Worthless

Worthless

by Kurt Broz

The broken wheels of

twisting clocks spinning

in all directions

Magnifying glasses cover

fleshy fruits and

rotting red meats

Glass plates scrape

against domes of light

pillars of silky glow

Unnoticed he slips

into a warm bath of

pitted cowbells and other

nonsensical things

Darkened days and

Well-lit nights conceal

The faded and torn

Filed-away though

Worthless

If morning does not come

he will not mourn it

heaving heavily in dropping

tears

Quickened and sightless

despair makes home

in hollowed out burrows

A tarantula town

He pleads with no one

to make peace with

nothing

again

No one answers with a laugh

and brushes him off

of a tan tweed jacket

He falls into himself and

tries not to expel

Pandora’s Box

Lenore

Lenore by Kurt Broz

Icy rain on glassy walls

Spilled across lifelong gallows with

Unforgiving brick facing

Last in line to my written with

Moss and stones and skin and

Bones with broken splint

Rave if you must in a

Tarnished throne

Without her

No kingdom, no sea

Sepulcher encaged in ribs

Pumping painful fluids bare

Against arteries lined

With her thoughts

Death would be sweeter

The aches and sprains and cuts

Sloshing water

Maddening foam

Drowning me within her

Rubbing face raw

Tearing at my ocular ridges

Lost her scent in gray linen

Folded arms and tainted

Lips in dusty widow’s walk

Souls heavy with sand of time and

Drunken hateful windswept grasses

She shears into me line shattered

Amethyst

With me always in hand

With me always in hell

Nevermore in a summer dress

Convicted by jury of my peers

Walk along the pining ocean

Sounds of penance fair

Her name on papyrus burnt

Fleeting and small I remain

Ostracized 

I Sit in Soliloquy

I Sit in Soliloquy by Kurt broz

I sit in soliloquy,

Packed into a darkened abyss,

Immortality and sadness are

My only companions here.

I am chained to her memories aloft,

Hammered down to

Yesterdays affairs with her.

Her soft and crisp auburn hair twinkle

But only in my memories here.

A squinted remnant of her pliant skin

Wisp past my fingerprints.

My monologue echoes through

The nothingness I provoked

Without her. She is gone

From my melancholy lies.

I have caged myself in this

Inveiglement. What have I

Here but a broken heart?

And in the barrel of a calm

Gun, the art of a sad

Bachelor button, I search.

In my final soliloquy

It will be for a maiden I weep.

I, a great sinner, am calmed

In the moments

Between the beats. 

Playing

Playing by Kurt Broz

As I child I built forts

Of tattered blankets

And wobbly coffee tables.

I hid behind walls,

Off-white pillows draped

In blue plaid shirts with

Missing buttons.

I took prisoners,

Torturing them in tiger cages

Of broomsticks and

Canes with broken rubber tips.

I made mock treaties

With one-man nations

Over the eating of cookies and

When to go to bed.

Guns of plastic, shooting caps

Leaning lackadaisically

Against brave and foolish legs.

I never saw, in ketchup blood on

Rainy green summer days,

Leading battalions of plastic men

No taller than a grass blade,

Bravery from worn blue jeans

Or heroics from a weekend.  

The Albatross

The Albatross by Kurt Broz

If William ran today

In fortresses without culture

Would the herring

Sing of

Coils?

And what of wolves prowling

Streets sooty and empty

Expanses?

Would the woodwinds

Bring mirth

Consternation

And silly tricks?

Can turtles paint their shells,

Carve their homes of stone,

With popped plastic?

Metal marshes of smoky

Caterpillars empty true

Romance

And rape

Artistic foray.

Integrity is Prometheus, exposed

To the dark birds.

In your hollow hallowed

Basement cellars of supposed

Wonderment,

Excrement, feverishly brutish

Yet wrapped in swaddling

Cloth no man

Makes love to woman as

Within the free.

Darkness, you, hatred

Breeder… swollen on your

Crystal scallop.

My pings and pangs and

Clanking gears

And magnanimous

Consumption of insurmountable

Obtuse metaphorical

Theoretical rhetoric of

Stadium proportions rend

My heart closed.

Wake up my sleepy hands

To stroke a brush or

Burn a woodshed.

With miles to linger

Until the drapery drips little red

Fuzzy balls

Floating and rolling,

Tumbleweeds of magnitude

Unmentioned by scribes.

The close of day brings

Only unending forever

To contemplate the lost youth and

Deadly hope

Of redemption.

Wonder why I changed to…

Silver box.

Silly, silver box,

In William’s shadow I am a puppet,

Strutting without merit,

Nonsensical rhymes,

Second fiddle,

Folding chair.

Do the cardboard flames

Make the musical

House of sin

Dance with you?

Or am I the punch-line

Of the killing joke?

This Is a Post

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