Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved. I dream fear in radical light shape and shadow— our night sun and day moon know the blood sky the bone wind the muscle and flesh rain the earth-weight traps and prisons where our slippery slopes are built too high on circles of madness which I journey to often
The humid air stung his eyes. He hated how the steaminess assaulted his throat and made it hard to breathe. He rarely walked, but Dr. Ford said his body needed the exercise if he wanted to get better. The backside of the park was a good place to begin. No one needed to see him
The war and rain are long; our patience is gone and burns much faster in the zone. The war and rain are long; our broken bones and lullabies char the path to your home where your war torn love bears a daily weight for years alone. The war and rain are mean; their dirty green
Week 1 Alone Silence in my bedroom, but not in my bed Naughty aching, electric steam I lie ready, fingers pressing hot Shivers come to me inside the warm darkness My lips form a perfect O O God O Yes O Yes yes yes yes yes The heightened feeling gets stronger The seconds crash like
Dana skipped out on going to the heavy-metal rock concert. Her mother’s church had her believing that the concert would exhort the crowd to rape and murder. Rock and roll music had always been the catalyst of evil; she’d been told this repeatedly over the years by her mother. Even the innocent-looking Beatles of the
Today at market, shopkeepers showcased brand-new cars and seduced nearsighted and potbellied old men with promises to stop their loneliness. The promises were offers of a future spent speeding on swift wheels. And so the old men were kissed by shiny chrome rubbing their trousers, and were spent dreaming of getting laid upon the smooth
Night falls swiftly on us— It is the secret bits of life to do yourself the way you do— A flash in the sinking sun, Ten thousand years rebounded, Vibrations— It is hell. Wild you are but ripe for life In the gray and raging glee— Nobody likes to die, but it is evening here
It is eventide over my head, like old bourbon in a glass, straight up. We have come shyly as mosquitoes near still water, our flashlights adrift over dark girls in their secret boxes; their nights belong to the wind. The lake loves me in secret. In my canoe I am an enigma from the shore.
Sunday mirrored light of a hot sun reflecting off of brick buildings and parkways where a hospital sits deep brown and yellow in its last degree, fading like the old woman inside dying with a smile on her face, happy to be leaving. But I with a burlesque smile am sad to watch her go.
You are full brazen; Your swollen tan lies crisp on sunbaked sand; You call attention to my snug rounded smooth firm thighs, But you take my breasts in hand instead. Seductive anticipation, You promise me the taste of fried chicken skin; And so my mouth waters all woman— Course and raspy pudding under foot. But