Major Deadhead.

Night of the
living dead
has nothing

on me,
I am the

ultimate zombie,
my flesh decomposing

love songs,
while I rot in

the cavity of

your absense.

A mannequin 
who stumbled

through a window

of opportunity shattered.

I wander

the graveyards
of long dead hopes,
eyes vacant,

bruised heart
running on

the stagnant fumes
of the faint scent

of your perfume.

I haunt

the places
we used

 to frolic,
a lovaholic

chasing ghosts.

I become nothing,
a faded

image from
a sun drenched polaroid,
the eraser

crumbs from a
love letter never sent.
I crumple

in a fetal
ball of flesh,
left in

a dumpster
just east of your
empty arms.









From The Swirl Of A Greasy Spoon.


In the bitter dregs
of a love cooled,
whether through the
grounds of divorce,
or the acidic aftertaste
of infidelity one finds,
the cupping hold
of another drained,
emptied, indigestible.

An unclean vessel
with no perks,
wherein the soul
finds an icy brew
of sorrow that once
knew warmth each morn.

Love requires just
the right amounts
of sweetness stirred
between two without
the taste of another
spoiling the heated bliss,
with lipstick stains
marking one's mug
of smug deceit.

Life is a cafe,
where one can sample,
the liquid warmth
of any passions blended,
but when one

makes this choice
a price must be paid,
leaving a table for one,
cloaked in

sad poems penned
in the winter of a love,
where hopes are tabled,
all pride is swallowed,
and only emptiness ensues.









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Micky Dee profile image

Micky Dee 6 years ago

You know- I live in the Empty Arms Hotel!

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