French Kiss Your Insomnia
It's a moonless sky
but you can still feel
the wind slow jive
as the leaves on the trees
twerk left and right,
while the night pipes,
a lonely dirge to blood tingling stars
walking through penniless streets
pock marked with
partially naked
noodle pots,
and condom wrappers
this morning's papers
and dozens of lost lottery tickets
that stick to the paving stones
you swallow regret
and stand alone
in the bowels of a living grave
---
7//11 is empty
you're tapping for
a cigarette
a call for help -
witching hour sos
you need to speak to someone,
anyone, but that
stray cat
yowling for scraps
"Hello," your voice
rattles in between
shelves of Twinkies
and lo cal cookie dough
the original twilightshow
--
a chalky faced man appears
dusted with orange fuzz
and rejection lines
pastes on a strictly 9-5, work clerk smile
---
you slide the smokes on the counter
you don't feel like a clock in wash out number
for a minute, you feel everything's alright
and you want to tell him the truth about
all your nothings,
but your mouth's clamped tight
with invisible ties
metal ribbons
that bind
you sigh and say
"Thanks," and hand
over the cash.
Back outside, the air
respires with resignation
and the tang of Indian spice
but you can still feel
the wind slow jive
as the leaves on the trees
twerk left and right,
while the night pipes,
a lonely dirge to blood tingling stars
walking through penniless streets
pock marked with
partially naked
noodle pots,
and condom wrappers
this morning's papers
and dozens of lost lottery tickets
that stick to the paving stones
you swallow regret
and stand alone
in the bowels of a living grave
---
7//11 is empty
you're tapping for
a cigarette
a call for help -
witching hour sos
you need to speak to someone,
anyone, but that
stray cat
yowling for scraps
"Hello," your voice
rattles in between
shelves of Twinkies
and lo cal cookie dough
the original twilightshow
--
a chalky faced man appears
dusted with orange fuzz
and rejection lines
pastes on a strictly 9-5, work clerk smile
---
you slide the smokes on the counter
you don't feel like a clock in wash out number
for a minute, you feel everything's alright
and you want to tell him the truth about
all your nothings,
but your mouth's clamped tight
with invisible ties
metal ribbons
that bind
you sigh and say
"Thanks," and hand
over the cash.
Back outside, the air
respires with resignation
and the tang of Indian spice
Saira Viola is a critically acclaimed writer, poet, satirist, song lyricist and creator of literary technique sonic scatterscript - much of her work is infused with social commentary, and philosophical arcs. Her work has featured in among other zines and presses: Push, Crabfat, International Times, Dissident Voice, Artvilla, Poetry Times, The Cannon Mouth, The Kitchen Poet, Clockwise Cat, and longsword press.
Her poem "Flowers of War," features in The Stop The War Coalition
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