Victor Clevenger- Two Poems

Bio:  Victor Clevenger spends his days in a Madhouse and his nights writing poetry and short stories from the kitchen table of his ex-wife's home. Selected pieces of his work have appeared at, or is forthcoming in, Chiron Review; The Beatnik Cowboy; Dead Snakes; Blink Ink; Zombie Logic Review; Rat’s Ass Review; Lady Chaos Press; Your One Phone Call; BAD ACID LABORATORIES, INC.; Horror Sleaze Trash, among several others.  His latest collection is titled, In All These Naked Pictures Of Us.

 

 

The Girl in the Flannel Shirt. We Flirt.

 

It was something out of this world,

yet still so simpleminded & normal,

like blinking, or drinking.

"Oh.  You're smoking the top notch

cigarettes now," she said with a sexy,

rich tone & a sarcastic smile—eyes

wide, tapping her fingernails against

the glass surface of the showcase to

Bowie’s, I’m Afraid Of Americans.

She stopped tapping, puckered her

lips, stepped back & in a slow motion

windmill windup, she tossed the pack

of smokes my way.  She left a plum-

hued lip impression (with a lip ring

void) on the cellophane.  I caught the

pack at chest level.

"Thank you," I said to her, placing

it into my left breast shirt pocket.

I knew that she would do it all again

tomorrow, & the next day.  She has

left her lip impressions in a great

variety of shades above my heart for

damn near a thousand days now.

Opening the door & walking out into

the street, I stepped on a wet, rolled up

newspaper with yesterday’s news smeared

all together in undecipherable words.

It squished under my boot & I knew

that I was now 23 hours & 48 minutes

away from my something out of this world,

yet still so simpleminded & normal,

like blinking, or drinking.

When She is Mid-Menstrual and Untouchable

Last night I

wandered the

desert sands;

 

the holes under

the rocks were

deep and occupied

with serpents.

 

I intruded,

sacked out,

hankering bones,

and timorous.

 

We whispered

to each other

in long tongues,

touched, and

sighed like lovers.

 

The morning dew

crept into the

crevices as the

sun's strings

were pulled.

 

I climbed out

at eight o'clock

and rubbed my

four day unshaven

face as I stripped

the wet dreamed

sheets off of my

mattress,

throwing them into

the corner with my

clothes.

 

I ran my fingers

softly through my

ruffled hair, and

then laid back down

naked—

 

shivering until eleven.