Tag Archives: struggle

Something has Died


I feel the husk of its dead shell
rubbing against my innards.
Grating,
poking
No piece of it breathes
yet it prods.
Reminding me it’s always
there.
Just sitting.
Drained and desiccated,
where once
it was full
to overflowing,
now nothing
but decay
absence
a void filled
only with
black matter.
A negative life if you will
The blackest of
black
Gouge out my eyes, then tape them
over times ten and
throw me in a capped well
type of black.
Something has died
in me
And I don’t know what.
But I want it back.
Alive.
So I go in search.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

 

The Needle lifts up


 

Round and round and round and round and round
the needle gliding effortlessly
dragging over the unseen bumps
in a well worn groove
where it can’t climb out.

Of its own accord,
the needle lifts,
and shifts
back to the start and begins again
its shitty little song.
You might think robotic seeming in its prescribed nature,
but there is oh
so much less thought behind it’s action
For it’s been simply
fit together with
molded parts long ago
just so
to enable this
action over and over.

This spinning piece of compressed black vinyl
on edge, dips and wobbles
to mine eye.
Warped beyond belief.
Perhaps once laid out in the sun
or caught in the hot backseat
I never did take good care of them.

So as the needle lifts up yet again,
I remove the old record from its place
Hold it delicately in hand
Then gripping tightly
Swiftly bring it down to
meet the wooden corner edge.

I pick up the broken bits,
deposit every last piece
in the trash.
Then remove the plastic wrap
from a newly minted song
never heard
and carefully put it down
to spin.

Lifting the needle up
off its cradle
I kiss it softly to the
disc.

To hear something fresh.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

The Me you See


 

The me you see, is just a pale umbra of whom I’m supposed to be.

I’ve come to  a wall and I can’t make the jump,

I try and I try and just bounce the hell off.

But what I really don’t know is that I’m just a toad in the road

and it’s just a small curb on a street.

It’s a cliff so sheer and high that it’s a trick to belie the eye.

I tell myself one more jump…kerplunk!

My little toad head hurts like hell from all the bashing

against the wall.

If I can just find that perfect crack to start me on my crawl to wind my way up.

But that would require luck…fuck!

Where the hell am I going to get any of that?

So I’m a toad.

Not a frog a princess can kiss

to relieve me of this predicament.

Sorry, no frog underneath this frog-like veneer miss.

But I will be the prince of toads one day.

Fuck the frog I say!

So I look for that crack in the wall,

no matter how small,

to eventually make my way

up and over.

To that other me

that I don’t yet see,

The Prince of Toads,

in all of his bumpy

brown glory.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2017

Like a Crazy Ass Bullet


 

I was shot into this world like a crazy

ass bullet

Pinging and zinging off the solid metal

bulwarks

of life

Piercing and punching through

the flesh of the ones in solitude

who never knew me as I sped on,

cutting them in two, blood spilling,

entrails trailing on gleaming metal

warped by sinew and bone

for even a bullet can’t go unscathed

as it passes through you, you, and you.

Gravity is taking me, braking me

pulling me down….

The curve of the Earth is finally coming to meet

me on this hallowed muddy blue ball of a  ground

where I’ll be littered in with all the rest

that never found the target of their

intent.

Piles and piles of metal collect

in a mountain too high to climb. 

Shit, I wasn’t hoping for the bullseye

Just a piece, the very edge…

to clip it,

to show em all I could

fly fairly straight

even if fired from a gun

called Fate

by an unsteady hand.

 

 

by Philip Wardlow 2017

 

My appetite


 

spectactular

She comes home

and does what she wants.

Does what? We don’t know.

She wont say.

But it’s not much,

because she’s cut off and closed away.

Far and in-between the what-if

of her.

She is a melancholy angry mess

I can’t put my thumb on her

and she’d break it if I tried.

But I do, because I can, and she lets me pry;

however reluctantly,

because that’s all I have ever done.

I speak the truth, because lies are boring vicious things.

Even though the truth is often painful

as a motherfucker,

it’s freeing,

casual and a sweetness

rolled into a ball and

swallowed down

that speaks to my

appetite.

Which always

hungers.

 

By Philip Wardlow 2016

 

First Day to Last


doubledutch

The hand moves on the clock

as the little girl skips down the block.

Sun up to sun down.

She laughs. and laughs, and laughs,

and sings in her heart.

Until one day the ground comes to meet

her head on.

Now, her trust in gravity is suddenly gone.

Yet, she still skips, but ever so hesitantly.

Just ever so, knowing the cost in her

lack of caution.

Her heart still sings

as she joins in a game

of Double Dutch.

The rope flies as her feet take flight.

But the other girls in their turning

are not nice,

as they

slow the speed of the spin

throwing off the girls rhythm

So once again, gravity brings

blood on a sidewalk and

scraped raw knees,

and a small wall.

On and on her days come and go,

the clock continually ticking

with the gravity of the Universe

never relenting.

Always there; spinning,

as this little girl still

continues to skip

and jump rope.

With that same song

deep within her heart

humming ever so slowly,

just ever so.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2016

 

 

 

 

 

Mirage in You


What shall I say of the mirage in you.

Bright eyes, delicate soul,

with tenacious heart

beating,

Blood running, spilling.

(or was it alligator tears)

It wasn’t until I slipped, did I finallymirage

read the sign, “Be careful, wet floor.”

You think too much of yourself

and not nearly enough

All IN or ALL OUT.

Absolutes seem to be your trademark.

You are perfection.

You are lovely.

You are alone.

And you like it like that. ( no you don’t)

Mirages are only real to the person

observing, not the mirage  itself.

It knows its not real.

Then you

suddenly

disappeared.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2016