Weird Shit

People of Wal-Mart

They wear the weirdest
Shit
No thought no grace
They get away with it
Absolutely no shame on their faces
And they do weird things
Like argue
And bring their families
They sing
In the music department
Watch Montel on the flat screen
In home electronics
They will wait in line for days
Only to save a few dollars
On a blender or mixer
Brand-new living-room fixture
Living their lives
On layaway
Grazing their days away in produce
Wandering the isles
Like an Alzheimer's mile
Rabbit food is on isle 4
Next to the piller
Close to the floor


Chris McQueeney ©2015


This is penned in respose to image above credit for image at The Mag Here

The scent

Nothing more


You lay there
With that look upon
Your face
And I left
With a lingering
Taste
On my lips
And the sent
Of sex in the air
Like a cat
Feline stretch
Content
Not I though
For me was but a taste
I'm a wreck
A waste
And I left
Needing more
And more
And more
Please Now I have need
Nothing more


Chris McQueeney ©2015


The Mag

just another night

Dry spells


So I walk outside
Take a look at the night sky
And realize that there
Is so much more
To life
Than meets the eye
Spend so much time
Worrying about
This or than
Rarely stopping to breathe
It all in
But
On those rare occasions
When the magnitude
Of all that Is
Or is not
A part of my life
Sinks in
I try if only
For a moment
To hold it tangible
Store it deep inside
To tide me over
During life's dry spells


Chris McQueeney. ©2015

Magpie Tales

Jackson Pollock, Black Flowing, No. 8


Dissonance


Trying to make sense
Of all the dissonance
Is maddening
To say the least
You reached into me
Pulling
Tearing
Leaving me bleeding
Gleefully you tore at me
Then danced around flinging me
About with wild abandon
There I was wounded deep
You looked back at me
As if half asleep
Slow wicked grin
As you walked away
Leaving me again
And again
And again
Leaving me to pick up
All of my pieces
Again
And again
Leaving me to make sense
Of this madness
Again


Chris McQueeney ©2015


Penned in responce to a prompt from Tess over at The Mag

Narcissus are you there?

If Narcissus were a man
Standing in front of a mirror
Conical shell in hand
Piercing blue eyed stare
Cloths just so
Perfectly quaffed hair
In his mind it is all there
Except for one thing
If only the shell
With the sound of the sea
Would tell the story
Of him
As well
As any reflection
That fell from his presence alone
If only
The shell would sing
A song of me
Narcissus I need you
Are you there


Chris McQueeney ©2015


Posted on The Mag http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2015/10/mag-289.html?showComment=1444950827505&m=1#c4448580081975661831