blood transfusion in a fucked up poem:
eyes meet, hearts melt into puddles of misery,
a guy shot a man, and a man a guy
at midnight when the sky was pistachio-green
and earth slightly shifted beneath their feet.
love is common place – words are the dregs
of tea left in my battered mug, hugs are given up
in arms that rattle like broken windows, and
they dare say,
*“This is not what we came to see…”
.
.
*”This is not what we came to see” is quoted from Brian Patten’s poem The Projectionist’s Nightmare.
Linking it up with Poetry Pantry and With Real Toads.
HA's Place 
words are the dregs
of tea left in my battered mug..
Your usage of diction always leaves me breathless! Beautifully executed.
Lots of love,
Sanaa
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Give a man a gun and he needs to kill something. Having been given a beautiful world man alone needs to destroy it.
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I echo oldegg. Clever write though.
Anna :o]
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There is a beauty in this poem which is hard to define but it is definitely there – fucked up or not – words are the dregs
of tea left in my battered mug..sprang out for me.. i suspect they maybe more than that
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An energy of dissolution is still energy of a sort, and every friction brings heat along with the scrape and seep of its burn–love especially the pistachio green sky, such a sign of endtimes, tornadoes, the whole holocaust we dish up for ourselves…the whole poem is tight as a drum.
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words are the dregs
of tea left in my battered mug… wow…love that line. Beautifully written.
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This poem is a gut punch artfully penned!
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Oh, the tea leaves! Some believe, some don’t–but if those dregs are our only tool we’d better proclaim them as loud as this. POW! I’ve been missing your poems.
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I have a feeling of being totally alienated, when even gunshots pass we sit watching the tealeaves — a world where nothing really matter anymore… very much in tune to that inspiration poem… Love it.
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WOW
you stole all the imagery cookies from the jar; I fear there are non left for other writers.
I really enjoyed this Anmol and; thank you for dropping in at my Sunday Lime today.
You should consider linking in some times and use my blog button on you blog when you do
much love…
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WOW! This poem is so powerful I would have to quote all the lines back to you, to say which I liked best. But words as the dregs of tea in a battered mug stand out the most. Wonderful writing!
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I think this is a very striking poem, HA. I love the pistachio-green sky and the dry bone embrace.
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Have a good Sunday
Response to This is not what we came to see –
Mine is HERE
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Such a beautiful tragedy.
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Well this is a wow for me–on all kinds of levels!
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The rage and disappointment towards them (the audience) is so raw. It makes me want to know what they expected… and why.
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Dark, intense. Oh my, who was that audience?
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rattling, for sure. like a broken window hug. never thought of that, until now.
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Amazingly powerful imagery in this. Well done!
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Sounds like our Houston, Texas. Most years we are second, per capita for sure, to Chicago in shootings, New Orleans before the flood was worse.
..
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“words are the dregs
of tea left in my battered mug,” truth & perfection….
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Interesting pic, well-chosen for this vivid poem. I too loved the dregs …mug lines best of all, but all the images, and the mood, are striking.
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I like anything with pistachio green in it.Not keen on blood sports guns or tea dregs .
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One has things to do and do it in one’s own way. Others need not have to expect anything different from what we do. Very true HA!
Hank
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whew! stellar stuff! reminds me of Natural Born Killers.
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Arms rattling like broken windows—what a poignant image!
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Fabulous and striking piece, HA! The beginning reminded me a lot of the song Moonlight Shadow.
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Perfectly penned my wordsmith friend.
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