Back from Work

Vladimir Kush 11

 Did you find the Indian ocean

 in a pot of luck?

Or the love of cups and dice

in a gypsy’s trailer?

Dinner’s getting cold dear,

and some of us are too full

for knowledge;

Today I drowned in a field

of wild poppies,

fireworks like when we were

overnight billionaires

trading in emeralds,

silver spoons,

and treacling honeycomb.

© Alicia Khoo

 vladimir kush artwork

Day Three of NaPoWriMo

Prompt: Out of Luck



Like a snake shedding its skin;

fear blooms with smell—


Butterflies buckle turquoise in the swamp;

water swallows a generation;

I plunge into a jungle of prehistoria


Mud, sweat and tears

carry a boat to a secret cave,

His cries stream from a mountainhome,

flags mark where the victors rewrote our books.

As earth crusts collide to birth

Caverns of sapphire and philosophers’ stone.


They sit young, like new store bought candlesticks, the teapot calls the teacup black, his hair drips wax down his pants, like honeycomb. The cigarettes combust in her loneliness, pride kissed the cat, they call for more coffee. You’d think they’d be leaving, but no one is. The mirrors watch the teaspoons rust and her lips melt from heartbreak into the ice cream sundae sandwich root beer float banana split. It is too cold outside to sleep.
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