Poetry

traumatic stress post disorder

/ mbrazfieldm / 13 Comments

the part that is peace within myself is a

      tiny girl humming bird

here and there can’t stop for air

   i’m not prepared to answer why

i can only sing at the bottom of my lungs

   so high so high that no one can hear

the sky and the flowers don’t deserve another

song of sorrow and hurt to add to the menu

    of those souls who are caged in their own

stories of struggle torture and pain

    nor do i know when i will stop fluttering about

looking for somewhere to rest my thoughts and calm

      my fears of getting caught in the nets

          of monsters

oracle

/ mbrazfieldm / 8 Comments

it’s not that i am being difficult Majesty

my people have no food to eat

not a pond to wash their tired feet

and my sons they squabble in vain

my daughters they struggle in pain

Majesty all i‘m saying is that my words

should not offend you as you have told

me always speak truth

but i have realized that i

do not agree that my tongue should be tied

and my soul deprived of freedom

to be who i am to soar to the heavens

or to delve in the deep

i do not agree that my limbs

should be caged if i have to

wage war against the enemies of my innocent babes

i don’t mean to be ungrateful

and rebellious at times

but when my children are cut down

by your Princes and clowns

i have to attack with my voice and my heart

through words that are poison

to your ego fueled mind

the sergeants of time

will slowly creep by

and carve out a zone

where i might just languish

in your punishing hate

but don’t turn your back

on those who adore you the most

because with every flower and offering

and purse full of coins

that they render to you

will only weigh you down

to a perdition of soul of spirit and crown

you can shut my lips and burn my body down

but it’s just a body a bag made of vanishing flesh

however Majesty you cannot neglect

the truth in their eyes

the strength in their breath

the beauty in their spirit

their righteous battle call

when the war rages out

the wicked will fall

magpie in the rain

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

i never saw a bird in microfiche before

and it crushed me

the sky outside has been clear for days

and i’m blind to it

the people above can see i’m trapped

and they tisk me

i never noticed me in the dispensary window before

and i despise me

the cathedral’s bell keeps clanging on

and it reminds me

the wings of life have withered off me

and i’m falling

my mind it soars just a magpie in the rain

some time back on Franklin ave.

/ mbrazfieldm / 10 Comments

i love it when youre mad at me

and i try to lick your salty nipple

as you mutter in uncertainty

in between gulps of rye

i love it when we play house

you smack my ass

unzip your pants

and demand me to please

i love it when you ask of me

about politics and i say

i dont know i cant relate

but ive got to go and serve

the broken today

i love it when you yell at me

i shoot to the moon smiling

nodding on the fourth

like when Idris met Azrael

it breaks my heart

to come home

while youre lying on the floor

Gulliver tied down by

tiny airport bottles

i hate it when

i make you cry

after my lips no longer blue

call out your name

right before vomiting

my weakness you on your back

cock hard me on top

losing myself without regard

but right before

i come bouncing back to you

turning my tide

your palms on my thighs

laughing as we die

cover my eyes on your way out

it hurts me when i know

that i will be leaving

in a few hours to get away

from you

ill really miss

that ethereal tiny kiss

gifted from you to me

upon my forehead

when you asked to marry me

there really is no comfort

knowing that i love you

two grotesquely beautiful

liars contending

upon the mirrors of our eyes

in plain sight

/ mbrazfieldm / 7 Comments

humming birds cooed outside your tiny trailer

not a coincidence

French café table coffee can ash tray

the drying bamboo shoots

tender green leaves into the cool air

some nights looking

out from the yellow laundry room window

the sparks from the

slender lit cigarette mimics the fire flies

that live in

the imagination of a confused neglected child

old brown eyes know

they are watched and relish the thought

Zorya

/ mbrazfieldm / 7 Comments

there she is

bright bold with golden arms

the lady who comes to purify my blood

just 2 hours and 34 minutes in the past

did the he moon with his mariachi suit

cry with me because he is a gentleman

we had clinked tequila glasses

while he kissed my hands

but with each step Zorya takes toward my window

i’ve come to prefer the strong espresso roast

dark heavy smoldering like your heart

you prefer to sleep

after quaking and quivering through my mounds

and when your eyes come open wide your armor

will cover you again

as i remain the faithful wench

in the china cup where the gold has chipped off

filled with mud and some manipulative tears

my cigarette will drown in sorrow

so i walk into the bathroom

to wash your sheep’s odor

off my she wolf fur

English class

/ mbrazfieldm / 11 Comments

oh hey teacher no i’m no poet

         no need to give me your Conklin pen

i’m just a kid from down the nickel loud mouth

     skidded knees cigarette boozer

         blood upon her sleeve

reveler of sunsets  procrastinator in the dawn

i am the honey of her thighs

       and the pulsing bang bang of his gun

    but hey psssst mister i ain’t no poet

bawdy as all hell quiet when i need to be

      if some angel fell in hell

i’ll go fetch em’  Darla Hood impersonator   feeler of the waste

      inside their eyes corny graffiti kids

         longing for the it apps to arrive

liquor store dwelling social services auditor

      of her majesty the street  but mister

i assure you mister i ain’t no poet

     AC/DC cranker upper Curtis Mayfield fuck play it louder

poker player chopper rider star watcher  little fighter

     hey man call me foolish   lady riff raff   heart on fire

          but hey seriously   i am what He says i am

            so yeah mac i ain’t no poet

my Paul

/ mbrazfieldm / 9 Comments

just tonight can we stare at the lamp lights

     gleaming on the surface of the puddles in the street

tonight ange triste will you stand still

    so as to peer upon your waifly silhouette

without it floating from my bandaged hands

    can i be your Paul and place my ear atop your heart

and etch in little kisses i love you on the

renegade palpitations there about

       tonight no wine no smokes no laughing hard

no sucker punches no living the life no mosher pits

                   no altered minds

      just a little silence with you ange betwixt my arms

instead of me amidst your legs  

    you don’t always have to run away   scared little bird

pecker and picker of my nerves  and priestess of my vacuumed        

                        universe 

    one time before i leave and i lose you to the vampires

middle c

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

when the dirt on my shoes

starts to click the pavement

i go to the park

pray to the squirrels

bow to the trashcan

gambling that at the bottom

will be a half eaten idea

that i can sell

when the anger in my soul

starts to pound out my heart

i go to that tent

beg to the man

bow to the pipe

give away the music in my bones

for a hope that i will stop the pain

when there is a nowhere and no rainbow

and my shadow trades places with me

i go in my head

get lost in the wave

of no way out symphonies

so i turn in for the day

to welcome in the tepid night

and wait for that clicking to begin

red eagles on Matthias’ arms

/ mbrazfieldm / 12 Comments

she stands in the night

quiet in the day swaddling my thoughts

through her windows that have seen moons

peeked at by La Baker and the dust bowl troops

the starlight beaming on my smoke rings

and the ancient flower wall cover

comes alive again crawling with suspicions

Perry Como and at times Lead Belly

fill my ears until they bloom

so coursing through my veins

the bewitching compounds of soul kill

silver on the mirror fades away

and in tandem we float away together

the me on the chair mustang hair gray

the me in the glass chipping off her hours

before my lids close

the pupils pin catch a brown fluffy moth

clutching with sticky little feet

to rusty rain gutters that hang

to her bricked flanks by grace and bliss

i hear the moth breathing in out in out

to the rhythm of surreal electric sweaty nights

but JESUS SAVES only twice

as Papa and i drink absinthe and champagne