"chinos" poems
Standing just a foot away
In leather boots and sequined jeans
Five foot nine, lean and mean
at the Taqueria, El Si Hay
Pink cellphone and cheap sunglasses
Waiting in the order line
A pug-nosed man in chinos passes
and paces round to pass the time.
When it's cold I miss the birds
It's always nice to find
the easy flow of Spanish words
and English mixed in kind
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
romeo is bleeding but not so as you'd notice
he's over on 18hh street as usual
lookin' so hard
against the hood of his car
and puttin' out a cigarette in his hand
and for all the pachucos at the pumps
at romeros paint and body
they all seein' how far they can spit
well it was just another night
but how they're huddled in the brake lights
of a 58 belair
and listenin' to how romeo killed a sherrif his knife
and they all jump when they hear the sirens
but romeo just laughs
and says all the racket in the world
ain't never gonna save that coppers ***
he'll never see another summertime
for gunnin' down my brother
and leavin' him like a dog beneath a car without his knife
and romeo says hey man gimme a cigarette
and they all reach for their pack
and frankie lights it for him
and pats him on the back
and throws bottle at a milk truck
and as it breaks he grabs his nuts
and they all know they could be just like romeo
if they only had the guts
but romeo is bleeding
but nobody can tell
and he sings along with the radio with a bullet in his chest
and he combs back his fenders and they all agree its clear
that every thing is cool now that romeos here
but romeo is bleeding and he winces now and then
and he leans against the car doors
and feels the blood in his shoes
and someones crying in the phone booth at the 5 points by the store
romeo starts his engine and wipes the blood off the door
and he brodys through the signal
with the radio full blast
leavin' the boys there hikin' up there chinos
and they all try to stand like romeo
beneath the moon cut like a sickle
and they're talkin' now in spanish about there hero
but romeo is bleeding
as he gives the man his ticket
and he climbs to the balcony at the movies
and he'll die without a wimper
like every heros dream
just like an angel with a bullet
and cagney on the screen
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
Vivienne Westwood
Always wears Chinos
By Moschino
When making Cappuccinos
And insists all that drink
The aforementioned fare
Wear clothes
Adorned with safety pins
And have blond spiky hair.
Vivienne rarely makes Cappuccinos.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
feminist
Cut your hair Samson,
beautiful locks.
Wear shirts and chinos,
no matter the costs.
Stereotype my essence,
and call me a man.
Say what you want to,
but not what you can’t.
Pretend I despise you,
when I respect what you say.
I’ll pretend I respect you,
when it doesn’t make sense.
I see you as equal
whilst you condemn me as evil,
or you overlook others,
that I hold close as brothers.
The funny things is,
you’re just as bad,
lad.
Trying to blame other people,
for the substance you lack.
You’re the worst contradiction,
of my opposite form.
Without the ***** of women,
and the allure of the man,
we couldn’t exist,
we go hand in hand.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
i remember the taste of my own blood
fondly
i remember my broken nose bone fellating my own
grey brain-mush
and how i could smell my own
ocular nerves
and my scattered smile
like a third period hockey player eating
a puck
and glancing at his mother in the crowd
i remember a moment suffering in the opposite of blindness,
and a canadian wearing a sombrero and chinos holding a guitar
i remember high testosterone levels
and blurred vision
i remember what knuckles taste like
and how bone feels against bone
but he remembers it too
he remembers how concrete tastes
and how embarrassment runs
like blood to the head of a man hanging by his feet
he knows the conclusion of concussion and
how much a hospital visit for a broken arm costs.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
Sneakers, loafers, sandals, chelsea,
stilettos, wedges, platform, scarpin
I think it's fine to categorize shoes 'cause they serve different purposes
Dress pants, jeans, corduroy pants,
leggings, chinos pants, sweat pants
I think it's fine to categorize pants 'cause they serve different purposes
Black, white, brown, fat, athletic, skinny,
rich, poor, smart, introvert, extrovert, gay, lesbian, straight, Christian, Muslim
I don't think it's fine to categorize humans because we are all ONE from the same SOURCE with the same PURPOSE!
