooted in time, and the tyranny of Henry.
The mind of a hive thinks this is the beginning of everything;
If I stand still enough, perhaps he will think I am childbearing,
Sealing off his sperm, his guises, while quietly humming
Like a midwife with a breastplate of cheesecloth and a blood smell.
The old queens are untying their disguises,
The villagers are moving the virgins;
I am the king’s girl, must live another year in animosity
While in a Tower cell riven with finger joints and bones;
I am exhausted for a chopping block and a raven feather.
Copyright © 12/24/2018 lance sheridan®