"garbo" poems
You lived alone in the solititude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
Every now and then
I go deep inside my mind
Just to have a little rest
And see what I can find
I don't go in there often
It dark and I must say
That sometimes I'm afraid
That I may lose my way
There's a little corner café
Where Groucho sits alone
Stan Laurel sits there writing gags
And Greta Garbo sits and moans
Sinatra sings for all of them
John Lennon talks to God
Brian Jones gives swimming lessons
There's Liz Taylor and Mike Todd
Over in the distance
At a table in the corner
Hemmingway sells movie scripts
To mogul man Jack Warner
Elvis does a hip shake
Ruth and Gherig playing catch
Bud and Lou do Who's on First
Humphrey Bogart lights a match
Charles Dickens playing darts
A red balloon comes floating by
Andy Warhol sits with Nico
Where German pop songs go to die
Marilyn and James Dean
Sit quietly talking on the stairs
John Kennedy and his brother Bob
Just pretend that they are both not there
Chico plays piano and
Harpo with his harp
Bad jokes float around the room
being told by silent stars
Phil Everly and Phil Ramone
They're new here so they're woozy
Sit talking of the songs they'll miss
Rick Nelson sings of Susie
You see it is a mad mad place
in my head when I may wander
I don't go in too deep
And I've met Henry Fonda
There's images, and icons
Family, and friends
on a little street inside my head
That's a circle with no ends
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Amaryllis in the Spring
because it's a pure & innocent thing
before a summer of rockets,
debris of hope—
*the Age of Discovery,
the Punishment of Lust*
an intravenous poison of decline forms
the new math: eye value minus itself
in waltz-time the body is radio-active,
there is no such thing as labor saving machinery
ask Garbo or Monroe, very happy one moment,
the next there was nothing left
their machines did the heavy lifting,
but one was not the loneliest number
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 10:14 PM UTC
The Sukhumvit Rap
by David John Clare
Boom boom bah smoke yaba bah bah bah boom!
Boom boom bah smoke yaba bah bah bah boom!
Well, she come in to Na Na town on dah midnight sky train, anonymous esan girl she a mysterious Bangkok dame
Out of the nite shadows she will walk and magically appear, I'm telling you fresh forang you got some awful things to fear right here
She can slave your mind in a minute without talk so lyrical, she's a modern Thai freak, a ****** miracle
First She opiates his mind then double you'll see
will loose all sense of time and then the trouble will be
She knows what she is doing, her instincts are cold Forang men they surrender and just do what they are told
Beyond the like of a dibbie girl as you are a sucker for her date
she will leave your mind and body in a wicked deadly state
A jealous girlfriend could now completes the scene as you walk back to your short time room near Pat Pong
soi cowboy libertine...
If you get near her you hear the voice of a Thai Siren
Don't you look at her don't you touch you'll start cryin'
If you dare embrace her fool you will think you found a rare Silom Road Jem or Jewel?
She can tear your heart out and she will do it with your own **** tool !
Tell The brothers not to look the wink of her eye, tell all of the brothers not to watch her WINK!
You can tell by her moves and the slit under her dress she is a one trick thai pony ahead of you by her breast
She got a photographic smile Greta garbo movie hair
She can tear any man down with that Siamese cat like looking stare...
Don't look into her eyes she'll control you blind
you want to wine and dine her? ha, it is your mind she will sixty nine
Shell try her best to allure you so now don't concede cuz if you touch her now boy your heart will bleed
It is a hell of way to take a Thailand vacation but remember this; there is no way of ever stopping this ****** man killer creation.
Tell The brothers not to watch the wink of her eye, tell all of the brothers not to watch her WINK!
Boom boom bah smoke yaba bah bah bah boom!
Boom boom bah smoke yaba bah bah bah boom!
WINK!
(c) 2010 Clairvoyant Music / BMI Los Angeles CA USA all rights in perpetuity by the author
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
Have you seen my granny?
She shoots like Johnny Wayne,
Smokes cigarettes like Garbo,
Sings like Kelly in the rain.
She's doubtless at the movies
Watching Audrey zip 'round Rome,
And wishing she were young enough
To run away from home.
My nana laughs like Rita,
Plays chess like Steve McQueen,
She smoulders like her heroes do
Up on that silver screen.
Have you seen my granny?
She loves Bogart and Bacall,
And in her dreams forever
She is blonde and six-foot tall.
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC
She starred with Bogart, Douglas, and Victor Mature.
The Smokey voiced blonde whose motives weren’t all pure,
Lisabeth Scott was the last of her line;
Femme Fatales of film Noir, you know her kind.
In the forties and fifties she was in her prime.
