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Jeff S
Poems
Feb 2018
Tchaikovsky in brood, 1878.
Wordsworth bubbled in my cellophanate bath water
yesterday, at the candled hour.
whilst horse tails whinnied from Joshua Bell—
Tchaikovsky in brood, 1878.
Oh, but if I had thought to Bogart the whole affair, well,
I'd be a modern Michelangelo, a downright da Vinci—
a Dostoyevsky before the dawn—
propped between the cold **** and the hot,
wet behind the ears.
Then I turn the note-the page-the scene:
Don't try this at home, they echo in the shackles of
celebrity. A drowning horse has sounded better
than their confession of our normality.
#poetry
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#cinema
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Written by
Jeff S
36/M
(36/M)
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