CHEST PAIN

A sharp throb
piercing through rib-
cage, a spear puncturing 
lungs, coughing fit, expulsion
of the many years, the bad habits,
the dust mites, flights of stairs trampled
underfoot, the dry mouth, parched tongue,

strangers and old houses, crumbling sidewalk,
Iiquor stores, red lights, and history. The 
world is a fucked up place sometimes. Heart
alternates between a dead stop and a fatal explosion,
smoke strangling small rooms, lights flickering
before sleep and lack thereof, television screens
providing context and commentary, the sun

continuing to rise and set on the race towards
progress, smog filling the open air, sky darkening
in a gesture of goodwill, clouds promising relief
from the most recent heatwave, the Earth turning incessantly
in the face of adversity. 

My body tires before the week's over,
torso tightening as all the good times

and late nights take their toll.


lATE NIGHT BEDROOM

A year has passed since sleeping soundly together
for the first time;

and now, I moan
of your warmth and your touch,
our skin meeting in the heat of an old room,
the ceremony of starlight entangled in this summer night's dreams,
a hidden moon smiling in secret at each caress. 

Prayers patiently answered beneath
the gaze of a static ceiling fan,
each joining of lips more satisfying
than the previous,

each graze of the belly more enticing,
each taste of tongue more hypnotic. 
Enchanted, entranced, all thoughts dissolving
in the celebration of flesh's fondness. 

Eager in anticipation, lips and limbs leap
at the chance of another embrace,
another convergence of arms and legs,
your breath exiting lungs to tickle my neck,
stimulate the senses in such divine fashion.

(An eternal existence: your eyes gleam before
the return to rest and repose.)

The night grows later; morning begins
to reveal its glow.

Mesmerized, I melt into sleep as our bodies
sprawl out over blankets and bliss,
warm wishes and soft sheets.

And in the morning
when I rush off to work,
a hurried whisper:
"I love you" and a kiss goodbye. 


PJ Carmichael is a writer, spiritualist, and cosmic voyager from Wakefield, Massachusetts. He frequently contemplates the limitations of his knowledge and the extent of his experiences, synthesizing both into cohesive ramblings that can be read as poetry or dismissed as mere gibberish.