She was the subject of scandal of a ****** nature
When the tabloids discovered that no man would date her.
Like Garbo and Stanwyck, stars in their own stead
Lisabeth preferred a brunette in her bed.
For her men had their uses, Men had their places
But she found herself drawn to soft feminine faces.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 7:12 PM UTC
"I don't act this way to change the world. I act this way so that the world won't change me."-- Patricia Charbonneau in 'Desert Hearts'
Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
as The Act
is but an act.
Intangible at that.
She may be silent,
but She is strident
in action.
Later,
She is given a voice.
But,
The Lady thespian,
assaulted by
The Gaze,
is subjected
as the objected
by the subjected
and the objected.
Greta Garbo dominates
the Pre-Codes.
Betty Davis hesitates
but follows the new ones.
Miss Monroe,
the ideal ***
erases Her history,
creating a new toxic one:
"Look and touch
as you please,
Mr. President."
Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
"Blame the woman for everything"
say 'Ordinary People'
and the Academy
salutes you.
Look Lady,
shoot to 'Kill Bill'
for a manly thrill
to be
remembered
still...
Still waiting for change...
Legally,
a Blonde has brains, too.
But who knew
that twists
and turns
and changes
can happen
to you?
All from Her:
Singing
Dancing
Trying
Crying
on the big screen.
You
just
can't
touch
Her.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
Ì faccio 'o schiattamuorto 'e prufessione,
modestamente songo conosciuto
pè tutt'e ccase 'e dinto a stu rione,
peccheè quann'io manèo 'nu tavuto,
songo 'nu specialista 'e qualità.
Ì tengo mode, garbo e gentilezza.
'O muorto nmano a me pò stà sicuro,
ca nun ave 'nu sgarbo, 'na schifezza.
Io 'o tratto comme fosse 'nu criaturo
che dice 'o pate, mme voglio jì a cuccà.
E 'o co'cco luongo, stiso 'int"o spurtone,
oure si è viecchio pare n'angiulillo.
'O muorto nun ha età, è 'nu guaglione
ca s'è addurmuto placido e tranquillo
'nu suonno doce pè ll'eternità.
E 'o suonno eterno tene stu vantaggio,
ca si t'adduorme nun te scite maie.
Capisco, pè murì 'nce vò 'o curaggio;
ma quanno chella vene tu che ffaie?
Nn'a manne n'ata vota all'al di là?
Chella nun fa 'o viaggio inutilmente.
Chella nun se ne va maie avvacante.
Sì povero, sì ricco, sì putente,
'nfaccia a sti ccose chella fa a gnurante,
comme a 'nu sbirro che t'adda arrestà.
E si t'arresta nun ce stanno sante,
nun ce stanno raggione 'a fà presente;
te ll'aggio ditto, chella fa 'a gnurante...
'A chesta recchia, dice, io nun ce sento;
e si nun sente, tu ch'allucche a ffà?
'A morta, 'e vvote, 'e comme ll'amnistia
che libbera pè sempe 'a tutt'e guaie
a quaccheduno ca, parola mia,
'ncoppa a sta terra nun ha avuto maie
'nu poco 'e pace... 'na tranquillità.
E quante n'aggio visto 'e cose brutte:
'nu muorto ancora vivo dinto 'o lietto,
'na mugliera ca già teneva 'o llutto
appriparato dinto a nù cassetto,
aspettanno 'o mumento 'e s'o 'ngignà.
C'è quacche ricco ca rimane scritto:
" Io voglio un funerale 'e primma classe! ".
E 'ncapo a isso penza 'e fà 'o deritto:
" Così non mi confondo con la ***** ".
Ma 'o ssape, o no, ca 'e llire 'lasse ccà?!
'A morta è una, 'e mezze songhe tante
ca tene sempe pronta sta signora.
Però, 'a cchiù trista è " la morte ambulante "
che può truvà p'a strada a qualunq'ora
(comme se dice?... ) pè fatalità.
Ormai per me il trapasso è 'na pazziella;
è 'nu passaggio dal sonoro al muto.
E quanno s'è stutata 'a lampella
significa ca ll'opera è fernuta
e 'o primm'attore s'è ghiuto a cuccà.
1.4k
I’d worked late each night that summer,
I had some free cash in Eighty Nine.
So, it was only natural
when I needed to unwind.
I’d grab a meal and have a glass
(or two) till final call
Then show up in the morning for
my stint at Broad and Wall.
The Blue bar at the Algonquin
was always my first choice.
Steve Ross was singing in the oak room,
I recall his lovely voice.
The bartender and the waiters
knew my wants without a word.
As I waited for my supper
a distinctive voice was heard.
