The train blow
I heard the train blow its whistle this morning. Louder than ever before. Loud like it was trying to blow someone off the train tracks. I can imagine the lost wanderer. Tired of haunting the broken-down railway stations. He’s done, he thinks of himself. he decidied it a few hours ago when he finally deserted his sack by the side of the tracks. His only firned on the lonely nights for as long as he can remember. He had taken it off a dead man. One day years ago, back when his beard was still trimmed and every city didn’t look and smell and feel all exactly alike. Bak then, when life still held some purpose. He remembers those days fondly. He closes his eyes. The last sound. The mighty smoke stack barreling down his back.
The Girl Who Looked Like She Needed Two Boyfriends
By Burnt Paper Girl – Based on a true story
Her hair was bright pink Her eyes were deep blue How she liked to think And make veggie stew She adored this boy His name was Andy He made things from soy He was real dandy They were both quite content Both perfectly fine Their love – heaven sent Like strong blood red wine But then one dark day Walking to her car Some boys were at play They chased her real far They wanted a kiss On the hand or lips She was their princess With small slender hips But “No!” she cried out ”I love my Andy! For he is devout And tastes like candy.” ”That doesn’t matter.” One little boy said, ”He is much fatter And I wish him dead!” So Annie (our girl) Drove away real fast Wishing she could hurl Some bombs from Belfast She laughed as she sped Away from those boys Her cheeks were quite red From their kissing ploys The point of this tale Is easy to see Never trust a male Who is three foot three!
by Burnt Paper Girl
Dreams spill from your lips, caramel sweet in their center. I can’t see where they fall but I imagine them pooling together on the floor, gathering in the corners and hiding together under the bed. They shine like piquid gold, or at least what I imagine a gold lammé evening dress would look like if it were liquified. I try to scoop some up in my fingers, to try and stuff them into my pockets so I can sift through them like spare change later on, once you’re far away again. I can’t concentrate when the words are around, when they drip from your open mouth. They glimmer in the corner of my eye, sometimes sidling quickly away when I look directly at them
You words, they weren’t always this way. At times they were like frozen razors, traipsing their way across my arteries. In the beginning they started a wildfire that grew from somewhere in my belly and spread to the tips of my ears and toes. They could be like vines around my wrists, or like an ankle-biting hungry cat. They could be so many things for me.
I stop and remember to listen to what those shining dreams are. They’re so beautiful it never seems to matter that they never solidify. Just that they were spoken is enough. I wonder which one of your brain whorls they came from. Which chemical reacted with what nerve to create such hopeful poetry.
Your eyes grow darker when you go on like this, as if what you say must tap all of your brightness to become a reality. Can one person be a limitless source of such magic though? Like a restaurant breadbasket – there might be a pause before it’s replenished, but there always seems to be more Tesla? This is more than I wanted to say. It would seem that your verbal glitter has weaved its way to my hand, to my fingers, leading them through the loops and swirls of putting pen to page. This effort alone will keep my own breadbasket empty for days.