poems by Lara Konesky


who knows anything about the lover
who wanders
an armchair philosopher
ponders the existence of god, of god, of something we know nothing about
yet continue to discuss at dinner parties and walks around the river
all i really know are your eyes. attention seeking in front of the camera to
show everyone what a good time you had, living


proximity can’t fuck with muse
it only hurts the physical
only hurts a little
don’t even tell me where your home is
unless I open my legs
and it’s there


Down boy down, i can’t tell you to get down
I need you up and waiting and willing and found
My eyes are closing, I’m following a white light
into your apartment
to sleep for days
both of us completely

Saying More

Grow your beard out. Make it this massive animal on your pretty face. Put on a flannel, even though it is hot where you are. I had to run for an hour, and at least one time I considered you. I had to run for an hour to stop thinking. I ran and ran and ran and ran and ran to stop thinking. I ran and ran, and you chased me. I took some pills to stop thinking. And in heels, I took off through the streets of this suburban neighborhood and threw up next to the most meticulous houses. Much to the dismay of every passerby. I wiped my mouth and kept running.


Oh Jesus H, not the religious sacreligious type
But, oh fucking god, I think the stars are aligned
and here you are.
nowhere close to here.

come on home, baby
I’ll give you some shit to write about.


I’m not saying I want much from you
you can leave the notebook laptop black table at the door
take off your shoes and your pants and your words
walk in silent like a stupid girl laughing about the things she has done and is about to do
walk in silent
out of pity and empathy and reason alone
to dictate your non stop talk and unrested ?soul?

I don’t know you, baby.
Maybe you think I’m too crass and cathartic
We are sensitive lovers
dying in a timely manner

but the smell of you



You said you looked like the dude who is rejecting me
when you were a bit younger
I guess it’s the red hair holier than thou i don’t care about your pussy look
you calmed my aching ego, as I came down off some narcotic
and we considered fucking over a black table
with cracks


I know there is isn’t much here,
and that poetry can’t make you move
and that you can’t determine much from pictures
and disclosure of penis size
but i give great head, and like to read
so, if that’s enough
i’ll see you soon

sobriety talks

Maybe it’s two days of sobriety talking,

the wagon, and shit

telling me that maybe this shit just isn’t the shit

it goes in waves, you know.

thinking nothing

Thinking Nothing

I’m humming fucking songs, daddy
wondering when you’re getting your ass here
texting like a fucking addict, it’s fucking tragic
the way you did this with a few words couple phone calls
and a similar outlook on some shit
fuck this, I am not that girl, pretty like your princess, more diabolical
have much more madness, much more lace, much more crass
stand back.
a little more
maybe you have the capacity the agility the mobility to sneak in through
the front door, with your suave your well traveled your well versed
kind of dirt
while I sweep the shit up under the rug
we don’t know the word perfect, and I promise I can find some shit wrong with you
give me a day a minute a second while the universe collapses on itself
and my hand is on the trigger and time lapses and I am on top of you


One Response

  1. That’s enough for me, write me mathereider@cox.net

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