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 9:34 AM UTC
The game was on again on Friday
We've been players in the game
Sometimes we were the winners
And others...hey, it's just a game!
The players have all lined up
there are five out on the field
Let's see if someone scores tonight
And which one of them will yield
Three guys lined up and facing
Two women opposing them
All were ready, set to go
Let's get started then
White sweater, jeans
The first to move
It looks like we'll see a pass
But, from here his jeans are baggy
5 yard loss for baggy ***
The women laughed and smiled
They were on defence right from the start
The guys would have to send their best
If they were gonna win their hearts
Red workshirt, chinos, ballcap
Makes his way and gets quite far
He's armed with two tequilas
He doesn't see their longnecks on the bar
They laughed and drank his offer
He made some progress
second down
He makes off to his buddies
It's left up to their friend in brown
He ventures out to the jukebox
Finds something upbeat
for a dance
But chino's turned right on his heels
He's called an audible....second chance
He reaches out to both the girls
He gets their before his friend
If he fumbles this, his game is done
He won't be here at the end
We've seen this game a thousand times
Every week at every club
The players..always different
But the game's the same and there's the rub
Back to our five players
The man in brown got blocked before
He even made it to the girls
But, he barely made it to the floor
Red workshop wins this time folks
It looks like he won't go home alone
But, the girls have got another play
and it involves phoning home
The sudden ring's resounding
It shakes the bar and stops the man
Because while they were out dancing
He saw the rings on both their hands
Like I said, the game is always
going on ...with newer rules
It's amazing how married women
Make the men all look like fools
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
I used to hang out with subtleness
But she bruised my ego so I stripped her bare
Inviting promiscuity to be my friend instead
Open and easy my smiles come quick
Especially for him
The intensity of his gaze hugged close to my glistening curves
Heavy intentions tempo my movements deep and slow
The dance floor is crowded with seeking bodies
His eyes locked only on me
Devouring
I'm going in for the ****
Licking my lips, him chasing my hips
This is gonna be quick
Major rager tenting his chinos
I want some. Real bad.
His breaking dawn sunset scent making it impossible not to salivate
Closer. Come closer to me.
I am as close as I am going to get
Without falling
Hard. At his feet.
Begging him for just a taste
He doesn't know it yet
I am going to **** him down
Wants it but doesn't know it
I am going to swallow all that juicy ***
Craves it but doesn't know it
He will be the one begging
Begging for more
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 5:36 PM UTC
i dont really know what im interested in,
but right now my interest's in you.
right now the only ambition i have
is to hold boomboxes outside your window.
and that sentiment was cute when i was 15,
skipping gym class to spend
some more time as a friend,
but as of right now, i should have a drive
towards something more responsible,
than the feel of your cheek
against mine.
i have no clue what im capable of,
but how can any feat compare,
to the brilliant warmth that is
found in those eyes
when one of these jumbles of words
makes you smile?
or better yet, laugh?
these curls, these crunches, these chinos, these white strips,
these copies of The Economist and the New York Times,
are all in attempt to make sure that the glow
that emits from those pores remains visible.
health is a clever cover-up, without the motivation,
i'd listen to The Smiths for just the melodies,
and help myself to another portion (of bacon).
right now, the only reason i'm writing this down,
is i hear that chicks dig poetry,
they're constructed in this way to feign substance,
so that you might associate substance with me,
and when i go on stage to perform these words,
it's in hopes that you'd hear them,
or at least hear that i'm a "slam poet".
these moments of knowing and not-knowing,
make this life worthwhile
and honestly i feel like that's f*cked up,
but i'd rather the question be,
one where you're the answer,
than one where you're not a factor.
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 2:28 AM UTC
Concept:
youlovemeback.
The ingredients of cleanse
make their way
to your house.
There is
a
strobe,
two stones portioned off
a Ziggurat,
a present thing —
like wheels,
a teardrop,
nail clippings.
My father
would trim his nails
and bury them —
as seeds.
Stared
at that ***
all days and evenings.
Monsoons and
summer heat echoed.
Time circled back and forth.
