Issue
#4

July
2009

2 poems by Erek Smith

Every Bed Is A Deathbed

The world
looks strange and sad
when you wear glasses
with lonely-colored
lenses.
Nights frozen
like cavemen in glaciers
everything is
blue blue blue blue
clouds dressed
in winter peacoats.
The city lights
are a pillow
held to your face
while you sleep.
Every bed is a deathbed.
Every room is a tomb.
Every house is a mausoleum.
Every second that passes
is one more closer to death
& this night spent
with my heart cocked and loaded
pressed against my temple,
brain splattered walls
like Jackson Pollock paintings,
thinking about
her sweating body under his
staining hotel sheets,
his sheets, her sheets
is another night
spent dying.

© Erek Smith

dog logic

"you know
you're the only man
my dog likes"
she says

i kneel down
& scratch the dog
behind the ears
only able to think about
how i wished
she thought more
like her dog

© Erek Smith