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Julie Grenness Jan 2020
New Blithering is where I live,
Some laughs this burb does give,
You can buy plastic sheep here,
Do not know if they are dear,
In a store not far away,
Does a plastic sheep think our way?
Could it talk in an ovine way?
Indeed, what would a plastic sheep think and say?
"How did we all end up here anyway?"
"I guess we just did, okay!"
I assume a plastic sheep can think and say,
"I hope you have an awesome day!"
Feedback welcome, have a laugh.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Mew
as soon as these blue speckled
socks go, that's it. A new bright black death.A solemn weir on a stark horizon.Give me a reason to wear color. My hueless affidavit
runs me into the Earth, where I sprout up
a pallid keb- brain orf'd, you could drag my etiolated ebon
body through the ovine fold or take me to the theater. When I was just a minor teg, I sheared my mim kip, I fuckinggave it to you outright. In this little
cote my wan mien nigrifying; my calamitous black, quaffed full of congou in demitasse, of souchong & saucers. My atrous wethered body albicantly degenerating in the atrous sun. I'm crusting over with wanness and you, you're fortifying in the cwm where I used to yaff and stray. Your ovivorous hunger,something I never knew, when first you came for my jecoral flesh, just another bot digging through my soft toison. Like Dall's Prometheus being sheared from the flock-you cut me away. In this drab and achromic world, you put the wanness in my flesh, the gid in my heart. Still.
Just these blue socks are left.
Written Sitting against an Oak tree outside of a family friend's farm in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin

— The End —