the glide that stuck to her fingers

jack booted thug, group of a bullet

threat thereof

 

to take what he wanted wearing the

muscle, wearing

 

the cobbler’s nails

 

blackened stubble on a hardened face

with shallow

 

depressions where a blade cut in like

furrowed soil

 

gave coppers the slip down crevices in

mortared walls

 

carried the jackknife rusted deep down 

a soiled 

 

pocket with stolen coins, flipped, tails

they lost

 

held up in four walls and a dirty mattress

dirty sheets

 

rusty water dripping with intent to  commit

annoying feelings

 

curtains painted with dust, termites eating

bedposts

 

lifting a wallet felt a woman’s hand soft

manicured nails

 

smelled fresh linen clothing and high heels

short skirt

 

she ran her index finger under a five o’clock

look got

 

his undivided

 

shave and a two bit haircut, three piece with

a gold

 

chain watch, looking rather sharp, smacked

a kiss

 

moved to a city loft, big brass bed that spun

sensual intense

 

reformed, he put on the needle, put on the

record phonograph

 

she danced the glide that stuck to her fingers

he applauded…

 

Copyright © 08/13/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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in the world of the wicked

daunting sea waves lick wooden boards 

with a taste for an 

 

innocent’s destiny, yet she wears the                  

white; breeze of a

 

future pulls soft hair, makes butterflies 

dance and barren 

 

limbs taunt, they scold as if to tell the

young child not to

 

get her soul wet, but she replies, “i 

must keep the roses 

 

moist, for surely they will wither and

die;” the limbs pick

 

at her clothing as a daunting grand

parent must, “child,

 

if you do not listen, you will receive

a switching from a

 

deftly branch!” “what of your leaves

dear tree, to soften

 

this punishment?” “have you forsaken

them for you own

 

banishment?” “they have fallen from

once a stately oak

 

into the sea

into the sea,

 

i hear them in desperation calling,

slowly sinking,

 

do you not care to save them?” “i

choose not too,

 

for they are now orphans of silence,

besides, i will soon

 

have new growth in the spring;” “but

what of this tide?”

 

“child, you ask of me too many

questions!” “besides,

 

it is time for a switching…” “oh,

i rather thought

 

you had forgotten about such things,

anyway, i want to

 

sit beneath your branches and touch

the sky with my

 

heart on swing;” “i am afraid little

one that the sea

 

has now come to claim thee, it grabs

my roots with

 

salty hands as to choke, to smother

with brine, take

 

heed not to succumb to dark water,

one of youth

 

and purity;” “i will dearest friend…”

a tender touch

 

now from bough to wipe a long,

solitary tear;

 

she walks away as bark and limb

get pulled into

 

cold, desolate degrees, places red

roses on whitecap

 

and depth… butterflies are free.

 

Copyright © 07/29/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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