Poetry by Brian Looney

The Crooked Candle

The
crooked candle
knows my name,
somehow it
knows my name,
somehow it whispers
through the vast
molasses
in the room.

The
crooked candle
chants my name,
a jilted,
angled,
sliver-sphere,
that (glowing)
plucks
the midnight
peace
and punctures
through to me.

The
crooked candle
knows my name,
somehow it
knows my name,
somehow it filters
through the vast
resistance
of my will.

The
crooked candle
spits my name,
which
bobs abruptly,
dabs acutely,
wavers slightly,
shudders bluely,
hiccups softly,
reignites.

Presence

There was a light
in the bathroom.

It peeked
from the cracks,
from under the door,
a rustling within.

A sliver
of glow
as I
slipped back
in sleep,
although
it caused me
some concern:
just enough to bluntly
register.

It was off
in the morning.
The door stood wide,
the innards vacant.
The toilet seat
was down.

The mouth was closed
and frowning,
although I am
the type of bachelor
who likes to leave
it up.

A light in the bathroom,
I know it was there.
That door
was shut
last night.
I saw it as
I dozed.


meBrian Looney(born 12/2/85) is from Albuquerque, NM and has been writing regularly for nearly a decade. His work is often surreal, cerebral, and abstract. He has a passion for classic literature. When he isn’t reading, you may find him writing, drawing, or yoyo’ing his little heart out. All these things may be seen on his website: http://www.brianlooney.com.

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