You, too soon

You, my decadence of crypt

the blowtorch locust, you

condemning me to

urban jungles,

to the streets of

filth and coconuts

to blisters

and to beg for cabbage soup.

You, seducer;

you, a flesh of ladybug;

you, a curse of blurry aftermaths;

you, a carrot for this ass of me;

you, too soon, too late for me.

A great wordlist to work from -- thank you Shawna :-)

A carpenter apprentice

When you build your home,
carpenter apprenticed, from
its walls to roof, from
the carpets to its paint
carefully selected
(you might think),

and afterwards you invite
some friends for barbecue, and
you’re sitting on your porch
clinging to a lukewarm bottle
silenced from what’s done.

There is a hollow formed inside
an emptiness (a craving)
much like the poet’s empty
notebook begs for ink…
and you wonder (looking at the stars)
if you’ve built your house or if
it is the house creating you.