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Poetry / Song Of The Coin Eaters

My skin rejects the poison that my tongue invites
So I wear moth wings to cover the welts on my torso.
Kneading my pelt with cracked fingertips
I am awaiting the snap of my spine,
Hurling another vertebrae to the sky,
And yesterday they fed me through rice paper straws
Telling me that I may have to illustrate my death.

A pen with no ink…

This is the blind mire where my sanity runs thin,
Unlike the graphite in my veins
Telling of women who rinse in tureens,
And throw their children into the fog.
They feed their daughters to their sons who,
While tumbling, lose their appetite.

All the while my mouth waters,
But I’m afraid of the grazes.
I have an allergy to everything and nothing,
So I’ll travel to culture my stomach.

I’ve come to this subway station where we wait for our answers to arrive.
The clock hands on our watches have carpal tunnel syndrome,
So we tap our feet on the concrete
While our garments become threadbare with impatience.
The train is on time but so late.

We bemoan the sweat on our wrists.

That which is unspoken can be heard.
The embroidery unwinds beneath me as I sit.
The thin man across has smoky eyes,
I want to feel his rough cheek to learn the story
Of men who seal their lips with sewing needles,
And cry sand storms.
They rub their lips against each other’s chins to maintain eye contact,
And die of dehydration.

My reflection in the train window is nervous
Playing with his hair.
I’ve noticed the moth wings leave the welts apparent.
And while there are other lines to take,
There is no egress.

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Reviews

January 02, 2007

AdRiElLe753

No. of Reviews	Overall Quality	Comment Followup
6	0.0% (0 votes)	16.7%

personal info reviewer stats

Age	Gender	Location	Last Login
18	F	Jamestown, NY	June 12

AdRiElLe753 reviewed Version 1 - Read 100%% of the Item

that was excellent
i looked at it as the pain and fristeration peo[le have – just like the author,
how the ignorance of people with authority or non, can effect someone deeply,
they feel like they are going to die so slowly they will if they keep beign treated that way.
time, like you said about the clock,
keeps going and it gets ’’sick’’ obviopusly not literally, but people should value it – time -
very interesting…

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December 21, 2006

jackknifethug

No. of Reviews	Overall Quality	Comment Followup
56	100.0% (8 votes)	18.4%

personal info reviewer stats

Age	Gender	Location	Last Login
25	M	Fort Drum, NY	October 03

jackknifethug reviewed Version 1 - Read 100%% of the Item

i liked how descriptive this was, although im pretty dense and i dont think i caught on to what you were trying to get across…
kudos for the
puffickly huh-yooge vocabulary, although i found myself getting lost trying to find substance in the wake.
this seems more like lyrics to a really abstract Opeth song, not a poem.
i like it regardless though, i could almost smell the different atmospheres you depicted. the fog, subway, the old man… wicked