Even in her eighties, Garbo struck a
regal tone.
Despite cancer's indignities
She would have honored any throne.
.
She knew I’d recognized her,
though I never said her name.
I 'd been just a child when she
had her last brush with fame.
She knew me from the brokerage house
Her account was with my boss.
We’d sometimes spoken on the phone
about a gain or loss.
I asked if she would like a drink
when next the barkeep came.
She eyed the Bourbon in my glass
and said “I’ll have the same.”
We were two people, both alone,
She famous, me, obscure.
For me it was her solitude
that acted as a lure.
I knew she’d never married
though there were lovers and affairs.
It was as if the single life
was answer to her prayers.
“You know I never really said:
‘I want to be alone.’
Its just I knew I had the strength
to be out on my own.”
She knew I had just lost my Dad,
The pain was very keen.
She said “I lost my Father back
when I was seventeen.”.
“I appreciate your kindness...
It‘s going to take some time.”
“If you know where your heart lies,”
She said,” You’re going to be fine.”
I paid the bill and we stepped out
into a warm and humid night.
I hailed a cab for her
and then we said our last good Night.
I never saw her face again
or beheld those striking eyes.
It was just a few months later
We got word that Garbo died.
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 10:08 PM UTC
I’d worked late each night that summer,
before the crash in Eighty Nine.
So, it was only natural
when I needed to unwind.
I’d grab a meal and have a glass
(or two) till final call
Then show up in the morning for
my stint at Broad and Wall.
The Blue bar at the Algonquin
was always my first choice.
Steve Ross was singing in the oak room,
You may recall his tenor voice.
The bartender and the waiters
knew my wants without a word.
As I waited for my supper
a distinctive voice was heard.
Even in her eighties, Garbo struck a
regal tone.
Despite age’s indignities
She would have honored any throne.
.
She knew I’d recognized her,
though I never said her name.
I was just a child when she
had her last brush with fame.
She knew me from the brokerage house
Her account was with my boss.
We’d sometimes spoken on the phone
about a gain or loss.
I asked if she would like a drink
when next the barkeep came.
She eyed the Bourbon in my glass
and said “I’ll have the same.”
We were two people, both alone,
She famous, me, obscure.
For me it was her solitude
that acted as a lure.
I knew she’d never married
though there were lovers and affairs.
It was as if the single life
was answer to her prayers.
“You know I never really said:
‘I want to be alone.’
Its just I knew I had the strength
to be out on my own.”
She knew I had just lost my Dad,
The pain was very keen.
She said “I lost my Father back
when I was seventeen.”.
“I appreciate your kindness...
It‘s going to take some time.”
“If you know where your heart lies,”
She said,” You’re going to be fine.”
I paid the bill and we stepped out
into a warm and humid night.
I hailed a cab for her
and then we said our last good Night.
I never saw her face again
or beheld those striking eyes.
It was just a few months later
We got word that Garbo died.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
Is she like Calypso
in The Camomile Lawn,
knelt down and speechless
by the fire, resembling
Jennifer Ehle so closely,
as the camera lingers
at her being naked as a jaybird,
and quite comely at that?
Or is she perhaps
more like Felicitas
in Flesh and the Devil,
a dead ringer for Greta Garbo,
who brazenly encouraged
illicit love and rivalry, only
to go quietly by falling
through thin ice?
Sometimes the siren's call
is more a winsome variation
in its silence.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 11:10 PM UTC
We’re walking through magnetic fields.
We approach the stop sign yield.
How lovely someone’s name
“WC Field”
Bondman what a con man.
Going West “May I May West” I’m a fan.
What names do we like the best?
Rosetta, she keeps smiles and
gets wet-a his eyes tell her
he’s in the sunset to get her
Someone to bond “At-Last”
The different era desperate housewife.
One is Rosetta meets one of her friends
Violet-ta what drama Ra Rata
Frank Sinatra says well that’s life.
Holding two names eyes of a magnet
in one hand.Powerful love garnet
God’s name expressed love command
So sacred in a new land.
Rosetta please get your friend.
He addresses her as a poinsettia.
Garlands Of Judy extend.
The poinsettia his finger points
until Emma visits hum?
What is she up too?
She is quite the dilemma give her the evil eye.
The violin sounds Heather lilac meets Violet-ta.
Beatles play with “Sweet Loretta.”
Sipping Camilla Cafe I want to hold your hand.
She marries her best man best-spilled the margarita.
How’s Rebecca organically has grown to Omega?
Movie star suspenseful Marx Garbo so Groucho.
What a pain Mr. Panetta eating his
words Mucho gracias
Shark -fin soup Chinese delicacy.
