Tag: David Estringel poems

Poetry

Bitter Fruit From Suicide Trees* by David Estringel

Come, hear us now sing you songs  of truth (and woe)  ‘cross the seventh divide,  the salves and stirrers  of blood  and breasts  that ride the flaming cold  of void  and harpies’ breath, wrapping icy tongues ‘round gnarl and knot  of stiff, blackened fingertips. Take hold of hands (and ponderances upon lips) thorny in their grip  and snap the bones (How the warmth of flesh  brings longing  for days of Summer— a sweet ache) and … Continue reading Bitter Fruit From Suicide Trees* by David Estringel

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Poetry

Midnight Specials by David Estringel

Against an old Chevrolet on Maudlin Street, I smoke a cigarette—hard—chuckling at the hisses and howls of alley cats beneath the butcher shop’s broken neon sign. They flick their tails and prowl about, pestering fellas headed home to cold wives and cold dinners, straight from the misery of their long evening shifts. Persistent, with purrs and claws—smooth as cream—they graze oily pant legs (and thighs) … Continue reading Midnight Specials by David Estringel

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Poetry

Sitting Shiva by David Estringel

Love (this love) has left the room feet first— a procession of embers and ash. Illusions. Delusions. Damnable oxygen thief! So goes the stuff of paper hearts and fiery tongues, of promises—hollow—  past oily lips and teeth that bite,sworn, born to outlive names etchedon gravestones.  Won’t you kill me, softly, with one last kiss? Blitheful consciousness. Walking sleep. Ignorant bliss. Then call the shomer down the street. He really knows his Job. Rip the collar, drape the mirror, pawn the wedding silver. Take your soul home, rockin’ its funerary black, and the stone I gave … Continue reading Sitting Shiva by David Estringel

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Poetry

Frozen Charlotte by David Estringel

Skin, blue,like mistletoe berriesunder her midnight sun,she sways and humsto the tune of firefliesin flightand whispers upon the windthrough bare branches.Night’s chill rests, warm,upon bare shouldersin want of cover, butthe animaand bloodare numb to Winter’s sting.So, she dances,the wreath of Spring,long fallen away,beyond crystalline graspsof icy fingertips(or loving hands).Fallingsilent and still—a night heron frozen, mid-flight—she turns, slowly,to meand the offending glowof yellow lamplighton bedroom walls … Continue reading Frozen Charlotte by David Estringel

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