Sunday, 22 June 2014

Triversen #1, a poem by Adam Common

You choleric breath offends me;
Twists once happier guts
Around its vicious screws.

Your relentless mard-arsed stare
Burns only at the walls,
And creeps heat through the edges.

Fidgeting work hewn fingers
Plays tiny little moves
In a pointless, losing game.

Daylight quickly fails.
Sentiment follows the sun,
Vanishing beyond the horizon.

Four in the morning sprints close.
Bundled quilt between us.
I sense your eyes still open.

Nothing good comes of silence.
Our apologies rankle and itch,
Bothering our stubborn bones.

Exhaustion leads to sleep.
Dreams of a phantom always;
A promise meant to keep.

Morning light repairs all wounds.
The bitter engine out of gas, so
We're back to smiles and kisses.

We heal strong, once our vexing love
Has blown an angry load
That turns waning days to ash.

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Friday, 20 June 2014

Click, a poem by Adam Common, poet

The night ends with each sombre click;
I am blighted; hung up on, sad and sick.

They tumble around the tenebrous muck
That clouds the evening; giggling kobolds,
grave goblins all gathered among my junk.

There, you doze. Right there, swimming in it.
Madness abundant, and you're sleeping as if
Nothing is happening, because
Nothing is happening, and I find that
So hard to understand.

Your fingers curl around the sheets,
And your breath comes deep and heavy;
Growing peace from peace
Like it's so simple to do,
Like tiredness means closing your eyes
Can make it all go away.

They twirl.
One of them laughs suddenly.
I jump.

My brow is plowed earth cresting a rise,
Mouth pressed and pursed in to the mattress.
The tingle and ache. The cold air.
The cringe inducing touch of wet hair on
My back, my neck, my face, my thought.
The all-overs leak all over me.

My stomach criss-crossed with the map
Of creased and crumpled sheets.
Still, nothing is happening, because
Nothing is happening, and I find that
So hard to understand.

They tumble around the joyless dusky mire,
That shades the morning, cackling gremlins,
Simpering sprites, digging through my clothes.

The morning comes with a sombre click,
And I am sleeping; exhausted, sad and sick.

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