Lizard King

[howl]

Some manhole cover wheezes a serpent sound,
that creeps across my already-molding body.
And just as I think of shedding my case,
this lyrical lizard snarls,
"you’re being nothing but tame."

I pack my skin and skulk a new way,
my leathery hand unkind to my thinking skull,
trailing scraps of myself through the city’s teeth—
a thin, sick leash
dragging its wet music behind me
while the lanterns launder every scene.

I pass a family of four—polished grief;
teenage eyes rehearsing warmth;
a man browsing his wallet like files,
buying witnesses to float above himself;
warehouse maids with soiled hands, perfect hair,
socially stillborn.
The whole street loops—
same chorus, same bruise.
And I feel the city’s mouth
trying to make me harmless.

I lean on an abandoned door
and a tear meets the dirt.
I carve a sentence the city swallowed
from underneath swerving graffiti psalms—
“What if now?”—
drives me down a murky alley.
Here.
In a secret moment of neon hush,
I start to reproduce,
each egg, lime-compacted of what I never was
but will become.
The lizard lingers somewhere in the gutter-glow,
humming a sickness I recognize.
I will wait—half shed, half caressed—
for my fever-born kin.

[CRNDLSM]

Please critique other poems in the forum before posting your own for critique,  'catch up'

[milo]

Some manhole cover wheezes a serpent sound,
that creeps across my already-molding body.
And just as I think of shedding my case,
this lyrical lizard snarls,
"you’re being nothing but tame."

I don't think starting with "Some" is that effective here.
I think the imagery is good through here.
You draw the reader in.
I think it's fine to want to add an adjective to your lizard but is "lyrical" pulling its weight?

I pack my skin and skulk a new way,
my leathery hand unkind to my thinking skull,
trailing scraps of myself through the city’s teeth—
a thin, sick leash
dragging its wet music behind me
while the lanterns launder every scene.

"pack my skin is interesting
your line breaks are pretty good.
"city's teeth" is nice
"launder" probably isnt the right word.

I pass a family of four—polished grief;
teenage eyes rehearsing warmth;
a man browsing his wallet like files,
buying witnesses to float above himself;
warehouse maids with soiled hands, perfect hair,
socially stillborn.
The whole street loops—
same chorus, same bruise.
And I feel the city’s mouth
trying to make me harmless.

all of this is actually pretty solid but we are starting to run into the problem we get when poems are written in first person present.  It starts to feel like exposition
- I eat a bagel. I wash the knife. I finish my coffee and place the bins at the door.  I leave for work. etc . . 

I lean on an abandoned door
and a tear meets the dirt.

a tear meets the dirst is not good

I carve a sentence the city swallowed
from underneath swerving graffiti psalms—

carve a sentence is good as is grafitti palms

“What if now?”—
drives me down a murky alley.
Here.
In a secret moment of neon hush,
I start to reproduce,
each egg, lime-compacted of what I never was
but will become.
The lizard lingers somewhere in the gutter-glow,
humming a sickness I recognize.
I will wait—half shed, half caressed—
for my fever-born kin.

The rest needs a little clean-up, a little tightening, your line breaks through here aren't s good as if you were rushing toward the end

Overall, it is a promising start.  i enjoyed it.

Thanks