Curved Bow

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

The pressure required,

To create an impression.

Appear outgoing and funny.

Not smoke.

Make money.

Relation ends poorly;

Ships sink unexpectedly.

Miss soft lips and curved back.

Strike match to the give, give, give.

Fine aged conversation.

A body, a mind.

Let’s unwind, remain as friends.

Broken too many times

To find comfort in permanence.

What vessel can stand the stress of time?

Focus on myself.

Get out of my mind.

Kicked the nicotine.

Caffeine and Mary’s Jeans are rampant.

Business as usual.

Working the night away

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poetry, writing

Port City walks of life,

Brick and old industry.

Pull Little Dogs from Great Bay.

Crushed ice by the pound

Keeps them on display.

Price liquor and ceviche

For the booze hounds.

I wonder how long

This waking life will last.

A snapshot, shuttering for a century,

A blur of tattoos and painted toenails,

Filter five hour long exposures.

Americana,

Vesper,

House Gimlet,

A smoke and pancake.

Kettle One Martini straight up-

“Why is this shaken and strained?”

“The system made me choose a modifier”.

“Add rocks”.

I have four draughts to draw

From a hydra headed tap.

When the back of the house shuts down

The front is soon to follow.

Count tilled treasure.

Smoke cigarettes trying to relieve the hunger.