Sometimes,
I would gargle
father’s beer and
spit into the ***
Maybe it needed
Acrid, it needed
Strong. It needed
Disgusting,
Toxic. It wanted
wrong.
I turn 22.
The ***
Disappears. My father
too. Militants
took him away,
or so the chatter goes.
He wore Chinos, sun-dried
eyes, a hat.
Mice ate
the matchsticks
used for kindling.
The Queen Termite
Gave birth to more
hungry little ones
under the sink.
Dark, musty,
collapsing.
Memory, time,
fingertips. Thyme
rhymes
with mime,
I copy my father.
Trims nails.
Plants.
Waters.
Concept:
trytounderstand
This was only the nourish
he could give. It was
a copy of the nourish
his father could give —
Or so
The chatter goes.
Gather the stones.
Get the strobe.
Pound the nail clippings
and
an enzyme flows
Through, like tape recorders whirring
as they wind back to
play recorded confessions
one more time.
Free baptismals
at the church service
for hurried teens.
Free shirts for
the Insufficient.
Free lessons for
the young boy
who can’t read women.
Free at long, long last.
Concept:
fixtheheart
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 3:16 AM UTC
“Can you cover my shift 5 to 10 next Sunday?”
The first thought is to bring life to another forged explanation.
But then remember “the car”, “Nike Air Max 13’s” “new black chinos!”
“Yes, but who is this?” my eagerness caused by some subconscious yearn to nab this opportunity for a little more change in my pocket
Return to the dusty road I came from
My smiles wider than the road it’s self
You know how happy I am
My eyes have seen things they shouldn’t have
Time as we know it collapsing
Back to the road that brought me here
Laughing so hard
I can never take it back
Homecoming of creativity
The four walled clock melting safe house
Oh the anticipation
The justification
It’s coming back soon
I don’t wanna stand on my toes forever
Just trying to peer over then moon
To see the sunrise for tomorrow
I’m finally content with the night light
I don’t wanna stand on my toes forever
Across the avenue
People walking on their hands
And having their peculiarity
Drained from their auras
I can’t understand
Arriving back to times we applauded at our own joy and success
I can comprehend
The boulevard
The corner where this all was conceived
I don’t want to put on my shoes
I’m just going to take them off again
Down to another dusky trail
Unraveling its self for my travels
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
Boom,
Bangalore,
I move silently across the
dance hall floor
she guides me patiently
I do not know what for, but
I explode and this
torpedo is no more.
Boom,
Bangalore,
I have my chinos and my Rayban's, but
she wants me more and more,
she is menacing and I run deep across the floor
but have no more to give.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 7:40 AM UTC
My life is a hand of poker played in a crooked casino,
Losing at every turn, this cancer beating my chemo,
These syringes take me higher than crack and a cappuccino,
I will end up in a box dressed up with a tie and khakis or chinos,
I've come back down, parachuted from being so broke, God has my soul out for repo,
When I turn around I want to make my entrance grandly incognito,
This battle is Lost, my blood drawn out by racist mosquitoes,
Now I get up seeking revenge for my peoples,
No one around me departs after using those needles,
For once in my life, my actions are right not illegal,
I won't depend on the gamble of the lawyer and his paralegal,
I circle around back to this social casino,
I wasn't strong to beat this depression, and therapy was my chemo,
This is my relapse from being alone and my life played out as a silly game of keno.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
La plaza sola (gris el aire,
negros los árboles, la tierra
manchada por la nieve),
parecía, no realidad, mas copia
triste sin realidad. Entonces,
ante el umbral, dijiste:
viviendo aquí serías
fantasma de ti mismo.
Inhóspita en su adorno
parsimonioso, porcelanas, bronces,
muebles chinos, la casa
oscura toda era,
pálidas sus ventanas sobre el río,
y el color se escondía
en un retablo español, en un lienzo
francés, su brío amedrentado.
Entre aquellos despojos,
proyecto, el dueño estaba
sentado junto a su retrato
por artista a la moda en años idos,
imagen fatua y fácil
del dilettante, divertido entonces
comprando lo que una fe creara
en otro tiempo y otra tierra.
