Intoxication

My ruptured veins spray arterial paints,
Covering the crashed, metallic canvas
That closes me in, locks me in restraint
While I lay, suffocating in blackness.
My neck is twisted, lifted by the snap
Of airbag cushions pushing me to sleep.
My mangled body rests on a seat strap—
Sliced and serrated in the crushed junk heap.
From my lips, drips alcoholic odors
That smother me like a live cremation.
Breathless am I in my reckless stupor—
Inebriated asphyxiation.
Under the cracked windshield, I am shattered;
Dead because my thirst was all that mattered.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Chlorine

To purify the pools of cool water,
The chlorine swims, dissolving into it.
It makes the darkness appear much softer.
The clear color of cleanliness emits,
And, at last, one can see through the abyss,
How deep the puddle's depth can really go.
In transparency, oceans can dismiss
The lack of sterility's willful flow.
Disinfected seas seem perfect for health,
Removing the algae and residue,
Nourishing physical incomes of wealth,
But that which acts perfect cannot be true.
Spotless waters are secretly packing
Poisoned keys of stress corrosion cracking.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Good Friday

In the middle of nowhere—in Missouri—
Alongside a manure-smelling highway,
Farmlands sprawl across the open country,
And I watch the sun dissolving away.
The red sky blotches in bruised indigo.
The daylight bleeds out, exhausting its glare.
An ocherous harvest moon lies below
Sparse, cinereal clouds that crosshatch the air.
A Pentecostal billboard passes by,
Diverting my senses and attention.
A secluded, road-side church is nearby,
Brimming with advertised condescension.
Today, I'm told of my spiritual loss.
It's Good Friday. I see the neon cross.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I Went to the Mall

I went to the mall a lot as a kid.
While I never had much money to spend,
It was just something my friends and I did.
We'd window shop—play consumer pretend.
When I got a little older, when I found
My first job, I'd squander my funds weekly.
All my money so quickly would rebound
Back into the local economy.
Now, all the stores I'd visit have been closed,
Sealed behind the walls of ad-space cement.
The stores I'd skip now seem much more exposed,
But they only sell mass-produced content.
The imagery of endorsed business
Coerces me into purchasing less.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

O, What is Lost?

Yet again, the stock market crumbles and falls,
Ruining the economy for us all.
A day without a newspaper—
O, what is lost?

Gas prices rise as embargoes are insinuated.
War seems imminent. Tension is elevated.
A day without a newspaper—
O, what is lost?

Epidemics, viral infections are on the verge of spreading.
It's a shame our scientists don't know anything.
A day without a newspaper—
O, what is lost?

Front page: Can you believe it? Could it be true?
Snooki is pregnant. When is she due?
A day without a newspaper—
O, what is lost?

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Hypnotist

Mesmerize my senses with a nonsense
That brings the nervous sleep, the anxious trance,
By the snap of your fingers. If, perchance,
You can navigate past my mind's defense,
Destroy it. Let resolution commence
In a pendulous, therapeutic stance.
Suggest my movements, make me sing and dance
As your marionette. My strings are tense.

Be my hypnotist and then captivate
My oscillating moods and behaviors.
Swing my will to the magnetic orbit
Of your swooping watch, so I'll gravitate
To you, my psychosomatic savior,
As I tread through the unconscious gauntlet.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Autogenerated Phrases

There is nothing that can comfort me more
Than the autogenerated phrases
That greet me inside the department store.
It touches my heart and it amazes
Me just how authentic—just how sincere—
The preprogrammed modules of friendliness
Are. It's almost as if my being here
Makes you happy. Your utter liveliness
Is the reason I come back. I want to
Give you a hug and smile and love each day
Because I saw glimmering hope in you.
You mend my faith in the American way.
For savings, I'll spend more money. I'll tell
All my friends about you. Watch your stuff sell.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Siren

Siren, siren, calling me from the sea,
Spill the sweetness of your words and your voice—
Spill them with such lucid fluidity
That I sink in them without having choice.
Siren, siren, sing me into a lull,
Bewitch me with your charm and your danger—
An insatiable thirst I can't control
For adventures, your lure of grandeur.
Siren, siren, slipping through my fingers
Like a formless liquid, make me submit.
You move with an air that seems to linger,
Perfumed with pleasures that seem infinite.
Siren, siren, entice the sensation
Of love within my imagination.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Avaritia

I have converted my time to money,
My money to plastic, been persuaded
To purchase products so passionately,
Not to be a skeptic, so dissuaded.
In this draining darkness, there is blindness,
And excessively one needs to consume,
Submit to the comfort of selfishness.
There are joys in luxury, I assume.
TV tells me, I'd be happy with wealth,
All the things it brings. It must be a gift
To be able to spend myself, my health,
When my sickening soul needs a soft lift.
That light from the blackness will slowly rise.
That Morning Star speaks, but only in lies.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
1 comment - Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Pine Tree

I'm a pine tree in a ceramic pot,
Sitting on a ledge beside a window.
The other trees outside have grown a lot,
But my maturation has been so slow.
I watch each season pass in front of me.
I watch the world wear down in bad weather.
I watch each tree become green and healthy
In front-yard forests—tall and together.
I see the leaves go brown, flake and crumble.
I see the barren branches of winter.
I see nature force them to be humble
When lightning crashes them into splinters.
I'm fine looking from here, my window sill.
In watching, I experience life still.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!