4 Micro-aggressions By Stephen J. Golds

Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, Stephen J. Golds


4 Micro-aggressions



My love something

like the fly

against the storefront

glass until death.

You are gone.



You didn’t count to 10,

I thought that was unfair.

When you gunned me down,

I lay there shocked and awed.

I didn’t know

We were playing for keeps, Sadie.



The dead fish

staring forlornly at

the bottom of the aquarium in my

newly divorced,

roach motel room

with the meaningless

hate killing love

on the television.

I stare back at

the dead fish

unsure of why my life is

trying to fucking murder me.


Forecast For Tomorrow


Those painful cockroach

thoughts that crawl their

way through musty cracks.


The apartment stinks of

yesterday’s laundry &

yesterday’s love.


I walk these streetlamp streets,

try to will the winter back to me

but it’s the rainy season and

everywhere is

wet shit & just

no good

at all.