He bite’s the bruschetta his ballot Presidency.
How he expressed A secret Emma the Emmy
Got caught in a big Dilemma with Remy
The wrong ***** of a vendetta
Smell the coffee wake up you betta or else?
That computer mouse true or false.
Billy Joel stranger met his counterfeiter
Going Uptown girl sings on his piano expressed A
comment to kiss her.
But you’re a stranger?
Rumors with leaks of plumber’s Raven birds.
Don’t flood my words.
A perfect rose how he gave it to Rosetta.
We need more names what about Tatiana.
I saw her dancing at the “Copacabana Wella.”
A-Men that’s how I met Rosetta.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC
A la cálida vida que transcurre canora
con garbo de mujer sin letras ni antifaces,
a la invicta belleza que salva y que enamora,
responde, en la embriaguez de la encantada hora,
un encono de hormigas en mis venas voraces.
Fustigan el desmán del perenne hormigueo
el pozo del silencio y el enjambre del ruido,
la harina rebanada como doble trofeo
en los fértiles bustos, el Infierno en que creo,
el estertor final y el preludio del nido.
Mas luego mis hormigas me negarán su abrazo
y han de huir de mis pobres y trabajados dedos
cual se olvida en la arena un gélido bagazo;
y tu boca, que es cifra de eróticos denuedos,
tu boca, que es mi rúbrica, mi manjar y mi adorno,
tu boca, en que la lengua vibra asomada al mundo
como réproba llama saliéndose de un horno,
en una turbia fecha de cierzo gemebundo
en que ronde la luna porque robarte quiera,
ha de oler a sudario y a hierba machacada,
a droga y a responso, a pabilo y a cera.
Antes de que deserten mis hormigas, Amada,
déjalas caminar camino de tu boca
a que apuren los viáticos del sanguinario fruto
que desde sarracenos oasis me provoca.
Antes de que tus labios mueran, para mi luto,
dámelos en el crítico umbral del cementerio
como perfume y pan y tósigo y cauterio.
938
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Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
Your manly pride
Which please, have no fear
It's electric
Even when you won't even touch me
What is that about?
I already told you it's
Unforgettable
Like nothing I ever knew or will again
But how would I know?
I'm even less experienced than you could possibly imagine
And yet you think with your warped thoughts
That it is other
It is not
I'm more alone than ever
And yet it's not the worst thing
Mr.
You're the expert, remember?
You think I had a boyfriend?
I didn't
I don't
I could
I won't
It won't do
One got in and I kicked him
Twice
Others would love to
Oh how nice. Thank you you but no thanks
So
No one touches me. The baked goods locked away in a pretty cabinet since the leaves were still on the trees
That is my truth
Since for
F*cking
Ever
For you
And that
Is my
Choice
Because what I want and what I get are mutually exclusive
I'm funny like that
And the world still turns
Whiny girl who discriminates for reasons of chemistry and admiration, didn't get her way? Boo f*cking hoo. It's not Somalia. Or Sudan.
And so look where that gets me
I'm Jane Austen in Becoming Jane
I'm Laura Ingalls Wilder with no Almanzo
I'm Greta Garbo
Who actually didn't say
"I want to be alone"
She actually SAID
"I want to be left alone"
Quite a bit different really
And I didn't ask for either intentionally but I'm here living proof it happens
So
I'm a spinster
Because for that I don't bend
Except for you
I'm a genius!!
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
They never felt the vibrations
Of the voices out of the walls
Like you did, never heard their
Ghosts call from the mouths of
Birds from the fields below
The asylum window, or felt
The cold embrace of depression’s
Touch, at least not over much.
They never counted the distance
From bed to wall from wall to door
And back again, never felt the pinch
Or punch of each new day, each new
Hour, never thirst for the next drink
That never came, that teased
And tormented like good old demented
You, you with the Marylyn Monroe
Walk, the Greta Garbo talk.
From the asylum window you
Would stand and stare and watch
The seagulls in the air, see the seasons
Change from hot to cold, from light
To dark and never forget your demon’s
Hold, your lover’s eyes, his voice,
His sickly smile, the way he touched
You that final time, and all you could do
After you stabbed him through, as an
Exciting encore, was to kiss his dying
Lips as you’d never kissed before.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
Sad reflections from
donated dreams.
Charity's
fallen embers.
Like a high UV index
they burn right into
your skin.
Freckling
your thoughts with a bit of compromise.
Close your eyes
to the possibility
inertia
has made itself at home.
You'll feel it, feel it
right to the bone.
But you crossed that bridge
long ago.
In the time of
tranquil misgivings.
You gave consent to
sin by offering up
your sons and daughters.
