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andrew-rymillPoems
...It always seems... that we come to beginning at the end… I disagree we are at a table. Technically at a table but more al fresco than inside... I do not agree with your misuse of metaphor. What a surprise... To understand inside on must understand outside... No you miss-understand! Please stop drinking you are a waterfall in reverse pouring liqueur down the pettiness of your throat. Oh! you spilled again….. … Gin...i think its more likely libation than your crocodile tears splashing like thorns on our salty dinner table... You treat our wedlock like pinata and keep on swinging <lifting a glass of sherry> ...the mermaids are singing the crickets are chirping can i join in the luminous tunes under moonscape & street lamps... i am not sure if the narrator or the voice of our disconnect, is just a bitch or an effaced harpy ... Monologuing are we? That was always your problem…. No i was hoping for a liqueur & well-lit soliloquy unfortunately you hearing is too good & your plates is too clean. Never trust a skinny noun for a lover... Your using the wrong fork…. No fears, as my empty overturned glasses tremble around us like our nonexistent children. Impossibilities that haunt the spaces of our words like overcooked spaghetti ...here too our invisible similes at our evening repast... No worries I was written that way and you are a miserable lush. indeed…. not on the menu but our relationship is a taco with not enough lettuce… I would say there are losts of green words missing between us and echo of your ego swims in the whiskey. the beauty of a glass is its final emptiness; the difference between lust and lush is just one letter. you my dear never lets the letters of your alphabets free to flap to the porch lights except for a price... It might just be the spaces between stars and ignorance of moths. Your ignorance always steals the narrative in my fortune cookie. no desert tonight i guess. i hate this mistaken table ….. Misspoken...you mean miserable table!!! your reflection my dear will always reflect in waxy wood rings…. returning to where we first met making one want to drink deeply the forgetful draught from the Styx my cold little-sphinx.
0
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 1:53 PM UTC
Reflection In Waxy Wood Rings
...It always seems... that we come to beginning at the end… I disagree we are at a table. Technically at a table but more al fresco than inside... I do not agree with your misuse of metaphor. What a surprise... To understand inside on must understand outside... No you miss-understand! Please stop drinking you are a waterfall in reverse pouring liqueur down the pettiness of your throat. Oh! you spilled again….. … Gin...i think its more likely libation than your crocodile tears splashing like thorns on our salty dinner table... You treat our wedlock like pinata and keep on swinging <lifting a glass of sherry> ...the mermaids are singing the crickets are chirping can i join in the luminous tunes under moonscape & street lamps... i am not sure if the narrator or the voice of our disconnect, is just a bitch or an effaced harpy ... Monologuing are we? That was always your problem…. No i was hoping for a liqueur & well-lit soliloquy unfortunately you hearing is too good & your plates is too clean. Never trust a skinny noun for a lover... Your using the wrong fork…. No fears, as my empty overturned glasses tremble around us like our nonexistent children. Impossibilities that haunt the spaces of our words like overcooked spaghetti ...here too our invisible similes at our evening repast... No worries I was written that way and you are a miserable lush. indeed…. not on the menu but our relationship is a taco with not enough lettuce… I would say there are losts of green words missing between us and echo of your ego swims in the whiskey. the beauty of a glass is its final emptiness; the difference between lust and lush is just one letter. you my dear never lets the letters of your alphabets free to flap to the porch lights except for a price... It might just be the spaces between stars and ignorance of moths. Your ignorance always steals the narrative in my fortune cookie. no desert tonight i guess. i hate this mistaken table ….. Misspoken...you mean miserable table!!! your reflection my dear will always reflect in waxy wood rings…. returning to where we first met making one want to drink deeply the forgetful draught from the Styx my cold little-sphinx.
andrew-rymill
Written by
andrew-rymill
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 1:53 PM UTC
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