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nat-lipstadtPoems
*throughout the day, most oft at night, start to say, stop short, painful for crying out loud thoughts, shoutouts to any passing god things that need to the air be exposed, but not to ears that well, what could they say... so stutter-stop the bottling inside, periodic fizz escaping, and even poetry cannot help for it does over and over again, end up as crumpled papers, litter of the head, halves, this's and that's, even this one dies here and now* ~~~~~~~ irony delicious, that litter sounds so literary, so added débris, lest my mangy constructions manage to confuse you the litter in question, is your host's hors d'oeuvre nibbles of works, half-started, half-finished, like rooms to let, that come only half-furnished, not a single morsel worthy serving up, all half-satisfactory poems, of course... the wrong write ***** clogged, resting in peace, Works In Progress (WIP) unlike the poet, who's just plain whipped un-crumpled awaiting an episodic finale, if ever they should be televised, they are needy for cumberbitches, a birth or death certificate sore lacking pick up put down new titles pop, essays in need of love, naught fruited, dead pits, hanging on the tree till gravity takes them prisoner on and on for weeks the side stitch does not disappear, but does grow aching familiar perhaps the topic offends you the most, cloying, suffocating self-pity of your own hands around your neck wrapped...
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Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
Start and Stop / litière et débris (litter and debris)
*throughout the day, most oft at night, start to say, stop short, painful for crying out loud thoughts, shoutouts to any passing god things that need to the air be exposed, but not to ears that well, what could they say... so stutter-stop the bottling inside, periodic fizz escaping, and even poetry cannot help for it does over and over again, end up as crumpled papers, litter of the head, halves, this's and that's, even this one dies here and now* ~~~~~~~ irony delicious, that litter sounds so literary, so added débris, lest my mangy constructions manage to confuse you the litter in question, is your host's hors d'oeuvre nibbles of works, half-started, half-finished, like rooms to let, that come only half-furnished, not a single morsel worthy serving up, all half-satisfactory poems, of course... the wrong write ***** clogged, resting in peace, Works In Progress (WIP) unlike the poet, who's just plain whipped un-crumpled awaiting an episodic finale, if ever they should be televised, they are needy for cumberbitches, a birth or death certificate sore lacking pick up put down new titles pop, essays in need of love, naught fruited, dead pits, hanging on the tree till gravity takes them prisoner on and on for weeks the side stitch does not disappear, but does grow aching familiar perhaps the topic offends you the most, cloying, suffocating self-pity of your own hands around your neck wrapped...
nat-lipstadt
Written by
nat-lipstadt
99/M/NYC/Lippstadt/Kraków
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
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