"absurdly" poems
I.
“No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the Revolution.”
-Kamarovsky, Doctor Zhivago (film)
Everyone seems to clench his fist these days
In solidarity with ephemera
While setting fire to green recycling bins
Hurling someone else’s bicycle through a window
Armed with their undergraduate degrees
The comrades liberate a coffee shop
Wifi-ing the revolution of the day
Empowerment by beating love to death
Loudsplaining authentic victimization
Posing for selfies with a stolen ‘phone
II.
Their inhumanity seemed a marvel of class-consciousness, their barbarism a model of proletarian firmness…
-Doctor Zhivago, p. 349
Everyone seems to clutch his flag these days
In solidarity with a past that wasn’t
While setting fire to misspelled cardboard signs
Hurling someone else’s beer into a crowd
Armed with their lurid Confederate tats
The Something.Right liberate a dumpster
Bull-horning the counter-revolution
Empowerment by beating love to death
Bellowing their Reconquista of stench
Posing behind their cheap gas station shades
III.
“I used to admire your poetry...I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal. Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; you're wrong. The personal life is dead…”
-Strelnikov to Yuri, Doctor Zhivago (film)
Some few embrace civilization these days
In solidarity with humanity
While lighting one small candle as a votive
Whispering an Ave into the Light
Armed with wonder through pen and flute and brush
Recusants choose the liberation given
In singing of the eternal verities
Self-empowerment happily denied
With love, with poetry, music, and art
Celebrating life on this summer day
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
Black- soil-stained hands,
Weaklings at my feet,
Today we thin beets
So the others grow strong.
The beet is my spirit animal
In food form, but
Not the weak kind-
I am the strong one that is good enough
to eat.
The beet is discrete
The beet is a vicious vegetable
The beet is humble, *****
Beneath most humane things
The beet is ugly, absurdly
Colored.
I often wonder how it could be natural
But the I remember Hell is natural too.
I dream of beets
They are at dusk and dawn
In the desert monsoons,
In menstrual cycles,
In the blood of my enemies I want to slaughter,
Then taste.
When I roast and handle my beets, they are the
blood on my hands I can't rinse off
The black soil remains under my nails indefinitely
When I’ve forgotten about the beet,
The beet has not forgotten nor forgiven
me
I **** and **** and spit red
The beet never leaves me
Beet, please, never leave me.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
[PART 1]
**** everyone that’s ever been a friend of mine
Everyone that I ever loved until the end of time
So sick of sunshine, nothing but black clouds in my mind
I Sit seeing signs knowing that sometime soon it’s time
Seems we find a man stained with blood, spinning insane ****
Disaster’s in my lane but like Tech I pin and frame it
Don’t blame it on me when you embrace the inner furry
Spitting hurried words in a flurry, speaking absurdly
Has it occurred to thee, none of you could ever hurt me?
Absurdity, I feast on emcees, no obstacles for me
Illogical, living life like a beast, it’s mythological
Must be biological, the way I ****** methodical
Psychological warfare from one who never fought fair
Pathological nightmare, drops bodies without a care
Dare any soul to try and comprehend, this is the end
Once I begin, they all cry and slowly die from within
[PART 2]
**** everybody who ever passed anywhere near me
Everybody from my past who cared and yet still feared me
Nobody shed tears for me, or ever lent an ear to me
So now it’s clear to me, none of you are sincere to me
I disappear into madness filling my words with a blackness
No amount of cannabis can ever undo this sadness
Don’t ask me about my past; don’t think you’ll get past the mask
This just might be the last time you’ll EVER hear from my ***
Demons in mass and alas, I’m tangled within their grasp
Surpassed my peers and alas, I got no angels to ask
I’m mangled in my mind and it’s worse now that I’m all grown
Evilness in my bones plus I gets no rest in my dome
But I’m home at last with this pent up anger being shown
I’m alone; not a gang banger but I still hold the chrome
Come off my throne and try and comprehend, this is the end
Once I begin, they all cry and slowly die from within
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
~~
This afternoon wears the dark Shirt
After demonstration of the moon,
End of the waiting of pied crested cuckoo,
I did not end
A little bits of interval,
Blinking the distant Stars
My friend could count,
very romantic,
In me cast the shadow
Her beloved lives outdoors,
All the apartments of the mind has rented
Taken from the first floor up to twelve
I did not
I saw the race of cars on the street,
Standing at corner of the roof
When hunger the fingernails,
Subconsciously
Playing an illusion of gravity
This time the drone of insects,
Occasionally shout of bull frog
In fresh water of the rainy season,
Breeding multiply
Nature of the Nature
Cut off the yarn, the kite ran out of the sky
In the Kans forest,
The shadows of white clouds,
very Absurdly,
I could not even catch you
In the body of mind,
Emptiness came home
Lost days song come up from the deep sea
In the silence the sound of sighs
Sleepless night as the rhythm of the strange poem
While the star drops in front of a traveler
Even though when my time has gone
Still could not understand the unknown poetry
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
To whom it may concern,
Let me start off with I'm very concerned.
