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Chris Marsh

of

Springfield, OH, US

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March 29

by

Chris Marsh

My solemn moisture vexes me
As I wait with what may be called patience
However fleeting.
The backs of their heads look much like fruit spoiling.
Those two women, attractive though they may be,
Look revolting.
With their shiny paint.
Unnatural colour.
So unnatural.

Boiling mind and sizzling eyes
I shift from foot to foot
With what may be called impatience
But probably is not.
The scream behind me startles me
And suddenly I am next.
Suddenly I do not want to be.
I want to be back where I was
With the backs of their heads before me.
With my pointless observations
And my cataract dreams.

"Everything ends," someone said.
That was a long time ago
Being back at the beginning.

I am a screw too big for its nut.
No matter how hard you twist me
I will never fit.
You can push and push
But I will only bleed and scream.
This is not where I belong
At least not today
And in these clothes
And in this state of mind.

That was all then, though.
It is, of course, over
Considering it was nothing:
Complete nonexistence.
It is reality.

I left with their hands at my back
Violently pushing me.
I am sure that it will be bruised
Tomorrow.


My Life

by

Chris Marsh

I am the only living corpse
Daily do I rot.
Often have I tried in vain
To embalm these cold remains.
Still the flesh creeps back and falls
From my pale and fragile bones.
The wind picks up and blows and blows
Scattering the dust called me.
Mummified and free to roam
I think about the days to come
Arriving at one and only one
Solution to my pain:
Life must flow through these veins;
This carcass must be no more.
I believe that hope is there
Hiding 'neath the earth.
That marble billboard with my name
Is where I must stand tall
And begin to dig and dig
Careful not to fall.


The world through the eyes of the squinter

by

Chris Marsh

Popcorn fumes and sunglass notions
Lovers loving and fragrant notions
Bring forth the sigh of gentle completion
Beauty never grew so boldly as now
This thing, this pleasure before me does
Oh but to touch whatever is there
And think and breathe such as beyond
The nature so often formed
In her compatible image
You, over there
The smoke that's rising
Can you tell me where
Where I can find
This bliss I miss
And search for everywhere
But never find?