by Paul Vincent Andrews
her ghost white clavicles
hover over unused thighs
it’s grown quiet now
and you can hear
the neighbors above
screaming, vehement, unbridled
you’re now mad at the first floor screamers
who an hour ago you drowned out
with your own mad midnight music
if an elf lived between
floors, for a transitory enchanted moment
would an angelic harmony
exist in the vacuum between storms
you quickly realize
this is bullshit
and the tenors upstairs
and sopranos down
may at best
create a raga
of cacophony
now you’re mad
at them
how dare they
intrude on this quiet
moment
you consider
telling her the story
again
the shrill mousetrap
sounds may shut
them up
you stop thinking
look up
at the praying mantis
in front of you
her green eyes
praying, she chokes
softly on her breath
you look up
you can’t tell the story again
and head upstairs
someone needs
to say something
to the neighbors
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i hate first floors (in general)...but screaming is a different story...
ReplyDeleteneighbors make tolerance possible...but then again, so do children...
an elf told me once that he preferred new york city balconies over brushfire bushes (on fire) in darkness...
the neighbors told me to say something to you...but i forgot what it was on my way to your door...it didn't matter any/how/way...
by the time you woke up, i'd fallen asleep on the hallway floor...locked away in a dream of 1-2-3 beats...
ahhhhh...there is always a Sum Won who's Lost and still loses...who's still Write in Cunt/rolling (even the things) he refuses to do....and then chooses NotTo/orTo...