I'm not her and she's not even close to being me but I'll put myself in her pants and tell you what you need to hear.
I've got my nerve right here in my fist and ive got my guts in the other.
You've got nothing on me.
I'll give you something so you have anything.
Open your hands and I'll give you what's in mine.
I will rip you to shreds just watch me.
You're weak inside I can see it by the way you try to leave everything on me.
My intentions are no good.
I will place my words like mines.
I will make my sentences so absurdly stunning you'll just stop mid breath, I'll take your air like you took her pride.
You do not want me to be concerned about you or I will become you.
I'll even take your pants
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 2:33 AM UTC
I exist in the abysmal state of solitude, where I, whose existence survives in profound literary pieces, could fall short of mere words penetrated—cast against me. Where would I be if I can't find the right words to say?
In front of me is a sweet orange juice menacingly teasing me with its dazzling pumpkin hue. Beside it is the apple pie I swore my life I would never put in my mouth. Yet, the sun glistened brighter when I gently put my fork down and absurdly ate it with my eyes closed.
The sadness that lingers deep within enthralls me more, as I swiftly swallow and digest it without tasting all its flavors—just so I can return to reality. I try to keep it all together, even as my spirit is crushed by the thoughts that seep in, nipping at the edges of my soul—through the cracked window of my vision, and the half-drunk orange juice. These thoughts keep coming in, like an intense downpour after a shower. I have tried to write this simply, yet I could never find the right words to say.
I could never forgive myself.
Feb 7, 2025
Feb 7, 2025 at 11:57 AM UTC
born poverty stricken,
she lay her head on no mattress..
still she sung along to mary j. blige, like religious practice..
Stronger with each tear was the motto,
&so; she shed..
Because its hard to have dreams when you don't have a bed..
Its hard to have food for thought when you cant afford bread.
& the local Goodwill is dead..
Her speech was absurdly intact, & well spoken.
you would assume a girl trapped like that, wouldn't be open,
Yet.
Just 14, she showed potential of a graduate, beyond bachelors.
&& in our city record deals are the only time we owned Masters.
beneath those hazel eyes. there lies an old soul,
told,
by her surroundings her future was a pole.
bold,
in her approach, how she stripped away the cold.
now dances in the daisies, dodging Hades, never sold.
&this; is no figment of imagination,
how her eyes hazel pigment,
had the power to judge a nation.
Because she woke up daily, prepared as **** for that math test..
Though she was born poverty stricken, lay her head on no mattress..
-afj
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Worthy
of what?
lies?
indifference?
Raging at my own heart
that breaks apart so easily
moment by moment
in fits and starts
wildly beating, wide open
like a fool
blindly chasing an illusion
Worthy
of what?
time?
evasion?
A strange alliance
this friendship we have
absurdly laughable
and unworthy of these words
or anything ever offered
because I am more than
worthy...
Angela Minard 2013©
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
Julys have come and gone
in the hills of Shillong
and from the browned ORWO
the skinny boy with an oversized cap
smiles as if there's no tomorrow
but this moment
wrapped in fog and drizzle
holds everything within
the now filling life to the brim
making growth a needless shape
absurdly redundant
and never more real
than the eyes
peering from that shot of time
ecstatic in happiness
rejecting a future
too intangible
to be valuable.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
Parents are the weirdest - of God's creation.
