Silver Pillows

By John Maurer

Painters paint the paintings that they should paint 

Because they are the paintings that they do paint

The worth of the doing is found in the doing

Transcendence is shovel-gripped, cerebral labor

My bones sharpen through the cloth of my bleeding visage

If you are a vault, you must also be the key

What is sagacious gifted bullion without 

Its scriptural prodigious tailwind 

Eating words with an open mouth

The crumbs of preciously bled stones fall to my lap

This is what I sing to you and you don’t hear

This is what you want me to sing, and I am too shy to

British scholars would say we don’t share the table

Cloudy guru would say you sit at his table

Pull out your chair when you approach plated lawn trimmings

The lawn being your responsibility to water

Do not shun the thornier blades

Growing an apology is not pleasant horticulture

Her smile this is a rooting of veins

Drink it in and the ice cubes of her with it

My bones are certainly metallic with their screws

But I keep chewing on all more expanded than I


John Maurer is a 26-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than fifty others. @JohnPMaurer (johnpmaurer.com)

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