Axilla short poem

Photo by Orange_Beard

well past closing all the glasses dirty
no one’s gone home
despite the bruised air ceiling fans limping round

the woman at the mic is no longer singing
just making music
erecting sand dunes it’s gymnastics on the stage

they spot each other support given hydraulic
drummer rolling one handed
maybe the bassist is crying maybe his face has folded

the set list was written on a receipt for tampons
and a watermelon that a hustler
ran off with during their opening number

secrets and regrets now, no one recorded this session
like an iron age fight
Vikings come raiding to feed their families and Gods

a mountain morning outside a nameless Alsatian town
no one expecting blood
but that’s the order of the day farmers swinging heavy scythes

bartender is sick with the slinky slick beat
he’s laying down too late to serve anymore anyway
audience knows school and work and ‘*&%ing will have to wait

downfront there’s a kid with a ticket back to his home town
enchanted by the tufts of fur
in the singer’s armpits he will dream their scent always

outside the stars ratchet down hard sounding like dice
a strong woman squeezes in her fist
a night of great bones leaves scars and runs forever

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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A hint of reality, pain and sorrow…Nice read!