I mean, who on Earth would desire the responsibility of another human being from the time they **** in their pants to the time they leave saying 'what have you ever done for me?' ?
Who would, of all the things in the world, like their homeroom stuffed with stupid CDs and stuffed racoons, waterguns and Legos, dried acrylics and miniature utensil sets, ugly pyjamas and strange half-knit sweaters?
I need to know why parents don't object to their kids pooping everywhere.
It's either the kids are super cute or the parents are super crazy.
I'm sure it isn't the former.
A certain lack of imaginative faculties, in parents, is evident to me,quite frankly.
Think of it this way- if it weren't for us - kids, our parents would have been carefree playboys and playgirls, and 'living their lives' - cliché.
What weirdos really!
Their standards of children's safety too possess a particular oddity.
It's only the exact moment of physical contact during a hug that our parents feel we're safe.
Their sense of economy and finance is oxymoronic.
They love discounts. But they'll pay extra for whatever their kids wish.
I wonder how they resist TV shows of most sorts just because they won't have their kids watch remotely explicit content, visual or auditory.
I bet their sense of direction is most unnaturally affected too.
Why do they even follow their kids, when they know kids don't have a working GPS?
Do you have any idea, to what lengths parents go to make veggies seem delicious?
Veggies, Really?
Parents will have you take disgusting syrups and painful **** injections,
And claim they love you.
Parents will have you hit the books,
And claim they love you.
Parents will ground you because you do something they don't like (but they too did it when they were kids),
And claim they love you.
Parents will stop you every time you say a swear word (but they swear all the time),
And claim they love you.
Parents will claim they love you,
Maybe, because they really love you.
Oh, their weirdness never ends.
Parents may seem eccentric,
Their ways might seem a bit too bizarre,
Maybe that's how the people who really love us behave!
Yet, we're always rushing away from them.
If you have ever traveled in a bus, you'll know how absurdly keen the passengers are, to get off, when it stops.
That's how keen the kids are, to leave the laps of their mothers, quite literally the most comfortable place in the world.
Parents really are - the weirdest of God's creation.
And the loveliest too.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
Enslaved in her dark waves
I ride the night.
In this journey in starlight
I pass by the witch flying on her broom,
Her eyes not vengeful but wear weary gloom,
For though she’s forever going away from earth
Pines for a home and hearth,
While I disintegrate into comets
Dreaming one day to find my way back to the sun.
Absurdly wondrous my night trek
In piercing moonlight towards stars.
As in the endless firmament I rush,
Sleeplessness seems no more a curse.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
I grieve for you in the cold quiet of winter
My absent child, my long lost son
Warming my hands over dying flames, frost covered smouldering clinker,
By the wood where icy streams run
Through the shrunken sedge, and barren fields
Stretching for miles, empty of meaning.
The landscape like a worn photograph yields
Your tremulous smile, then nothing.
Here, you ran with startled steps
Through the yielding sheaves, yelling with surprise,
Chasing indifferent spiders, and discomfited birds
With hatred in their pebble pool-dark eyes.
Querying awkwardly spoken words, small
Tenacious fingers that caress and clutch
Every passing object, loudly chuckling, wisely playing me for a fool
A silly father who loved too much.
On the anniversary of your leaving I required solitude
Partnered only by memory
Away from familiar crowds, the booming, barking fusillade
Of the present day commonplace urban itinerary,
Where only the crackle of snow
And the fleeting trajectory of birds
Distracts my slow
Marshalling of comforting thoughts.
The cottage where we lived haunts the shallow glade,
A shrouded ghost swaddled by the half-light,
Positioned squarely like an old man, its cladding beginning to fade,
White branches like dead-fingers that gleam in the night.
In the closet are your dust-sprinkled toys, a yellow plastic duck,
A cheap skateboard, ancient video games,
A guitar you never learnt to pluck
A chess board on which you pulverised my endgames.
