"clug" poems
Sip, sip, sip, is how it starts out
when you're feeling a little down.
Clug, clug, clug, is when it could end
when you're nearly about to drown.
Sad and depressed, motivates the hand
to delve into the cans in the fridge.
One by one, this helps you no?
By twelve I feel like slipping from a bridge.
"I'm a **** man, let's break out the Jack."
My body numb, the pain subsides away.
Emotions mean nothing, neither does life
I got in my car, and reversed out my driveway.
Not really knowing, where I would be going
my mind buried deep down in a hole.
Following the lines on the outskirt of town
they lied and took me head on in a pole.
When I was found, people couldn't believe,
the horrific picture they'd seen.
My parents never imagined, this day would come
they would suffer a funeral for their teen.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC
1THE DOWN drop of the blackbird,
The wing catch of arrested flight,
The stop midway and then off: off for triangles, circles, loops of new hieroglyphs-
This is April's way: a woman:
"O yes, I'm here again and your heart
knows I was coming."
2White pigeons rush at the sun,
A marathon of wing feats is on:
"Who most loves danger? Who most loves wings? Who somersaults for God's sake in the name of wing power in the sun and blue on an April Thursday."
So ten winged heads, ten winged feet, race their white forms over Elmhurst.
They go fast: once the ten together were a feather of foam bubble, a chrysanthemum whirl speaking to silver and azure.
3The child is on my shoulders.
In the prairie moonlight the child's legs hang over my shoulders.
She sits on my neck and I hear her calling me a good horse.
She slides down-and into the moon silver of a prairie stream
She throws a stone and laughs at the clug-clug.
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