Drowning them
in the shallow end of dissipated water.
Sing hymns
all you like.
Piety
is not for sale.
And the angel light
that hits the wall
is not in the shape of Mary.
Evil always figures into
these things.
Don't you know? Heat rises. Blood falls.
So burn your prayers
on a stick. Roast them
in the campfire. You'll never turn
to God until you lie
dying. Broken and heaving.
Asking for forgiveness.
Which a man of cloth
will grant.
Such a charmed life to leave.
Only it's a cheat.
A spoonful
of circumvention.
Making you feel
warm and clever
as you bleed out. Regrettably,
your vacuous heart
sailed off on the Greta Garbo
and mortgaged
your future for such marquee.
Banking on the
here and now.
From this there can be no redemption.
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 8:26 PM UTC
leprechaun with riding cap
solitary sleeping avalanche
watch him tweeter on the edge
of fantasy round llama ranch
fall into an overture
shoot the applauding masses
wetter than the rabbits
cascading into molasses
dueling dollar and yuan
missives pointing to this guy
can't always get what you want
so shake your taxing habits
rocking and remembering
pay the peasant to do the deed
if you try some dimes
you get what you need
a lonely greta garbo hat
graces the desert dust
shining like new under the sun
pretending not to rust
hungry and thirsty,
swallow another
hollow promise smiling; laughing
see them blindly follow each other
now the bones of our distress
blowing in circles like bits of dress
and jeans the skulls and jewels
don't walk run back to save a few more
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
He loved Greta Garbo.
He’d seen all her movies
At the old cinema
Or on late night TV.
He’d read all the written
Books he could find on her.
Had photographs of her
All over his small house,
Some framed, hanging on walls,
Some on the mantelpiece,
On cupboards, on book shelves,
On his bedside table;
Her beauty looking out
At him all day and night
Especially while he
Slept in bed with his wife.
He even dreamed of her,
Dreamt he had made a film
With her, which no one saw.
Dreamt he had walked with her,
Talked with her; held her hand.
Dreamt he had slept with her
(Sleeping being the one
Operative word of all.)
Just to be close to her,
To smell her, feel her near,
Touch her tingling skin.
But not commit the sin
In his dreams or real life,
That little men like him
Never copulated
With gorgeous goddesses
Like Monroe or Garbo,
But made love with their wives.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
She made me peaches on ice
Like it was the 1920's
She was Greta Garbo
And I Hemingway
We went out
And toasted to good will
Youth and prosperity
Innocence the norm
And carte blanche
The martini
Without the olive
Because she had to eat it
And laughed, while ever so
slightly teasing
I felt better than Paris on a spring day
I felt stronger than a million sympathies
I felt as if the world had a plan for me
Alas, I was served
Peaches on ice
By the love of my life.
Perhaps it would
all be alright.
All I knew
Is that believing it
Made it real enough
To my wistful eyes.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 10:23 AM UTC
Dear Whoever You're Really
Like
(Not That You Aren't Yourself Of
Course),
Do you ever worry that
what if someone thinks
you only got where
you've got (so far)
because
of the timing chances
made in starlight making
easier orbits to you like a
tilted pinball and then call it
cheating..... .............
............as if....they
..never shook. ........
.............. ..well,
I would and I'm not
even middle upper class,
I mean I wasn't brought up
like that tell me did you want-
did you ever meet those
vaunted tabloid energy
keepers and wasters
is that why you were
self-styled
like that when
you started and
did you ever
see the film
Strawberries
with Ingrid
because I
think you
might
like
it
and i
want to
say thank
you for liking
Mr. O'Hara. i bought
one of his poem collections
with my little tip money from
Sunday in the markets selling good
produce. Bought it in a bookstore with
The owner a nice old lady bearing years;
knitted prints on her black bordered tartan;
Your passion made me think to tell
her i liked that faded **** on her
really i did
she called
me dearie
anyways
Frankie
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////
the guy could've been a pal but I don't know if my framed support kept chance.
Would it have been able to burn brightly or varied enough for as long as he did?
Maybe that's a good thing a good thing indeed not knowing. Are you wanting to do
that? Not "not knowing" but to give beams like raising barns. Final query but its rhetorical.
After all:
What does the world ask of stars but to shine a little night?
Sincerely,
Whoever I Am
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
Dance with me a little,
let me feel your hands in mine,
your hair brushing against my face.
Speak to me a little,
let me hear an angel’s voice,
your plosives giving way to silence.
But the dead don’t sing like they used to.
All the movies are black and white.
All the women look like Greta Garbo.
All the men look like James Stewart.
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 9:13 AM UTC