Allí con sus iguales,
damas imperativas bajo sus afeites,
caballeros seguros de sí mismos,
rito social cumplía,
y entre el diálogo moroso,
tú oyendo alguien me dijo: "Me ofrecieron
la primera edición de un poeta raro,
y la he comprado", tu emoción callaste.
Así, pensabas, el poeta
vive para esto, para esto
noches y días amargos, sin ayuda
de nadie, en la contienda
adonde, como el fénix, muere y nace,
para que años después, siglos
después, obtenga al fin el displicente
favor de un grande en este mundo.
Su vida ya puede excusarse,
porque ha muerto del todo;
su trabajo ahora cuenta,
domesticado para el mundo de ellos,
como otro objeto vano,
otro ornamento inútil;
y tú cobarde, mudo
te despediste ahí, como el que asiente,
más allá de la muerte, a la injusticia.
Mejor la destrucción, el fuego.
821
*it was so long ago
I was not much more than a boy.
I noticed her in the office
blonde classy and oh so ****
in those days I got romantically excited
if a breeze passed by my chinos.
I asked her for a date
to go to the movies she accepted.
then she took me home
to meet her mother the dragon.
her father was dead.
she was possessive of her daughter
and hated me from first glance.
the feelings were mutual.
finally she went out for the evening.
and I was alone with her beautiful daughter.
I got what I wanted and had ***
it was not making love
I did not understand the difference back then.
I lost interest after that
the chase was more exciting than the act.
six weeks later she told me she was pregnant.
back then the only option was marraige.
I got drunk at the wedding
it felt more like a funeral to me.
we had to live with her mother
we had no money.
and her hate for me festered daily.
my new wife would not have ***
with her mother asleep in the next room.
we drifted from each other further each day.
I started going to the pub nightly.
coming home drunk and noisy.
the arguments were loud
and finally her mother threw me out.
my mother would not let me back home.
her down to earth Lancashire upbringing.
you made your own bed lad
now go and lie in it.
I saw my wife in town
we sat in the square and talked.
I thought how beautiful she was
and what a swine I was.
she wanted me back
she said she had always loved me.
I told her I would live in garden shed
before I would go back to her mother's.
we looked around for somewhere to live.
and found a tiny flat more of a rathole really.
but she fixed it up with second hand furniture.
and cans of paint.
we slept in our home for the first time.
we made love not ***
I knew the difference now.
by the time the baby came
we were friends
I think I loved her then.
it took two more years for me
to know I loved her.
we spent the last twenty five years
together and she is my friend
my lover and my companion.
we raised a family together.
and became grandparents together.
so I did not get a romcom movie
love affair.
but somehow against all odds.
we found a kind of loving.*
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
He Walked through the long corridor
of Green Park tube station.
There was a strong backdraft
that pushed him from behind.
He entered the train heading westbound
to Russel Square, on the Picadilly line.
It was packed with every kind of person
imaginable--the weird, schoolkids,
the bankers, tourists, parents with babies
and then there was her.
She had shoulder-length brown hair.
She was slim, pale and had piercing green eyes.
She was wearing khaki chinos
with a white Ralph Lauren Polo shirt.
A black choker on her neck and holding
a book.
Murakami's 1Q84.
The same book he was reading.
There was a hush in the air
as their look lingered for several seconds.
She looked at him, smiled and lifted
her eyebrows.
He looked at her and said,
"If you can't understand what just happened now
without explanation,
then you won't understand it
with an explanation."
She smiled and remembered the line in the book.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 2:37 AM UTC
Approaching like a soul with a bad news update
Small things gradually start to appear
Time,
Loss,
Fear,
That first grey hair on your head
Now showing up in places that you dread
Pants,
Chest,
Nostrils,
No way man,
Impossible
The beat of the radio flicks from Radio 1 to 2
Don't try and deny it, you know this to be true
Now Elbow,
Mike and the Mechanics
Nothing wrong with a bit of Elvis Presley
Now this is getting scary
I'm going to need a Harley or a soft top soon
Impress the ladies that I'm still in tune
Chinos,
Loafers,
A semi grey goatee
Oh man,
I hate becoming an oldie
JJB
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
I'll think of you ,from time to time
Not much else to do, can't make you mine
Just destined to orbit , never to collide
Not one of your secrets , just someone to confide
Your like a infection in my side , you roam all the empty spaces in my mind
Your my favorite book, with all the pages worn
Your my favorite pair of chinos, where only I know their torn.
