Going to use this thread to dump some of my unpublishable short poems. No titles, so I'll just number them:

#1

August ought to pass by quick.
Even trees grow bored.
Shadowed hands on vanquished knees –
keep the gun alive.
“Eager men in eagle clothes,”
withered roses scream.

#2

Grasping for the cement straws,
the garish puppet blinded.
Owls in his hat took flight.
Yellow mice whispered in his earhole.
Iron fountains mangled in the street –
the bombs so bright his sight was
lost, and fever struck his tangled heartstrings.

#3

Wreaths and cucumbers in fallen leaves
on crystal shores. No shackles for infants
and no dogs with arrows.
Only a heartbeat in May.
Only a maple in spring.
Near the potted plants,
by the obscene rings.
Only an angel could be so perverse.

>>24571758 (OP)

#4

Drifting ashore, the circle meets the square.
Together they cry, together they grieve.
Winter took its toll; what can they say?
In their element, yet aimless alone.
Were they a bit stronger, they might survive.

#5

Cliffside I pause, looking down.
Always the air of perfume.
Frightened, the birds scatter –
shifty glances back and forth.
Where does the confusion lead?

#6

Beluga daydreams,
wrinkled nose and rotted teeth.
So says the Bishop.
So says the Pundit.
But the earthquakes will come,
and the floods will come.
And the whole rubber carcass
will drown in the soap.

>>24571768

#7

They bulldozed the shanty town
and left the ragged children bare.
They shot their parents
and poisoned their dogs.
They doused the kids in petrol
and set them on fire.

The soldiers wore masks
and drank all night long.
And they laughed and they smoked
and they danced and they sang.
And as the world burned around them,
their souls burned inside them.

#8

Though I myself was unperturbed,
for I knew it was a vision
and soon I would wake.
But I never did.

#9

Ankle-deep in festering water,
with mud on his bones and teeth in his hands.
His fingers made of twisted copper
and his eyes along the concrete path.

Broken clocks turn in his ears
and fissures form on his wrists.
His soul is ugly-black and his knees are marble walls.

His shoulders smell of cherries
and his tongue is made of sand.

>>24571758 (OP)
>>24571768
>>24571770
That's it for now. I have some others, but I'd need to track them down and I might have deleted some.

>>24571758 (OP)
I'm very sleep deprived and I'll have to wake up very early tomorrow, but know this, I'll read your poems, even tho I'll not give you any feedback, you are not casting your work into an empty void.

>>24571805
Thank you my friend, that sincerely means a lot to me.