Writer in San Francisco, CA
Where do the dead and the motionless women go?
Their hearts tremble and dive into the cold realms of
the living, among the skyscraper cities and harsh
outlander farms in distant regions. The elements are
all the same, the heartless living more dead than alive.
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-Alina
Eyes linger on forms misshapen
clouds covering and swallow
a city, a person. Recognize the image,
look harder.
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-Alina
Lips leak words worming
into ears some fall to the floor
wiggling into corners, ready to
die and rot and mold turning
to dust, turning to forgotten
rubbish ready to excavate
in years to come.
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Want access to my rough drafts and special updates? Check out my Patreon!
-Alina
Open doors, loose change
in back pockets clanging loudly
spinning in a hot dryer. Tub, filled with
cold water, a glass of beer lukewarm,
the smell of garbage resting,
occupant at standstill.
Thank you for reading! Please follow or subscribe to read more poems!
Want access to my rough drafts and special updates? Check out my Patreon!
-Alina
Slick back, black hair, greased up
pomeade sculpting adonis hair
a word for the mouth, a kiss for your rear
leather thick and welcoming, ready
to embrace jeans and crisp white T
ragged and raging looking like a
sulky James Dean, my sweet
American classic baby.
Thank you for reading! Please follow or subscribe to read more poems!
Want access to my rough drafts and special updates? Check out my Patreon!
-Alina