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townsendfmPoems
ebbing, glass of whiskey. cigarette lit while vessel’s tummy wails away what with its unfed loneliness. two months out, about that by now. anyhow. paletted sleep bringing afternoon awakening, and a walk with peripherals on view over shoulder. waiting for past lives’ names to be called out in order to settle some debt. the kind left at large with a flee- ting disappearance. no name ever spoken, eyes on guard over shoulder. watching – guarding – another strive at the rekindled want for anonymity. more a continuation of some loner’s morning vespers. whispers from the microcastle thrown through – thrown beyond – balustraded stone into the -macro. four months out, and this radiator hisses to life. hisses to remind that not all is free, nor guaran- teed inherent. reminding this vessel of wants to be thirteen out. that far out, realizing it’s been some time since the lines have ran dry. prolific, think the word’s antithesis; no, only practice expression of breathless words. fourteen out, wanting of this vessel’s christening to done been blooded by thoughts unspewed as eyes affix the tiny shadows ceilings cast.
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Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
re: odd-book
ebbing, glass of whiskey. cigarette lit while vessel’s tummy wails away what with its unfed loneliness. two months out, about that by now. anyhow. paletted sleep bringing afternoon awakening, and a walk with peripherals on view over shoulder. waiting for past lives’ names to be called out in order to settle some debt. the kind left at large with a flee- ting disappearance. no name ever spoken, eyes on guard over shoulder. watching – guarding – another strive at the rekindled want for anonymity. more a continuation of some loner’s morning vespers. whispers from the microcastle thrown through – thrown beyond – balustraded stone into the -macro. four months out, and this radiator hisses to life. hisses to remind that not all is free, nor guaran- teed inherent. reminding this vessel of wants to be thirteen out. that far out, realizing it’s been some time since the lines have ran dry. prolific, think the word’s antithesis; no, only practice expression of breathless words. fourteen out, wanting of this vessel’s christening to done been blooded by thoughts unspewed as eyes affix the tiny shadows ceilings cast.
townsendfm
Written by
townsendfm
Moroccan
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
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