Amberlee Carter

Poem by Amberlee Carter

..Shaving My Legs

….shaving my legs to enya,
it makes me feel clean.
you’ve got free long distance-
you should visit more often.
so much is so easily lost in the space
between your tongue and my heart-
you lick my breasts well you know

i wonder
are you still thinking over
that meaningless thing i said a week ago-
(about the other guy and the other girl)
who would be us-
he would say never and she, forever
as they parted lips thighs and hips-
Hollywood will never capture the pulsating ebb of love,
but they can fake it well.

i heard your voice yesterday,
as you passed through my dreambed-
my stomach resembles a fish bowl,
and your words are like virgin goldfish about to orgasm.

my thoughts are on my love,
the calm morning that woke before me-

i slithered from beneath my sticky sheets,
all reckless and abandoned,
counting the penance for last night’s sins.

there has to be more than this:
sour coffee and DefPoetryJam reruns-
while my love showers

in the next room

in another city

.Changing The Color To Sunrise

pages of poetry scatter

absent of direction ‘cross the floor,
tiptoe through the abstract path,
cool cement and disturbed titles-
meditating and focused hard
on every endeavor of ball and heal
careful not to summon the demons
between the lines- I am haunted by words,
scared mindless into repetitions,
basic survival methods-
not too lean on the meaning,
not too thick on the flow,
equally structuring the verses to burn.

my eyes seep petals of ink.
you have never seen the rib
torn from my cage,
fractured and shaven, a perfect fine line-
the weapon of scripture.

I would have named you myth
if not for your undeniable proof-
the smell of ancient tongues
and petrified wisdom
drip from your pores-
red lettering on napkins,
the obituaries of every muse
you’ve resurrected-
works of genius and artistic flaw,
you had a name for every slanted ‘ I ‘
and misprinted brush stroke of faith.

leaping and jumping in your madness,
the whole world is mad-
they all want to savor your flavor
and status themselves along with us-
‘the mad poets, generation of asylum’

and while we crush stars for sabbath day kicks
they’re still in the shadows
interpreting the crickets-
they hear the chaos of thunder
we defined as God’s whisper,
who will name these nights after our hours?

and now the beginning of
the first half of a new century-
more time and we’re passing by without
ironing out the mended edges or dotting the eyes
of this uneven circle we’re spinning-
the imbalanced wash cycle,
it’s never going to end and we’re never going to be clean-
it revolves around our laundry
and we’ll never turn in
the same awkward unison as the rest of the hungry world.

your prisms dilate and focus
hard on solving the symbols of gene and divine chalk-

..Changing The Color To Sunrise

(you know who you are)

pages of poetry scatter

absent of direction ‘cross the floor,
tiptoe through the abstract path,
cool cement and disturbed titles-
meditating and focused hard
on every endeavor of ball and heal
careful not to summon the demons
between the lines- I am haunted by words,
scared mindless into repetitions,
basic survival methods-
not too lean on the meaning,
not too thick on the flow,
equally structuring the verses to burn.

my eyes seep petals of ink.
you have never seen the rib
torn from my cage,
fractured and shaven, a perfect fine line-
the weapon of scripture.

I would have named you myth
if not for your undeniable proof-
the smell of ancient tongues
and petrified wisdom
drip from your pores-
red lettering on napkins,
the obituaries of every muse
you’ve resurrected-
works of genius and artistic flaw,
you had a name for every slanted ‘ I ‘
and misprinted brush stroke of faith.

leaping and jumping in your madness,
the whole world is mad-
they all want to savor your flavor
and status themselves along with us-
‘the mad poets, generation of asylum’

and while we crush stars for sabbath day kicks
they’re still in the shadows
interpreting the crickets-
they hear the chaos of thunder
we defined as God’s whisper,
who will name these nights after our hours?

and now the beginning of
the first half of a new century-
more time and we’re passing by without
ironing out the mended edges or dotting the eyes
of this uneven circle we’re spinning-
the imbalanced wash cycle,
it’s never going to end and we’re never going to be clean-
it revolves around our laundry
and we’ll never turn in
the same awkward unison as the rest of the hungry world.

your prisms dilate and focus
hard on solving the symbols of gene and divine chalk-

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