PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I. Pride



A flagged couplet of trumpets resonates.



Silver-nailed, high-chinned, spine-arched,

and opiate-scented, I smear foreign foot-

prints with stilts. Like an army of seagulls

on high alert for discarded bread scraps,

spectators extend their open, dirty palms

in hopes of catching drops of my linimental

sweat, until their presence begins to fog.



My stilts paced too slowly, for the former-

audience re-appears on the horizon's tail.

My nails loosen, and its surrounding skin

depigments. My spine locks into a slouch.

A sparrow constructs his straw home onto

my shoulder. Where did my footprints go?





II. Envy



A slab of meat slaps the bowl.



The afternoon-strained triceps

collapse to the flavored steam

like a sketched-out demolition

of a neglected tower. Incisors

drift apart until I hear a crinkle.



The triple of window blind slats

crease downward, parting into

the pink of dusk. Like myself,

a figure emerges with a napkin

tucked under his shirt collar.



But I growl, for his bowl is gold-

plated, his napkin -- silky blue,

and his slab of meat -- twice

the size of mine! My animosity

flutters like the raven breaking

inside, skewering his beak into

my slab, and flapping into fog.





III. Wrath



The lid rotates, screeches, and cracks

open simultaneously to a stranger's

grin. A mosquito escapes and implants

its violating proboscis into my tibialis.

Terrified, I stagger as if my flesh were

to spoil into gangrene. My beats peak.



Nails dig into my palm, and streamlets

of crimson ramble down my radialus

like an oil secreted from an engine apt

for combustion. In repentance, he drops

his glass jar, though litters my territory!



I dive onto his thorax into a barbed cliff.





IV. Sloth



Hours are silk scarves used as paper towels.



The cobwebbed window glows with a pair

of angry eyes, fogging to gust-sounding

breaths. The goblin of red sweat finds me

drooped over cushions, unshaven, face

toneless, and reeking like the cigarette

butts littering the floor. I use my exclusive

endeavor -- to flee, but the debris of fabric

awakens, hisses, and wraps like a noose.





V. Greed



The shuffling, dry rubbing, crinkling sound

of finger tips on paper habitually present

a far greater euphoria than its swapped

asset like churned dough ingested priorly

to oven-puffed remains left to grow stale.



But today, I stumble across a pair of stilts,

and chuck the wads at the former holder.



I stilt walk through silk fields, marble floors,

and maple docks until the pegs spear into

a ground infested with roots that sliver up

my thighs, and fasten my arms to thorax.

The town's crisped leaves turn into dollars

that compile around me like angry finches.



A pauper pulls a matchstick from his pocket.





VI. Gluttony



The turnstyle crackles with my forward step.



The handrails lead into a crowded tray line

with serving pans vaporing like a stimulant

gas. I gouge the big spoon like a shovel

exhuming a mass of tepid gunk that plops

over paper plates like an assembly line.

Thereafter, the ridges collapse underneath

a mountain of greased and breaded bliss.



An attendant points me toward a padded

seat and tightens its buckle. Like a beast

salivating, I tear open the plastic package

to jab the eminence, but the utensil snaps.

Alternatively, my fingers sink into the mass

but they adhere to its sudden densification.



The mass digs into my skin and distributes

itself throughout my anatomy. My stomach

quakes like a volcano and dispels a bolus.



Hunger repossess me. I'm getting seconds.





VII. Lust



The high heels clink like a chucked tin

of pheromonal nerve gas, ingulfing/

distorting every dimension except for

the enchanting slopes before me. Lost

even is the distinctive/familiar femme-

scent ritually brushed over my neck

back home. Your ground caves in.



While you float, my tongue extends

from my mouth and stiffens like an asp

desperate to escape from my throat.

The floor below me shuffles toward

you like a giant treadmill belt littered

with cigarette butts and cocktail stains.



I rasp over your skin with taste buds

as if attempting to peel a tangerine

to consume its rind. I turn away to let

your remains spoil. My dose kicks in.