In the preserved furnishings of your bedroom
Your school work gathered into stacks
Barely visible in the gloom,
Our life together in disorganised packs
Denoting year and level
Development and academic achievement,
If any, (but I mustn’t once again cavil)
Indicating, even in your earliest years, a specific bent.
Standing on the mantelpiece, propped up against the wall,
Are brightly coloured, polished pictures
Of you. Plump, blonde, agreeably small
Dancing, standing, jumping, grinning, absurdly wistful mixtures.
A bitter echo resonating from the shadows
A cold thought darkening into memory
The spectre of your voice disappearing in the meadows
Having left all of us! Having left me!
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
Don't wait, I'm not coming home.
Someday you'll forget me
and I'll forget you.
Don't search for me,
I'm lost.
This emotion is absurdly bitter,
biting into my paper veins; gnashing.
You won't know where I've bled.
Someday, you'll forget my voice
and I'll forget yours.
This moment is a void
flooding with intangible vacuum.
My lungs are ripped open,
did you know how it feels to die?
Don't forget we counted stars
of the starless sky.
I'm drowning but it doesn't matter,
it's not like I can breathe
anymore anyway.
Don't forget you used to tell
bedtimes stories to ghosts
when you thought I fell asleep;
with your hand in mine
the way sun fits into skies
that are not his home.
The miles I've walked away
mean nothing because
I'll turn around and run to you again.
Don't forget I gifted you
the other half of my dream
because you said
you could never dream.
Someday I'll forget
the touch of your fingertips
against mine
and you'll forget mine.
I'm a kaleidoscope spinning
without direction,
shattering and falling
into shards
like a screaming avalanche.
I'm glacial bones,
someday you'll forget
the coldness of my eyes
and I'll forget yours.
The azure of the sky merging
into orange of sun
is only because
they've learned
to be together
and conjure another color.
You and I are oil paints
splattered on black canvas,
a dark vastness
they can't measure.
Someday I'll forget
the number of your scars
and you'll forget mine.
You're stubborn and beautiful,
you'd say you want to take a dive
into the clouds and fly into cliffs.
We're inverted images,
never fitting into each other.
But you're in the mirror
and I'm stumbling into the void.
But you're eyes are still cerulean blue,
mine are still emerald green.
I'll never forget
the soprano of my voice
melting in the tenor of yours.
I'll never forget touch
of your fingertips
through glass doors
or concrete walls.
You'd forget that I still remember
when you told me I'm so deep.
I'm so deep, I drowned you
and you're still gasping for breath,
even after all these years,
I'd know you'll never forget
the precise lengths of my scars.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
lend me your ears
and i will tell you a story
there are truly monstrous
little creatures
running about
**WITH TOO MANY ********* LEGS**
one night
one of these monsters
revealed itself
to the terror
of its human onlooker
let me explain terror
in this instance
it is a feeling that may or may not
cause one
to literally tear one's clothes off
put on uninfested clothes
and flee the premises
and i mean flee
now i'm not saying
i know someone who would do this
but i heard this story
of a woman
that, in a state of such terror
in a state of such
severe heebie jeebies
tore around town
and screamed "too many legs!"
out her rolled down windows
when this medicine did not
cure said
heebie jeebies
there was truly a sight and sound
to behold
now i'm not gonna lie
it was me, ok?
don't judge
because of this next part
i am very proud
i just sang
my ever loving
heart out
to a 10 mile radius
and i mean i
*sang that ****
anyone who hadn't heard
"gorilla" by bruno mars
has now heard it.
