It Is Raining Grey Mondays They fall like tin soldiers on a child's bedroom floor. Cadence, the rhythm of solitude in your darkened room. Draw bedclothes as you silently drift on peculiar dreams. Rise, smoke, pray A shit of a day brings my mind to contemplative places that only God and marijuana can take me. I know going to bed with my head full of thoughts is a recipe for insomnia, but a mere fluffing of my pillow won't help steer my restless mind from traveling. I sit here on my sun-bleached couch and listen to the trains in the valley that cross the highway between 1 to 3 am. I call them 'the drunk trains' as its closing time at the bars and before long, an inebriated driver will make his last call smack-dab into the side of a boxcar. It makes me think this is the city's way of discouraging intoxicated driving. It doesn't help that the trains are full of chemicals that can kill us while we sleep (Take another puff, pray for something unattainable). While deep in thought, my husband heads to the bathroom and has THE longest pee that I can recall in our 29 years of matrimony. I feel as though I should have recorded it. He returned to bed completely drained of urine; left me thinking about absolutely everything and positively nothing. In the small, lonely hours, I pray for a sleep that is elusive, think of how fucked up the Earth has become by scrolling through my 'friends' Facebook posts (the only way to learn about world affairs), and know I'll be right back "here" tomorrow, and the next night, and the next night, and the next night... Spoon (bullets as candy / acid as water) She awakes in her car from a mid-day stupor. I speak to the suffering woman behind the addict: Before the acrid smell of heroin smothers us both. Before the prostitution claimed her immortal soul. Before she lost it all to “the life” and him. Our love is like a water drop eking despair into hardened concrete. We slow the years with each needle stick. Eyes roll, time crawls, nothing matters. We dodge bullets for cheap drinks and one night stands with anyone who will lie with us. The last rays squeeze through clouds like the sauce from my taco packet. Flashing neon bathe the interior of her ride with our complacency. We eat tacos a Russian girl gave us at the Mexican restaurant, and make smacking noises like perverts; licking fingertips ‘til clean. We didn’t speak of our demise as we watch the city lights dim into the graying skyline. Bio: Korliss Sewer looks at the world through skewed eyes, and enjoys taking apart the puzzle of life piece by piece to reconstruct it with her version of the truth. She has been published in The Poetry Bus, Orange Room Review, BlazeVOX, SubtleTea, Gutter Eloquence, etc., etc., etc.!
2 Comments
Russel Streur
6/3/2016 10:33:58 am
Great images!
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Korliss Sewer
6/3/2016 07:35:44 pm
Thank you, Russel! :-)
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