The Last Time

It’s just like the last time –
worse though, I think
because nothing comes to mind
mind you, when I’m minding
my business as intended.
Emptiness bubbles up
from an empty well and I
wonder, well, how can that be?
There’s always something
in the emptiness, I mean.
I blame it on the happy.
Casually dying –
freely, absolutely.

I don’t mind it much, though.
It subsides like
fire on scattered weeds,
no place for me to feed.
And that’s just fine, I think.
Right, just fine. Yet, so
unlike the last time.

 

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2019

Gibberish

I am another body perpetuated in a litany of the same old-
	same old words littered on stolen images. Hackneyed
like the rest of you. My words run as deep as the waste bin,
pooling at the edges -
	Did you know
freckles become the reminders of stupidity
built en masse by the eyes who adored me - relied on the way I
can open my body like the atmosphere. Catching fire
to pollutants - the way it burns reminds me of home. 
	I have a secret
that I can only spell here. This place that's gone
cold with dead quotations - wisdom lost on misspelled repeats. 

I still want to open. To bloom red against the darkening sky
and hit the Earth until I am one with it.
				
					Comfort them when they weep.



© Audrey Rosengreen, 2019

A Few Haiku

Parched, pink, supple skin

tastes of salt and strawberry.

Like countless late nights.

—–

Fingers dance as one –

mirrored hands like those around

us. We are ghosts here.

——

Soft moans carry sound

through tepid summer nights. You

birth fire* to the air.

 

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2019

____________________________________________________________________________________________

 

*I understand the ambiguity of the word fire being used as both a one syllable word or two. In this case it’s one… so it fits of course. : P

 

 

 

 

Chair 3

The walls aren’t usually white
    these days
creams + browns like mocha
hang Jesus from the corner
   of our eyes.
Death reminds us of its cruelty
in benign tumors + loving arms
+ gaping palms + meaty pincushions.
if we’re worthy of Purgatory’s
feng shui can we eat
the medicated bounty of
   this place
built in God’s unspoken name.

I’m here again. not even the cots
   want me
violated by my head space
unsettled by the hues
welcoming + regurgitated
coffee grounds on waxy stucco
of my repeating coffin.   
   I see him
beautiful + bleached
content to idle
in the perpetuity of decay +
tiny sobs from broken souls.   



©️Audrey Rosengreen, 2018

Broke

I spend my words on sorrow
immeasurably so – unbalanced
in wasting all I have on
paintings of an unknown end.
And I wonder – wander through
a moment of pastels in floral,
warmed by her glow – The Sun—
embedded into mornings unseen by me
yet felt in dreams I’ve yet to dream.

Is this me? A place where
I am bent – splintered at the sides
& open wholly for all to watch me reaching –  
the dusk pulling at my pockets for
the rest of my voice, unwritten.

© Audrey Rosengreen, 2018