The calming grace of a of overcast sky, but the of passion of a thunder storm .
All this winter , I've dreamt of keeping you warm.But you have a habit of being where I'm not. Being where I should be and where you are is where I'm caught .
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
*My summer job with lady Chatterley..added a twist
.apologies to D.H Lawrence
I was sixteen at the time.
I suffered embarrassing erections
Whenever a light breeze passed by my chinos.
I had forgotten about applying for the job at the mansion.
And was sure I ******* up the interview
Because I sporting huge woody.
The severt girl bent down
to pass my tea in a China cup.
Revealing a pair of succulent breast.
And the rest was predictable.
But lady Chatterley seemed not to notice.
I heard that lord Chatterley
got his cobbler's blown off in torbuck or some place.
Fighting Rommel desert rats.
But lady Chatterley had stayed with him
I was going to say through thick and thin.
But I think the long and short of it
was more accurate.
Anyhoo I digress
I got the job as house boy.
I had to serve her
her breakfast in bed.
She wore a flimsy see through negligee.
I spilled her morning tea limping
to her bed with her breakfast tray.
Those houseboy pants
were really too thin and so tight.
I was red as a beetroot
And wondered if I would ever be freed
Of those spontaneous errections.
She just smiled though.
So nice so understanding.
She was beautiful
I was secretly in love with her.
And she became the star of night fantasies
Where I ...well let's not get graphic shall we.
Anyhoo I a digressing again
Sorry D H. Don't want to lose the plot here.
One day they went out hunting
The unspeakable chasing the uneatable.
When she got back
I was cleaning her en suite bathroom
She said softly
Jude come out here sweetie.
I obeyed she sounded so ****
Sure enough here was my woody
Right on time.
She said softly
Come here sweetie
I obeyed
Take off my dress
I slowly unbuttoned her dress
It fell to floor like gossamer.
Now unhook my bra sweetie
I unhooked the skimpy garment.
It floated to the bedroom floor.
Now slip off my silk ******* she said.
In a **** throaty voice.
Sweating I slipped her ******* off.
A faint wisp of perfume hit my nostrils
Then she yelled at me.
Right their I ever catch
you wearing my clothes again
You're fired you little *****
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
I found him standing on the side road
leaning against his
red Mustang 1946
with silver rimmed wheels
and black leather seat covers.
His eyes draped with
the black shades
and his hair,
spiked like a dude’s
but also, coiffured
like a gentlemans’.
His maroon polo neck,
making a perfect match
with his grey chinos,
underneath which he wore
black sneakers
with a watch in his hands.
Did I mention the veins on his hand !
I looked at him and caught him winking.
With a new gained confidence,
I walked up to him and touched his bulging manhood.
In a flash of a second,
he grabbed me and
laid me on the hood of his car.
And just when
he was about to kiss me on my ****
I stopped him,
with a new found courage,
I stripped him of his chinos right there,
and held his ******** in my fist.
And my mouth gave him
the best *******
Up down, rubbing my hands all over him,
spitting on the right times,
he came for me, grabbing my hair.
He put his hands on me
and came onto me.
I said “you taste like heaven’s personal brand of maple syrup”
and he gave me the most wittiest smile ever,
and whispered his phone number in my ear which is still etched on my mind.
I turned and he grabbed me, because that wasn’t the end.
He laid me on the bonnet again
and kissed me on the **** so hard that I still get wet, just thinking of it.
The way his tongue rolled around my ******** touching all the right places and how his fingers found my spot just on time, when I was about to come, and his touch triggered something, which I never knew existed in me before.
