Three Poems by David Estringel
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Sucking the Marrow (originally published by Writ in Dust)
Crackling of hungry drags from flaming cigarette cherries. Tinkling of ice cubes from sweaty glasses, thirsty for heavy splashes of gin. Ringing from the silence of words that have had their due. Waiting… Waiting… Waiting… Crackling. Tinkling. Ringing. Waiting… Waiting… Waiting… for the soothing balm of “I’m leaving.” |
Old Filament, Broken Bulb (originally published at Expat Press)
A white bolt from above rips through the clouds before our eyes-- an epiphany-- showering cuts upon the kitchen table, releasing bad blood, testing our guile and gristle. |
Blue Sky through Bare Branches (previously published at Foliate Oak Magazine)
I look, upwards, at blue sky through bare branches, the dewy wet of cool, green grass on my back, clinging, sinking, pulling me further away from this place. I long for the stillness of being found only in the shedding of this meat that plants me here. Oh, to touch those spaces in-between. To graze my lips upon that azure skin. O, opiate kiss, Like a stone, skipping across limpid pools. let me caress that face with my lips and sink into your oblivion. Your everything! But I am bound, here, by bare branches, between me and a beckoning sky. Biting my lip to taste blood, I long to smear red what God has painted blue. |
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And the Beat Goes On
Dropping from the air upon ears like paper blotters on willing tongues, raging at the bloodlessness of cardboard cutouts against a shrinking sky, through psychedelic lenses let me seeeee, let me beeeee the pulse of silent rage that rails against the vulgar machine with words that organize, legitimize, minimize, super-size, tranquilize, proselytize, tantalize, infantilize, sexualize, stigmatize the suckled teats of long-conditioned truths. Poking the bear, disturbing the seas of featureless beige, stirring the comatose anima with battle-cries of sight and sound that pierce dusty eardrums like sterling icepicks, repressed wants teeeeem, solemn faces beeeeeam, liberated in the warmth of a sun that breaks just beyond the horizon on coffee-house stages, rousing thoughts to gestate, ruminate, conjugate, propriate, sublimate, fornicate, obliterate, determinate, propagate, exfoliate dangerous visions, birthed from the unfetteredness of a purple haze. Fueling the scribblings of furious hands upon white sheets with whisky and cigarettes, Making, naked, ugly underbellies of the angst-ridden and inflamed with the glorious promises of their ecstatic treasure-trails, let’s revel in the coolness of poetry’s heeeeeat, indulged in pollen-dusted skin so sweeeeet within the honeyed tangles of poets’ asymmetries to detoxify, dulcify, intensify, demystify, purify, glorify, magnify, beautify, electrify, sanctify our bodily streams of light that sugar lips and candy the fingertips. Tearing away at the fabric, unraveling, woven from Gloopstick youth and plasticine smiles, repulsing at the hoards in their mindless quests for extra-flavor and double-coupon days, looking for a steeeeeal, wanting to feeeeel, as hollow dollars crumble to coins when plopped upon unsated palms and countertops. Think! Think! Think! Think! Think! Think! Think! Think! Think! Think! We are on the brink of the Fall of the American Empire. Dig. |
Kiss Me, Again, Again, and Again (previously published at Terror House Magazine)
The coppery taste of meat beneath your sweet breath lingers like a penny on the tip of my tongue. Heads or tails? Can’t lose-- Lucky me. My equilibrium’s fucked raw, as my hands drink-in the warm curvature of your hips. O, glorious spit-- a little dab will do ya-- streaked red and hot, never take me from this place, leaving me haunted by the ghost of that breath-- your Heaven, your Hell-- that leaves me… quivering. Words can’t capture what’s smeared on this cheek by fingers, sticky and sweet-- so why try. Kiss me, again, again, and again, in that white muslin dress of thigh-stretched daisies that roll and grin like morning shadows, smiling at secrets hidden in dark places. |
David Estringel is an avid reader, poet, and writer of fiction, creative non-fiction, & essays. His work has been accepted and/or published by Specter Magazine, Literary Juice, Foliate Oak Magazine, Terror House Magazine, Expat Press, 50 Haikus, littledeathlit, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Route 7 Review, Setu Bilingual Journal, Paper Trains Literary Journal, The Elixir Magazine, Soft Cartel, Harbinger Asylum, Briars Lit, Open Arts Forum, Cajun Mutt Press, Former People Journal, The Ugly Writers, Writ in Dust, Cephalopress, Twist in Time, Merak Magazine, Salt Water Soul, Cherry House Press,Subterranean Blue Poetry, Printed Words, Sunflower Sutras, Tulip Tree Publishing, Salt, PPP Ezine, Digging through the Fat, Haiku Journal, and The Good Men Project. He is currently a Contributing Editor (fiction) at Red Fez, Lead Editor/columnist at The Good Men Project, and an editor/writer at The Elixir Magazine. David can be found on Twitter (@The_Booky_Man) and his website at http://davidaestringel.com.
