"frot" poems
You get trodden on everyday
And never thanked nor thought of
Bare feet, stocking feet, muddy shoes, wet shoes,
You have seen it all
If you could talk what would you say?
Would you complain?
Or do you like your job (I can't think why)
Would you tell us your dreams?
Do you want to be a flying carpet?
And fly across the world like a bird on the wing,
seeing and knowing everything?
Or are you content laying in frot of the crackling flames, warming yourself by the hearth.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
...love is hunter sick nerves you enter dream love is puncture it is green with life lush and suffering and kitchen frot and menial wreck and the reburn of childhood excite a spell and sale of a mental thing and incompletely rheumy-tunes...
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 4:43 PM UTC