I came hard, on his mouth, and then he whispered in my ear, “you taste like heaven’s *** angel”
And after it was over, he went his way, I went mine,
both with a memory of the best ******* ever.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 3:22 AM UTC
esa piedra ¿tiene que ver con él?
el hombre de la zapatería de enfrente ¿tiene que ver con
él?
los millones de chinos indios angoleños que no conoce
¿tienen que ver
con él?
el sanantonio extraño bicho de Dios ¿tiene que ver con
él?
esa piedra tiene que ver con él
el hombre de la zapatería de enfrente tiene que ver con él
los millones de chinos indios angoleños que no conoce tienen que
ver
con él
el sanantonio extraño bicho de Dios que ver con él
extraño bicho el sanantonio vuela corto es bella su
caparazón
extraño bicho el humano
extraña dicha la suya cuando hay
vuela corto es bella su caparazón y
tiene que ver con esa piedra
con el hombre de la zapatería de enfrente tiene que ver
con los millones de chinos indios angoleños la extraña
dicha suya
aunque la piense a solas sola
cierto resulta el vivir y cierta cada vida
al lado de él encima de él abajo de él el
sanantonio
vuela corto es bella su caparazón y extraña
la dicha de él
405
Surreal P@ul
head in the clouds
drink in my hand
Lemon shirt
and on this day
lime green shorts. chinos
bald head glowing in the sun
coming in my windows
basking in its warm glow
curtains shut
mind open
finding the words
to make this poem grow
remembering the thing I had
like my mind
the thing I lost years ago
just put it down
now so hard to find
time has to come
when a man will changes
think my change is past
and looking forward
to my dying day.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 8:15 AM UTC
Dijo sus secretos el faisán de oro:
-En el gabinete mi blanco tesoro,
de sus claras risas el divino coro,las bellas figuras de los gobelinos,
los cristales llenos de aromados vinos,
las rosas francesas en los vasos chinos.(Las rosas francesas, porque fue allá en Francia
donde en el retiro de la dulce estancia
esas frescas rosas dieron su fragancia.)La cena esperaba. Quitadas las vendas,
iban mil amores de flechas tremendas
en aquella noche de Carnestolendas.La careta negra se quitó la niña,
y tras el preludio de una alegre riña
apuró mi boca vino de su viña.Vino de la viña de la boca loca,
que hace arder el beso, que el mordisco invoca.
¡Oh los blancos dientes de la loca boca!En su boca ardiente yo bebí los vinos,
y, pinzas rosadas, sus dedos divinos
me dieron las fresas y los langostinos.Yo la vestimenta de Pierrot tenía,
y aunque me alegraba y aunque me reía,
moraba en mi alma la melancolía.La carnavalesca noche luminosa
dio a mi triste espíritu la mujer hermosa,
sus ojos de fuego, sus labios de rosa.Y en el gabinete del café galante
ella se encontraba con su nuevo amante,
peregrino pálido de un país distante.Llegaban los ecos de vagos cantares
y se despedían de sus azahares
miles de purezas en los bulevares.Y cuando el champaña me cantó su canto,
por una ventana vi que un ***** manto
de nube, de Febo cubría el encanto.Y dije a la amada un día: -¿No viste
de pronto ponerse la noche tan triste?
¿Acaso la Reina de luz ya no existe?Ella me miraba. Y el faisán cubierto
de plumas de oro: -«¡Pierrot, ten por cierto
que tu fiel amada, que la Luna ha muerto!»
370
What have you become in this hollow space,
You were once somebody,
Once something
But now,
Your words are nothing,
And your face yields nobody.
A sunken man, a man so grated
He has abandoned the joys
Of
Wandering, and
Instead taken sweeter to whining; “why me”
And “why me”.
But these concerns
Never slip from his flakey slim lips, rather
They tumble and tumble
In his heavy limbered skull,
Rattling into one another
Like cheap cream chinos upon a white apron,
Resting and soaked
At the street corner laundrette. Never to dry.
Never to dry.
Emptier
than his pockets. And
Looser than the screws clasped to his spectacle frames.
The lenses are slipping. Vision is ending.
Words are nothing.
And so, passion ceases
As
The walls
Squeeze the last wonder from his
Breath; “why me” and “why us” - “Why do the stars
Dare to shine”.
Alas,
The universe lays gormless, and
Relishes in its own undisputed silence.
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 5:31 AM UTC