#ewes - Hello Poetry

watch who you breath death does watch who ? ... .. .

0

Mar 9, 2018

Mar 9, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC

lashingstars

Untitled

watch who you breath death does watch who ? ... .. .

10

we're were same from the spell check mind checked no for them sometimes for me always less the mote and an motionless key detective she was still hiding me in her trunk we told her she would love me more she didn under stand me we told her she would love me more ok so understand under stand overstand understand under stand we stand under this makes us understand we know she never under stood we hope she we remember we're were ? these dots for her ... .. .

0

Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC

lashingstars

Untitled

we're were same from the spell check mind checked no for them sometimes for me always less the mote and an motionless key detective she was still hiding me in her trunk we told her she would love me more she didn under stand me we told her she would love me more ok so understand under stand overstand understand under stand we stand under this makes us understand we know she never under stood we hope she we remember we're were ? these dots for her ... .. .

50

this is not for you remember i love you smell this siltent letter ? ... .. .

0

Feb 14, 2018

Feb 14, 2018 at 6:37 AM UTC

lashingstars

silent letter

this is not for you remember i love you smell this siltent letter ? ... .. .

12

he ain't no book get an pin poke him again like an top wathc him spin concentrated looks ? ... .. .

0

Feb 8, 2018

Feb 8, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC

lashingstars

concentrated looks

he ain't no book get an pin poke him again like an top wathc him spin concentrated looks ? ... .. .

15

as soon as these blue speckled socks go, that's it. A new bright black death.A solemn weir on a stark horizon.Give me a reason to wear color. My hueless affidavit runs me into the Earth, where I sprout up a pallid keb- brain orf'd, you could drag my etiolated ebon body through the ovine fold or take me to the theater. When I was just a minor teg, I sheared my mim kip, I fuckinggave it to you outright. In this little cote my wan mien nigrifying; my calamitous black, quaffed full of congou in demitasse, of souchong & saucers. My atrous wethered body albicantly degenerating in the atrous sun. I'm crusting over with wanness and you, you're fortifying in the cwm where I used to yaff and stray. Your ovivorous hunger,something I never knew, when first you came for my jecoral flesh, just another bot digging through my soft toison. Like Dall's Prometheus being sheared from the flock-you cut me away. In this drab and achromic world, you put the wanness in my flesh, the gid in my heart. Still. Just these blue socks are left.

0

Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 5:20 AM UTC

martin-narrod

Mew

as soon as these blue speckled socks go, that's it. A new bright black death.A solemn weir on a stark horizon.Give me a reason to wear color. My hueless affidavit runs me into the Earth, where I sprout up a pallid keb- brain orf'd, you could drag my etiolated ebon body through the ovine fold or take me to the theater. When I was just a minor teg, I sheared my mim kip, I fuckinggave it to you outright. In this little cote my wan mien nigrifying; my calamitous black, quaffed full of congou in demitasse, of souchong & saucers. My atrous wethered body albicantly degenerating in the atrous sun. I'm crusting over with wanness and you, you're fortifying in the cwm where I used to yaff and stray. Your ovivorous hunger,something I never knew, when first you came for my jecoral flesh, just another bot digging through my soft toison. Like Dall's Prometheus being sheared from the flock-you cut me away. In this drab and achromic world, you put the wanness in my flesh, the gid in my heart. Still. Just these blue socks are left.

7

There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase, Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon. Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy. While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing. The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries. A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight. Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling, Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying, Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens. If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores. Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns. How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock. Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep of each lot. Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes. Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes. Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials. Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.

0

Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC

martin-narrod

Notes on a Lamb

There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase, Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon. Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy. While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing. The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries. A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight. Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling, Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying, Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens. If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores. Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns. How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock. Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep of each lot. Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes. Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes. Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials. Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.

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