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joseph-s-c-popePoems
Locked from the top is a Tuesday night rockstar cut on the weeds and steam off of cars speeding by. Tearing off the graceful bonds called bone sweet carving flesh pulp strange and the blood candy cane ruby red to the grass bedding below. Fast lane puppets caught at lights six miles later. Five year old wails about God pimping coke addicts with gloves on, gloves off, pounding on asphalt doors hiding camel toe shots--it's raining inside. Her pants are down in the gutter--scene on TV, reality on fire. Living in tail lights till the red blushes at the cute landlord watching the gore past the building dishes and shot glass eyes burned out of lost friends from staring at blown bulbs. Mumbling nirvana crawling like beetles from tripping lungs taking the same bible spine away from yesterday. The junk that tickles, makes the moon spin, mad women dance in the bankrupt birth of  humid H-bombs. Shovels scoop up gravy for wood chippers, the springs of History foaming at the mouth, shredded to delicate words such as 'fault' 'blame', 'regret'. The stoop kids play card games as the sirens wail and another turn passes.
0
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
John's house
Locked from the top is a Tuesday night rockstar cut on the weeds and steam off of cars speeding by. Tearing off the graceful bonds called bone sweet carving flesh pulp strange and the blood candy cane ruby red to the grass bedding below. Fast lane puppets caught at lights six miles later. Five year old wails about God pimping coke addicts with gloves on, gloves off, pounding on asphalt doors hiding camel toe shots--it's raining inside. Her pants are down in the gutter--scene on TV, reality on fire. Living in tail lights till the red blushes at the cute landlord watching the gore past the building dishes and shot glass eyes burned out of lost friends from staring at blown bulbs. Mumbling nirvana crawling like beetles from tripping lungs taking the same bible spine away from yesterday. The junk that tickles, makes the moon spin, mad women dance in the bankrupt birth of  humid H-bombs. Shovels scoop up gravy for wood chippers, the springs of History foaming at the mouth, shredded to delicate words such as 'fault' 'blame', 'regret'. The stoop kids play card games as the sirens wail and another turn passes.
joseph-s-c-pope
Written by
joseph-s-c-pope
American
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
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