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Thursday 1 March 2012

RC Edrington-

Scarred Canvas

Like a lost car 
from a funeral promenade 
she drifts along the snow-lit shop fronts, 
with the collar of her long black trenchcoat 
cocked like a vulture wing 
against her pale neck and cheekbones. 

As she tosses her golden hair, 
wheatfields in Kansas sway. 
But she does not smile. 
She is tired of men 
who liken her hair to wheatfields, 
who claim to see mermaids puddling 
in the powder blue pools of her eyes. 
She does not smile. 
She does not want me 
to call her teeth pearls 
then pluck them away while she sleeps. 

she stares through her reflection 
on a gallery window, 
and into a fresh stained canvas 
as though it were the familiar face 
of someone she once may have loved. 
A face which pulls her into a world 
draped in red and purple hues 
on nights she feels like shades of gray. 
A world where she almost... 
but she does not smile. 

As she raises her trembling hands 
to wipe fresh teardrops from her eyes, 
she's reminded of the thin scars 
carved up and down her frail tattooed wrists. 

And she slowly fades 
into an unlit alleyway... 
fades like a much too perfect rose 
in the violent hands 
of this narcissistic artist, 
brushed away by falling snow. 

Still In Hollywood 

We spoke, 
not remembering our lines 
so well rehearsed. 
For a moment, 
we shed our masks 
like soldiers after a war. 

I pulled the mirrored lenses from my eyes, 
hung my dusty leather on a rusty nail 
and held you...for the first time 
in a long time, with my own skin 
pressed firmly against yours. 

Words wafting from your lips 
like sweet smell of marijuana seeping 
from beneath the backstage door. 
The relief of touching you again. 

I'm sorry I left, but is that enough? 
The scars across my heart 
like the stale tattoos on my arms, 
still remain. 

Decades of playing cool. 
Days running into days into years. 
The caved veins of punk romance. 
The midnight amphetamine tremors 
that left me stumbling thru a corridor of mirrors, 
reaching out to find myself 
but only finding 
the cold hospital steel of polished glass. 
Too cool. Too smooth. 

Slam dancing in pneumonia infected dives 
to the thunderous crash of un-tuned guitars, 
as the blood of friends strangers enemies 
(god does it matter anymore?) 
slowly caked around 
the studded spikes I wore so proud. 

But here we are again, 
if only for one sacred moment, 
sobered by the death of a friend 
who placed her soul into a syringe 
and left it trembling 
on Hollywood Blvd. 

I'd thank god it wasn't you, 
if I could find one... 
walking alone down this suicide stained street 
who didn't believe salvation 
could be bought or sold in plastic bags. 

Seven wasted years and here we are... 
still in Hollywood, 
holding onto each other like 
a junkie to his bag. 
We're not 16 anymore, 
but are we starting to grow old? 
Am I growing old?
RC Edrington's latest collection, "Apocalypse Generation", was published by Tainted Coffee Press and is available through Zygote In My Coffee. His website is It contains links to his previous collections, reviews of his work, and links to journals and magazines he has been published in. 

1 comment:

  1. Powerful imagery and perfect rhythm. These sorts of poets should get a lot more credit for their art.