Cityscape

April 19, 2012 - Leave a Response

by Elexa Rose

men chasing men
like stags
dripping out
of water logged rooms
that smell like
stale whatifnots.
and very young girls
tearing up paper,
small receipts
they drop
and stuff
and clogg the drains up.
i am walking.
past: hopefully through
these mellow townspeople.
i do not wish
to touch their ink
or stain
my pale
wasting cheeks
with cheap red lipstick
kisses.
i watch them
without looking at them,
eyes straight,
view curved and bent.
my footsteps mimic
the haste in my
heart, without will
i slow it with dark
smoke: my lungs.
i cough, and they notice me.

You

April 16, 2012 - Leave a Response
by Elexa Rose
 
Oh you, oh you,
the way you crack
your fingers backwards.
Too thick glasses,
too big for your face.
I am the one from a far
that has become
that quick little thumb rub
on the corner of your eye
when the day gets late.
Every short grumble or
chuckle rings clear
in between my ears.
My eyes, my skin, my head
is all drawn to your constant
pushing up of shirt sleeves
just because you can’t sit still.
I cannot help but watch,
other sounds dissolve when
my head runs over what I hope,
what I have to keep hope in.
Every day I bring the only thing.
And every day I resent
the moment you will walk home
again.

Onion Eyes

April 16, 2012 - Leave a Response
by Elexa Rose
 
I see a girl with onion eyes
she whistles and blinks
the layers away.
Soft white layers of chiffon
float around her body,
not quite slim enough to be
slender.
 
Her onion eyes, they roll around
in thick sockets.
She shields them from sunlight,
moonlight, dull little lamp lights,
tea lights and flames.
She blinks, downward,
watching her thin skirts slip.

Smile

March 23, 2012 - Leave a Response
by Elexa Rose
 
I think she’s trying
to smile at me
over the top of red-wine lips,
somehow trying to lock
those heaving eyes
with mine that flit
like how we once did at a
high school disco.
We danced like finger-tips
that hold the glass rip
and we sip
and we make-believe
that we are smiling
quietly.

Spoken

March 18, 2012 - One Response
by Elexa Rose.
 
When I spoke,
I said it as if-
And those words
That are nothing,
If not-
And I stare into
The mirror, for hope.
But she steals my glassed face.
When I speak,
I hope it’s like-
When I reconcile.

Candles

March 10, 2012 - 2 Responses
by Elexa Rose
 
Hot wax is kind of
like love,
only hotter
and soft enough
to squeeze.
 
Hot wax is like a
kind of silence,
only it cools faster
and I can push
it away afterwards.

Picture Frame

March 7, 2012 - One Response
by Elexa Rose
 
And it’s like the space
where a picture frame used to hang.
Still and steady,
large and proud.
 
And it’s like printing
on low ink.
The words fade
and struggle to be read.
 
And it’s like my lips
lost the longing for words,
like the words
That I held back.

Cliff Top

March 5, 2012 - Leave a Response
by Elexa Rose
 
Maybe it’s the black of her eyes.
Or maybe her eyes aren’t black at all.
Maybe they are too large and
they look too innocent.
Maybe they hide secrets.
 
Maybe it’s how small life seems
When I’m lying in half-sleep
Pretending to count sheep.
Maybe I’m not pretending.
Maybe my head isn’t ticking.
 
Maybe I can hear doors slamming.
Maybe I want to hear doors slamming.
Maybe my ears hear and
Perhaps my head does not.
Maybe I hear chairs shunting.
 
It is a possibility and for that we clock in
And clock out again at the end
Of a long hard day.
Maybe it wasn’t a long day.
And maybe it was too easy.

Urgent:

February 29, 2012 - One Response
by Elexa Rose
 
I can only
write
when there’s nothing
left
to say.
Decide
what to do.
I’m waiting.

Dear Rose

February 29, 2012 - Leave a Response
by Elexa Rose
 
My mother asked for a glass of water.
My father asked for a glass of water.
My sister asked for a glass of water.
So I collected three of the same
tall, colourless glasses, and I
filled them with cold water.
Balanced between my awkward clasp
I manoeuvred past the door, which
I should have left open, and
I knocked my little toe on
my way through,
jolting me slightly, I lurch
forward a little to try to counteract
the rock of the water, to
save a little splash.
 
Just as I arrive, I see your eyes
and I know, perhaps you do not,
that you have it all in your eyes
to smash, and to crack, and to break
the glass and the water it wraps around.
I try to put the drinks down,
on to the side table.