Good Happy Poem

by | Jan 14, 2022 | Robert Vaughan - January Day 1

“It’s a hard armor we wear waiting for trains and saviors to happen.”–Lorri Jackson

Let this rummage of uterine captivity undress itself until years of a life unchord my spine, rot the teeth, and styrofoam the skin. Alcohol recognizes me. Drugs are just closer cousins. Basement vantage breaks open gray through the bruised pane in a neighborhood in a city. Blurred tattoos, hairspray, and leakage of brute rage blister some kind of forward movement. Anyone watch the act of change scare itself? I’m fluent in gaping cracks poling me with swelling innards and transient bleeds.

No, I did recognize time grit my tailspin in a sick embrace. It sustains me. The dead flower collection is a preamble to beauty’s naked leer of misery. Doesn’t everyone simmer daylight until it evaporates, wait for the burner of yellow sky to swelter the inner thighs? Sticky and half-baked hope of what becomes just another pock-marked skeleton drunk on its own marrow.

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