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I spy something Murky red And in the Bottom of my cup. I wash it down with Something less than Reluctant While leaving the Rust, Or assumed iron, To chance, This one chance And not to be Repeated. Tomorrow, Now today, I spy something Murky red, Once more tomorrow, Tomorrow’s tomorrow, Again and again And day after days, Rusty red In the bottom of my Cup – I grow paranoid. I empty the “Keep,” And creep into every *** Tea-pot, Pan and/or Cooking tool Seeking Threatening material, Foreign material, And lodged in my brain Material. So too, Amid my investigations, I’d discovered Alzheimer’s, Dementia, Blindness, A stroke or two, And in some cases Death Had you ingested enough Ore, Or so I’ve heard. I spy Metal flakes Atop Metal constructs, Heavy, Soft, caustic, And broken post Point-of-sale, Broken And now in me, Circulating through my – Spleen, Kidney And brain. I’ve developed a Phobia For unwanted edible metal, A curious Cereal Resulting from the Cartoon Of my Dying grandfather, Once an architect, Now ten minutes to Tie shoes – A brain hemorrhaged Iron, I’m sure of it.
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Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 11:19 PM UTC
liam-c-calhoun
The Sons of Mesabi
I spy something Murky red And in the Bottom of my cup. I wash it down with Something less than Reluctant While leaving the Rust, Or assumed iron, To chance, This one chance And not to be Repeated. Tomorrow, Now today, I spy something Murky red, Once more tomorrow, Tomorrow’s tomorrow, Again and again And day after days, Rusty red In the bottom of my Cup – I grow paranoid. I empty the “Keep,” And creep into every *** Tea-pot, Pan and/or Cooking tool Seeking Threatening material, Foreign material, And lodged in my brain Material. So too, Amid my investigations, I’d discovered Alzheimer’s, Dementia, Blindness, A stroke or two, And in some cases Death Had you ingested enough Ore, Or so I’ve heard. I spy Metal flakes Atop Metal constructs, Heavy, Soft, caustic, And broken post Point-of-sale, Broken And now in me, Circulating through my – Spleen, Kidney And brain. I’ve developed a Phobia For unwanted edible metal, A curious Cereal Resulting from the Cartoon Of my Dying grandfather, Once an architect, Now ten minutes to Tie shoes – A brain hemorrhaged Iron, I’m sure of it.
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