rinsing my flask, this late afternoon
and scouring to steal anything from my father's humble tavern: Chilean.
bought on stolen wine, this daze,
pacing itself carefully, as masterful as
a leering puma poised to strike
with a dull blade duller than stab-wound,
nobody heard this primal man cry in the
woods and i'm no dangerous man.
just a shadow that fits the sizable hands
of the world cupped, the afternoon is slain and the hue is its blood:
something the brush of the wind
sensuously brings a roulette of red
blue, lavender, viridian,
plucked out of the vermilion
wading out as a debris forgotten waltzes
with the river underneath the kamagong— an answerless enigma amid all
perplexities,
are we but nothing whilst we live?
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 3:35 AM UTC
rinsing my flask, this late afternoon
and scouring to steal anything from my father's humble tavern: Chilean.
bought on stolen wine, this daze,
pacing itself carefully, as masterful as
a leering puma poised to strike
with a dull blade duller than stab-wound,
nobody heard this primal man cry in the
woods and i'm no dangerous man.
just a shadow that fits the sizable hands
of the world cupped, the afternoon is slain and the hue is its blood:
something the brush of the wind
sensuously brings a roulette of red
blue, lavender, viridian,
plucked out of the vermilion
wading out as a debris forgotten waltzes
with the river underneath the kamagong— an answerless enigma amid all
perplexities,
are we but nothing whilst we live?
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