#ju
The white flowers
will not arrive
by stallion, nor
by lightning.
The stolid courier
will knock, a door
swinging; a suitable
place prepared.
In the cold district,
the exploded heads
of trees look back at me:
why didn't I save them?
Even the sun seems lopped.
But in the face of it
I will stand, have coffee,
& be reminded of you.
It's 6:30, and the sky
turns a spoiled milk shade
before tripping
in its hurry to arrive.
Jan 15, 2021
Jan 15, 2021 at 7:27 AM UTC
Listen if to night
I can say anything at all
listen to the band of words
sitting here feeling not quite right
*** means nothing
the adventure of orgasam
pales in my day
like a wet fish on the flour
from me moves away towards the door
where my mind can shut it out
but is all that really me
why can I not tell
why can I not feel it?
It's not getting good feeling old
un wanted un sexed
feeling kind of violent
but have nothing to fight about
like your all shutting me out
taking from my ribbon of words
that bring me joy
so **** my band of words
go and mess with your own head
and leave mine be!
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC