Tag: denver

i got drunk and pissed on the side of buffalo exchange – ghost #62

~ South Broadway Press ~ 2 Comments

Hi. I am not dead as of yet

I don’t think.

I feel as if I still have bus passes to validate.

Cold streets to walk down in Denver
they say that walking around Wash Park is as hazardous to your health
as a pack of cigarettes
I haven’t researched it really
but it’s believable
as in it’s probably true
as in the park is trying to kill me
as in I really gotta take a minute to vote
and I should really take some time to doll myself up a bit.

Do you think that
when you die
there’s a stat sheet?

How many hours of my life did I spend on social media?
Masturbating?
Who was the king or queen actor of your porn history?
Let’s take a look at your Google searches.
Could you please pay your Englewood Library late fees before you go?

I got drunk once and pissed on the side of Buffalo Exchange.
To be honest it was exhilarating.
It felt like a statement but I’m not sure it was as simple as me defaming
Buffalo Exchange or claiming it as my own
though the double-edged sword there is certainly very interesting.

Halloween feels like getting drunk on Satan to get through Christmas.

Thanksgiving feels like impatience to get to Christmas so we eat.

All of these holidays feel like clever ways to fight seasonal depression.

All of the seasonal depression maybe is a necessary decompression.

A body in motion stays in motion
so when in constant motion
there is a necessity for a body
to somehow adapt and find ways
to recharge.

I’m falling in love with someone every week.

I’m letting go of someone every week.

I want hot cocoa but not the calories.

I think I just want someone to read my poems once I am dead.

submit to soboghoso.

ghost selfie – alexandra naughton

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Alexandra Naughton is based in Richmond, California. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of Be About It Press, established in 2010. She is the author of six poetry collections including You Could Never Objectify Me More Than I’ve Already Objectified Myself (Punk Hostage Press, 2015), I Will Always Be In Love (Paper Press, 2015), and I Wish You Never Emailed Me (Ghost City Press, 2016). Her first novel, American Mary, was published by Civil Coping Mechanisms in 2016. Her latest collection of short stories, Rapid Transit, was published in March 2018 by Nomadic Press.

spells – ghost of the scarab

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she took me to spells and what i mean is
she took me to the edge of her bed
and draped legs on each side of me
lips on each side of me
eyes preying/praying outside of me
tongue pushed inside of me
and she pressed down on top of me
hips swinging billy idol fast beat swing
and immediately i wanted to write a letter
to whatever cosmic collision birthed her
and thank said cosmic collison
for what was truly her work in her
unadulterated presentation of honest soft lips
as dizzy she took me to spells and back to rock
and roll and some more and finding myself pulling
subtly at her clothes with my fingers
and my teeth she demanded me to be honest
with the intentions of my fingers and my teeth and pulled me in
fingers crawling back to you to reach for what lies beneath
and damn damn bangarang clothes strewn true on the floor
each deep breath flooding the floor and each deep sweat
a reminder that sometimes brunch tastes like silk rope
and sweet death and god damn she had me singing baby
straight from my chest and baby, you had me tied down
by your teeth as we started to reach and we started to
reach and we started to end and can you really sleep beside a dream?
wherein you find that there can be so much light in the dark?
and wherein you find that when you’ve been fighting and fighting
and fighting for a sense of reality
that maybe what you’re truly craving
is a taste of magic

she took me to spells
and i died so many times
in the confines
of her room

so soon after she gave me
a sweet tour of the space
she was claiming
as her own.

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water me down – ghost #11

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When they tell you through
The television that
You are still not quite enough
I stew my own tender meats inside me

I watch as you preserve yours
To be devoured in private
Your eyes are kitchen windows
I am looking up at you
from inside the pot

When you ask
What’s getting to me
I become a soup kitchen
Ask you to taste it in front of me
Does it need more salt?

The anger makes a fine marinade
It often spoils the whole batch
Emotion will do that
Dilute the point
Onlookers eat me up
Leave me with only broth.

figure 8 – fm ghost

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We could skate around
the issue like a figure 8
each falling down forever
the holes of a sideways shape

Where would we be
in this infinity dream?
backward into eternity
or forward toward unknown

We could cut our palms, make a pact
to help each other usher change
mix & match our blood
but the colors stay the same

We could do nothing
simply take a breath
swallow all the stones
we’ve placed within our throats

Truth is we tend to complicate things
in most cases make the bleeding worse
from a fight that isn’t there
to wanting the last word to get in first

What would we do if we
were what we claimed to be?
tumble into eternity
or headlong toward unknown

Falling forever

Into infinity

Sideways always shaping

Who we claimed to be

found wikipedia poem – the french destroyer bambara

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commercial energy / varying order and similar error constants / floor to collapse / derived from the equation / throughout the history of pine / totally nude erotic dancing is expressive conduct / an optimal balance of biological control attributes / ixnay on the hombre / she exhibited her etchings / many people who committed minor offences were executed by him / the project on middle east democracy / the war continues / interlopers from the future responsible for this / to support any government / to form a new coalition / radio stations and translators / purchase and drain / trials and friendlies / the french destroyer bambara /

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today i’m definitely feeling like the forest – ghost #13

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today i’m definitely feeling like the forest.
like despite the fascist metal shadow of one thousand windows
i am still just the forest.
just the truth.
just the closest thing to unadulterated.
pure and untainted i wander into myself and understand this is endless.
i don’t have to be anything other than a forest unto myself.
and there is grace in acknowledging that i know that i am clearly dying.
to watching my roots pull up by the insatiable grasp of my limbs.
earthworms digging in the beds of my feet.
i am not the city.
not today.
today i’m definitely feeling like the forest.

submit to soboghoso.