and the energy i released
was profound
because i hit that note
*************
*I bet you never ever felt so good, so good
I got your body trembling like it should, it should
You'll never be the same baby once I'm done with you*
You [3x]
the "you" is the crucial part
and i'm telling you
i just sang the **** out of that song
until i got dizzy
and my fists hurt from pounding the
steering wheel
it gave me enough courage
to re-enter the premises
pop a bottle
grab my laptop
(while doing a little dance of terror)
and jump on the couch
the only problem
is that if you
sing the **** out of "gorilla"
literally 25x
too many legs
becomes the least of your
problems
you realize
quite absurdly
how at the present moment
you are not
making love like gorillas
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
for mine own Yocum
<>
a strange parting shot,
that we are are the refuse
upon this island Earth,
the very last item on some being's
weekly grocery list,
a list composed 'illions of years ago,
of things that could be worthy of
"creating"
this thought sticks to my soul,
like a rosé pink colored
NYC street'd, well chewed,
gum piece
adheres to my sole
the musical companion to this ecrivez,
a sinfonia for strings politely begs to differ,
while a hard covered book
dances me over to Texas,
Dudamel conducts Barber,
all making the question of
man as an afterthought
in a divine master plan for a planet,
seems almost recklessly absurdly nonsensical
then
my cell buzzes me back to this
******** hell earth
seven more cops shot, three dead
down in the bayou of Baton Rouge,
on a sabbath Sunday morning
rouge red now assumes,
takes on a different
notation colorations,
to my bleeding eyes,
delivering importations
of headaches confusion rampage,
red rage
the amplification of the worst of we,
afterthought creatures surely,
why "create a destroyer,"
an absurd contradictory term,
so we are gift wrapped
beneath the misleading approbation -
human
there is no nobility in our savagery,
or dare I sneer and say,
in our humanity
you cannot seal a wound with music
you cannot revive the dead with a poem ear-whispered
sitting beneath the tree shade
of my privileged place,
my surrounding world is
bay blue and grass green,
my vision myopic,
I am a self-centered,
microscopic collection of red cells
conceding to you Sargeant,
this designer of the human form,
who wrought it from
soiled earth and excess rib bone,
had a peculiar sense of humor,
a comedian full of
malice aforethought,
for are we not
the final joke,
for someone's bemusement
we must have come last,
because you always
want to leave them
laughing
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
Enclosed in this body
I find myself terribly alone
people who are supposed to be mine; I don't understand their customs even though we share same language
how can we share same culture, bonding, skin colour and religion?
I find this bizarre- strange, and defying
though I did not want; I am forced to hear the stories
participate in this wildness of rituals, judgemental games
these rituals, maddening remarks and cultural scores
majorly- religious obsession; I find this bizarre, fanatic, humiliating
I, just feel, absurdly, obscurely and intensely alone
officially, I resigned from feeling too human.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 9:11 AM UTC
It’s a gravy boat
Gravy is delicious
It’s a gravy boat
For your appetite
Spicy, nicey onions float
In the lovely gravy boat
If you should want to know
It’s not a train
Don’t buy a ticket
That’s not cricket
It’s a gravy boat
And it contains
Liquid velvet for the throat
Absurdly decadent and smooth
It’s a gravy boat, not a gravy train
I pour gravy on my food
It’s a gravy boat
It’s not a train
If it was then I’d complain
A train is always late
And I refuse to wait
Anyway, railway food’s appalling
Wait, I hear my dinner calling
It’s a s......... gravy boat
Now we’ve got that right
Bon, bon bon............
Bon appetite! (or appetit?)
Anyway if there ever was a gravy train, (and I’m not saying there was,) the last train has gone forever, utterly broken, irreparable, too many politicians scrabbling to climb aboard, (don’t you watch the news darling?)
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 3:35 PM UTC
the most
absurdly
exhausting
of all labours
is the distasteful art
of pretending to be
someone
else
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
Life is a series of demands. Hurry up, perform.
Do your homework, write a paper, oh and read 300 pages,
get in those volunteer hours, grab those lab credentials.
I get busy, caught up in projects and I forget stuff
like dinnertime, peeing before it’s an emergency,
or like calling you - last night.
On vacation I’m unplugged, I’m avoiding focus,
I’m not paying attention, my mind’s wandering.
I’d want you less if it were required by law.
I imagine your huge, brown saucer eyes
exhibiting a wounded, blaming expression and I can’t.
Maybe there’s a biological explanation, yes, that’s it,
I’m missing an enzyme, I have a glandular disorder
that prevents long distance relationships from working.
No, not work - It can’t be work - it should be exciting.
Is it a crime to want some time off from pressure?
I’m not asking for a pony.
Just a sabbatical couple of weeks away from obligations.
