Treasure Island

Chris G. Vaillancourt

(April 5,1959 / Canada)

Black Shuffling Cars


A crossing wind
flutters over the lawn.
A black car shuffles down
the street as
I ease my bike into the traffic.
Only hope is for sale.
It sits like a dusty jar
.................. left stagnant
.........................in the basement.
I listen to the sound of the swamp
.................. that flocks like mosquitoes
............................ in and out of me.
Joined on the road by
...............other black shuffling cars,
I tense my buttocks in
........... preparation for
..........the ass fucking
................. I'll receive
for daring to think my own mind.
Leave a tiny spark of departing fashion
........... as you drain me of my will to create.
I'll drop an arm across the table
...............so you can bleed me.
A crossing wind
flutters over the lawn.

Submitted: Monday, January 31, 2011
Edited: Monday, May 12, 2014

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Topic(s): reality

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Comments about this poem (Black Shuffling Cars by Chris G. Vaillancourt )

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  • Giorgio Veneto (2/18/2014 11:20:00 PM)

    Good morning sir! I am impressed (for one more time) by the inventiveness of your mind. Your verse is bold and model. I am looking forward to read more from you. (Report) Reply

  • Pranab K Chakraborty (2/4/2011 12:01:00 AM)

    ONLY HOPE IS FOR SALE.....

    Fantastic chasing with the wind. Metaphors and imagery are so brilliant, intelligence and emotion knitted by such a skilled word-artist....I put my choice high here (if machine carries my vote) .

    About the quoted line: Thank you poet for representing our existence during this time so accurately by such submissive and artistic way...simply matchless.

    Regards,
    pranab
    10++++ (Report) Reply

Read all 3 comments »

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