Bed Chips and Cigarettes

By Matt Aguilar


Where, but wildly along a gated path does my mind wonder to the sound of a stick being dragged along the iron in fast hollow clicks in my mind, it bends and ovates, my loneliness wasn’t born of abandonment or neglect, it was acute despair, racked with the sorrows of tear stained graves and the way the names opened like mouths licking lichen to see…
I watched Scorpio
eat the night
as you danced
like Venus
on the shores
of a dream…
Through the night’s heatheness gates; _I thought_
How peculiar, _death_, with its warm comfort of cool dark earth
and memories of warm skies touching life so simply, and I, even simpler to own such grasp…
In the silent embers
of a waking dawn
I long for the dark
when the stars yawn
and the night remembers
your slender touch…
I came upon a dew soaked hill while crows barked at the ash filled sky, the flowers in the quiet meadows were heavy with your scent as the clouds wept hollow in distant bursts, eyes guised in rippled read bedsheets like a book, pages, wind swept and blood soaked, the sea spoke silent of flesh pale sand as the vision disintegrates like trampled leaves, dust blown like a vermilion winter, it settles in her shadow, Raven foot smooth and just as sharp, a levitating dream I keep nested in my twisted tree…
Matt Aguilar is from Grand Rapids Michigan, USA, the youngest of seven children and proud father of one. He’s a poet that touches the soft side of darkness in the likes of Charles Baudelaire with a twist of his own, comfortable in jumping from different genres. He’s a writer with dark undertones of grief, loss and love, a mix of beat set in his love of punk, surrealism and contemporary, a rich flow of seeded feelings in every line.
Twitter @gutterpunkpoet
Instagram @gutter_punk_poet

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