Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
cody-edwardsPoems
Every day. The everyday. You see it every day. The twitch and reel and marble movement As turgid blood surfaces to face, Flows to operate stiff shoulders. Backs hunch as soon as they're alone. And they are alone. Surrounded by lovers that Love in word only. They chew their nails and cross their ankles. Uncross. And look around. Spring. Could you imagine? Gear, wire. Did he say? Bolt, frame. Isn't he? Ratchet. And then what did he say? Screws. Rotor. A bunch of **** Oil. Oil. Oil. Oil. Oil. Plug in. Silence. It moves. We move a head in times of Strain. To signify Exact measures. Twist on axis With perfect posture. Unnoticed frameworks bar our days. We are brass. The more crass are silver, gold. And the days are polish. Or maybe sand. Soon there are no mistakes. The veneer cakes without flaw. We do not acknowledge. We are not caught. For little hours though, there are kinks. Pauses. Errors. Open the clockwork face. What is stuck? A look around. The gears that grind us to cognition Are jammed by a fly-body Of soul. Soon, soon, sooner than ever It will be crushed. So gears might continue, Might make room for the everyday.
0
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 2:57 PM UTC
Electric Adjective
Every day. The everyday. You see it every day. The twitch and reel and marble movement As turgid blood surfaces to face, Flows to operate stiff shoulders. Backs hunch as soon as they're alone. And they are alone. Surrounded by lovers that Love in word only. They chew their nails and cross their ankles. Uncross. And look around. Spring. Could you imagine? Gear, wire. Did he say? Bolt, frame. Isn't he? Ratchet. And then what did he say? Screws. Rotor. A bunch of **** Oil. Oil. Oil. Oil. Oil. Plug in. Silence. It moves. We move a head in times of Strain. To signify Exact measures. Twist on axis With perfect posture. Unnoticed frameworks bar our days. We are brass. The more crass are silver, gold. And the days are polish. Or maybe sand. Soon there are no mistakes. The veneer cakes without flaw. We do not acknowledge. We are not caught. For little hours though, there are kinks. Pauses. Errors. Open the clockwork face. What is stuck? A look around. The gears that grind us to cognition Are jammed by a fly-body Of soul. Soon, soon, sooner than ever It will be crushed. So gears might continue, Might make room for the everyday.
© Cody Edwards 2010
Written by
cody-edwards
American
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 2:57 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem