Bigorexia, when you just want to bulk up
on muscle, or, Monexia, when you just want
to pump up your paycheck—
To buy beer. Ah, my dear Coronas, now,
we have nothing to fear. The cold sugar fatigue
from your liquid intoxication
floats bubbles through minding
this insipid incarceration.
I may be
locked down in Wu Han
screaming in the night
but I have my yellow friend
by my side.
Aye, Captain Corona. Godspeed.
Take me to the promised land,
wherever it may be, whether the
dreams of lies behind death's veil
peace from inebriation beatifically avail.
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 12:42 PM UTC
Silent among the trees the wind whispers
with practiced ease as leaves ruffle in the breeze.
Branches shake, and the wind quakes, as travelling
through the gaps in the spider's web of green and brown
are fluffy tailed squirrels shaking leaves.
Silent among the desert plains the wind whips
and curls as if having a fit as
strings of sand snake sky stringing
golden knotty brands high.
Silent among the sea currents rumble
with whale's crying undulating under as
undertow pulls all blue below
as if shot from a ******* blue lightning bow.
Silent among the muscle rock mountains dew
climbers stab the ice and carry their bodies
winding up against the weight
lever on and up
repeating up, winding, breathing hard,
and unhinging yet rehinging,
powering through, raising to high.
Nov 23, 2019
Nov 23, 2019 at 9:23 PM UTC
Sand shores of bleached blonde vines cross ample pores of desert's time, winds uproar deadly yellow sparkly vines marking their way carried through coils of clouds stretched across the thin divine blue.
Each thread wound red and read around red,
each strand like hair on heads,
winding winding winding, scarlet crimson thin and loud.
poking around and round balling up then smashing down,
scattering golden particle conical explosion.
Beam like lights and heat and time sundered the knot and bound it still in a golden hue, sand-like, it's color stained. In time, people came.
They marveled at it's strands.
They called to other lands.
Can anyone unravel this?
They asked.
And many came, but to no one's blame, they failed.
Until Alexander the Great thought to cut instead of unravel.
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 3:52 AM UTC
Dawn's golden notes stream
across barn's yellow beams
supporting stables hemming horses
cavorting cows sagging udders
melding with yellow hay
bouncing glistening pitchforks prongs
as the song begins.
Dust, glittering as if a nebula, each speck of it freed of
ground, twittering around like birds wading sound.
Spread out, as if a picture, dots of bright ethereal
in their luminescence lightened blinking out
as if frightened, but then heaving about
in the barn's barren air circulating redoubt,
sparkle yet again,
and again,
until they are drowned dark black out
by the opening of a barn door.
Little of moment's loves
Transform our precious
Frail pleasures
Into eternal loves
Unless there is a decision
to greet the old and mundane as
new,
as if dust were stars.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC