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Jor For Feb 2017
Words flow four beers in
Poetry streams as water
Il write of my dad
Jor For Feb 2017
Beer in hand. On porch
I realise at twenty one
My role is: Burden
Fall and intoxication  

It was autumn the big trees along the lane had shed
their leaves filling the road as carpets of a summer past
I was going home from the bar in a pleasant mood
remembering songs no one sings anymore, but the old
that sternly refuses to sing anymore, think it is not
what an elderly dignified person should
in protest, I sang “underneath the stars” and since
I didn't know the word, made them up; I don't even
know if there is a song with this title.
The dogs, as we are told by scientists, are quite musical
they became the chorus and I banged two stones together
to make it rustic, but how long was Adam in Paradise,
a wind blew up made the dead leaves into dervishes dogs
took flight, imps are no good dance partners smell of burnt
embers. The squall stopped but the fun was over I thought
you pathetic old man goes to bed now, but it is a wonderful
world … sang Louis Armstrong
Jor For Feb 2017
Your friends all are poets
It's about truth I would guess
That raw jagged edge
Jor For Feb 2017
Your ******* are eyes
I will try to mind manners

Where I'm from
Eye contact is considered
Very good manners
Jor For Feb 2017
Her wrists are guitars
Playing the melodies of her voice
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