I felt so guilty that I went to Karen (Lisa’s mom) about it.
We talked for over an hour, she’s so smart, I love her.
She reminded me about the recent lockdowns
and how years of skyping and remote learning
might affect (dull-down) a long distance romance.
I told her what you said, about my sinatra psyche
and she said although I seem absurdly secure,
I’m probably still figuring things out - and that’s ok.
There’s really no substitute for talking to a mom.
I called you - and left a message - I hope you understand.
I turned my phone off - for now.
Dec 29, 2022
Dec 29, 2022 at 7:15 AM UTC
If you should come upon a painting by Mark Rothko in a museum -
I'll assume you are not one of those billionaires who has one hanging on the dining room wall, or hidden away in a secret room behind the bookcase -
but either way, do not just look at the painting or you will see nothing.
Well, except color. You will see color. Rothko loved color.
But wait a while and you will begin to hear it whisper its secrets:
How lives are layered upon lives;
how painful sacrifices
get buried beneath petty ambitions and lies
and joys and succes as well-
oh, and perhaps another layer or two of color.
Each generation scrapes the parchment clean
and blithely scribes new marks on its surface -
confident that they will not forget the lessons
that seem so absurdly obvious.
Empires disappear beneath overgrown vines
and dieties who, drunk on the blood of virgins
would feast on the hearts of conquered warrors
but now shuffle past each other
with oblivious nods, grousing about the food,
wait for the day someone remembers their names.
Listen and perhaps you will learn
how every layer of life is a forgotten secret
discernable only by its subtle influence
on the layers that are built up above it.
If not. There is always the color. Rothko loved color.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
What do you suppose
would happen
if **** Scotland
and Bald **** Arkansaw
hooked up
in ******* Austria?
Perhaps they would
stop in ***** Canada
for toys and then
pound hard through
*********** Pennsylvania
and go down to
****** Lick, Kentucky
before coming together
in ****** Michigan.
Hopefully, they
would avoid
Conception, Missouri.
The geography
of the absurdly
possible makes
for titillating
journies of fancy.
Let's all meet up in
Eros, Louisiana.
See you there...
mce
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
Your words are painfully beautiful
Enough so to make me weep
My heart is anything but tender
Yet in question, my head spins
I'm loosing sleep
I want to forget everything
It's what i do best
Time's never healed so much as a paper cut
I turn to herbs to get some rest
I continue reading somberly
Overthinking every word
these poems can't be for me
But your heartbreak wasn't absurdly inferred.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
#*From the dusts of day
a day singles itself out
as forever remembrance.*
On his calling
they met at the harbor town.
She had traveled all of twenty miles
from her seaward village
to pose with the city boy at a roadside studio
humidly dark from the blinding sun outside.
Time was captured eternally for the moment
the photographer drew them closer
freezing two awed eyes in frame.
They knew couldn't last
that unearthly day on the harbor town
made to stand closest
sparking a craving in their skin
and then passing into black and white postcard
of two sweating face
in absurdly ridiculous happiness.
The boy's copy was lost in the wind
but he loves to believe
the other is safe with her.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 4:11 AM UTC
Pigeons are water-birds carved from stoicism.
When feet approach, they disperse, reconnect,
and continue, leaving me completely perplexed.
I can never tell the difference
between their calling of mate
and battle for territory.
Both actions are so absurdly similar.
I watch for days, chasing them
and their thirty-yard flights with my coffee in-hand.
I've traveled to the Rockies of Colorado
from the ***** Lower East Side of Manhattan
by rusted, dring-belled and horned bicycle.
Cool winds helped sail me across forest trails
and I slept, albeit briefly, on park bench ports;
they attract my current muses and, in turn, me.
These winter-jacketed birds tend to puff up and coo and dance
in front of one another defending their plumage,
their right to be, where they are, for what fills them whole.
One will stare at another, the other never looks back.
One will bump another, the other never touches back.
One will chase the Other and then gently caress its wings,
as if to stab, "Stay a while, partake in the sidewalk feast."
One wants in, the other out; they both want in
so I'll be headed home now.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC