"horseback" poems
Terrifying are the attent sleek thrushes on the lawn,
More coiled steel than living - a poised
Dark deadly eye, those delicate legs
Triggered to stirrings beyond sense - with a start, a bounce,
a stab
Overtake the instant and drag out some writhing thing.
No indolent procrastinations and no yawning states,
No sighs or head-scratchings. Nothing but bounce and stab
And a ravening second.
Is it their single-mind-sized skulls, or a trained
Body, or genius, or a nestful of brats
Gives their days this bullet and automatic
Purpose? Mozart's brain had it, and the shark's mouth
That hungers down the blood-smell even to a leak of its own
Side and devouring of itself: efficiency which
Strikes too streamlined for any doubt to pluck at it
Or obstruction deflect.
With a man it is otherwise. Heroisms on horseback,
Outstripping his desk-diary at a broad desk,
Carving at a tiny ivory ornament
For years: his act worships itself - while for him,
Though he bends to be blent in the prayer, how loud and
above what
Furious spaces of fire do the distracting devils
**** and hosannah, under what wilderness
Of black silent waters weep.
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Little Toy Soldiers going off to war
None will ever live to see age twenty four
None of them even know what they're fighting for
Little Toy Soldiers going off to war
The world has always been this way
With Emperors and Kings
Fighting with toy soldiers
And the glory that it brings
Land, beliefs, religion
The basis of the war
fought by young toy soldiers
Who all die by the score
Time has taught us nothing
But, it's changed the way we fight
War is a full day job
Now that it is fought at night
The boards of little armies
Are now shown up on the screen
With all the little soldiers
Lit in different shades of green
They used to be all metal
Painted up in nice bright shades
With a General on horseback
Leading all his smart brigades
Then, the men were plastic
glued to bits of wood
Behaving as a unit
Just like a soldier should
Now, the war is different
They're up there in different hues
You can watch them fight in real time
Just like on the nightly news
The only thing remaining
The thing that's stayed the same
Is that nobody in power
Know the Little Soldiers names
Little Toy Soldiers going off to war
None will ever live to see age twenty four
None of them even know what they're fighting for
Little Toy Soldiers going off to war
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
The night at the ball
I met a foreign prince
He told me he liked my shoes and smile
And I've seen him around here since
He is a Prince Charming
He searched through the land
However, others had ideas
A spy shook both our hands
Another imposter to the throne
Claimed to be his girl
She took his photo on the side
And cracked our china world
And so, I thought of him again
As he rode on horseback
After many months of zilch
The prince and I, at last?
The prince was very perfect
He was all charm and looks
A part of me could never speak
To the man I knew from books
But soon I finally saw the light
And the prince had just about ceased
Prince Charming is for Cinderella
And I like Beauty and The Beast.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
this one girl I used to be friends with, she was so beautiful and never ever did she see it in herself. I used to look at her though, and I used to wish I looked just like her or had a personality as kind and sweet and determined as her. I used to want to be as free of a soul as her and sometimes, even as guarded. It made me sad a lot of the time because she was so depressed and mysterious to me; her life kinda ****** back when I had first met her. I remember we dropped acid together twice and I told her that if ever there was someone I didn’t want to lose, it was her. And then the following year we had a fall out and we don’t talk anymore. I guess people change and that should be okay but sometimes I still wonder about her and what she is doing now and how she spends her friday nights.
then there was this other friend, who I may have even considered myself closer with but in a different way. We used to sneak out of my house during sleepovers when we were younger and sit on the curb and share a cigarette. we’d talk about all the people we miss and how afraid we were of the future. I always felt like I hardly knew her even though she shared most of herself with me. the first time I saw her cry was terrifying to me, but I didn’t tell her that. I remember how pretty I thought she was. physically though. and physically alone. She had a lot birthmarks that made her intriguing and skinny legs with pretty knees. however, she was mean and usually very bitter. one time she told me “I hate people until they give me a reason to like them” and hearing that disappointed me. I tried the most to be her friend again after she walked away but it was no use.
another friend I had I was friends with since I was six. I knew her from pre school and we were inseparable. I could write paragraphs and paragraphs about how amazing that girl is. I could do the same about how bad I felt for her. she was a friend who I never thought I would lose and I remember we had the type of friendship where our parents used to sign us up to do the same sports (horseback riding, gymnastics). after we stopped being friends I heard she fell off the deep end and was doing a lot of drugs. I got back in touch with her recently however she never seemed interested in hanging out and some of my texts went unanswered so I gave up. when I think about her, I still see my 12 year old self, playing mermaids in her pool as if time had stood still. if any of the people I’m writing about read this post, I hope it’s her most of all. miss you.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:54 AM UTC
Western Sources
Mist, rain and snowmelt gather
And soak the Montana crests.
A trio of rivulets carves the slopes,
Grow to rivers that braid into a single course
And the Missouri is born at Three Forks.
Shoshone and Hidatsu rest from the hunt,
Kneel and cup their hands
To raise life giving liquid to their lips
While horses bow beside them
Bellies filled with the refreshing waters.
The river flows north dividing the tall grasslands,
Plunges over the cataracts at Great Falls,
Churns on the rocks below
And drives inexorably toward the sea.
Mandan and Sioux
Soft flute sounds drift from the Mandan village
Intertwining with the riffling music of the river.
By its banks a coarse French trapper roasts a rabbit
To share with his Shoshone child-bride.
Sacagawea sings softly beside him -
Charboneau's son stirring in her womb.
Sioux warriors on horseback
Stand guard by the shores.
How many travelers have passed?
How many are yet to come?
Beyond the rolling hills
A buffalo stumbles and falls
Pierced by Lakota arrows and spears.
Boats in the Water
At River du Bois where the Missouri
Collides with the Mississippi,
Forty men slip into boats and take to the oars
To interpret Jefferson’s continental dream -
Their keelboat laden with sustenance,
Herbs, weapons and powder.
They carry trinkets to dazzle the natives
And cast bronze medals to give them
Bearing images of their "Father in Washington"
That none had asked to have.
May, 2004
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:42 AM UTC
Him:
Do you want to share my ice cream
play footsie?
Inch by inch
I’ll climb up
You eat
Her:
I want to go horseback riding
By candlelight
With a bottle of wine
squeezing with my thighs
I want a stallion
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
What I want
vs
What he needs
(excuses excuses)
But he's little
And I need to act my age
He needs it
(He gets it)
Why can't I throw a fit?
Things I need:
Horseback riding-for challenge
Marital arts-for release
Therapy or something
Bleed, bleed, bleed,
Things I have:
Poetry
This pen
And the feeling of being second best
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
I was told about the goodness of men,
Their valour, fortitude and chivalry
Riding in on gleaming horseback.
They would lead poorer souls into battle,
Liberate distressed ladies from gilded cages
And stave away the beasts of sin.
When I heard these marvelous tales
A fierce hunger awoke within me.
I began to search for an ivory tower
To lock myself in
That a man so great might come to find me.
I thought that I had met such a man
His armour resplendent,
His smile easy and compliments quick.
He led me forth with promises of fortune.
He presented me with crimson roses,
And oft he sang to me in sweet voice.
I was satiated, my hunger quelled
With what I thought to be a golden hero.
But as the roses waned and his voice wilted,
I found that he had faults and secrets like any other-
That his bravery was bruised with cowardice.
In fact, he was absolutely ordinary,
And as God-fearing as the rest of us.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
In this evil year, autumn comes early...
I walk by night in the field, alone, the rain clatters,
The wind on my hat...And you? And you, my friend?
You are standing--maybe--and seeing the sickle moon
Move in a small arc over the forests
And bivouac fire, red in the black valley.
You are lying--maybe--in a straw field and sleeping
And dew falls cold on your forehead and battle jacket.
It's possible tonight you're on horseback,
The farthest outpost, peering along, with a gun in your fist,
Smiling, whispering, to your exhausted horse.
Maybe--I keep imagining--you are spending the night
As a guest in a strange castle with a park
And writing a letter by candlelight, and tapping
On the piano keys by the window,
Groping for a sound...
--And maybe
You are already silent, already dead, and the day
Will shine no longer into your beloved
Serious eyes, and your beloved brown hand hangs wilted,
And your white forehead split open--Oh, if only,
If only, just once, that last day, I had shown you, told you
Something of my love, that was too timid to speak!
But you know me, you know...and, smiling, you nod
Tonight in front of your strange castle,
And you nod to your horse in the drenched forest,
And you nod to your sleep to your harsh clutter of straw,
And think about me, and smile.
And maybe,
Maybe some day you will come back from the war,
and take a walk with me some evening,
And somebody will talk about Longwy, Luttich, Dammerkirch,
And smile gravely, and everything will be as before,
And no one will speak a word of his worry,
Of his worry and tenderness by night in the field,
Of his love. And with a single joke
You will frighten away the worry, the war, the uneasy nights,
The summer lightning of shy human friendship,
Into the cool past that will never come back.
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With an azure drinking cup studded with lapis, wait for her
In the evening at the spring, among perfumed roses, wait for her
With the patience of a horse trained for mountains, wait for her
With the distinctive, aesthetic taste of a prince, wait for her
With seven pillows stuffed with light clouds, wait for her
With strands of womanly incense wafting, wait for her
With the manly scent of sandalwood on horseback, wait for her
Wait for her and do not rush.
If she arrives late, wait for her.
If she arrives early, wait for her.
Do not frighten the birds in her braided hair.
Wait for her to sit in a garden at the peak of its flowering.
Wait for her so that she may breathe this air, so strange to her heart.
Wait for her to lift her garment from her calf, cloud by cloud.
And wait for her.
Take her to the balcony to watch the moon drowning in milk.
Wait for her and offer her water before wine.
Do not glance at the twin partridges sleeping on her chest.
Wait and gently touch her hand as she sets a cup on marble.
As if you are carrying the dew for her, wait.
Speak to her as a flute would to a frightened violin string,
as if you knew what tomorrow would bring.
Wait, and polish the night for her ring by ring.
Wait for her until Night speaks to you thus:
There is no one alive but the two of you.
So take her gently to the death you so desire,
and wait.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Love is a war; a battlefield
looking for something real
in this world strewn with
shattered dreams.
Bombs and grenades blow holes
in innocent victims and
leave them to their pain
and despair.
I wait for my knight on horseback
to spare me.
I can hear the heavy hoofs and breathing of horses
as my army comes to stay the enemy of distrust.
My heart skips a beat
as I can almost feel salvation.
Holding my breath I wait for that which holds
my heart captive, to be slain.
Then you are here,along with
hope, joy, and freedom, your faithful companions,
to fill my heart and replace the blood
that has been spilt, with trust once again.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
Dean and I loitered on iron horseback
Flaked with nuances and peppered with a keen stutter
Our jokes had weight
Weight creates a gravitational pull
Our jokes had a gravitational pull
My clone emerged in the rearview mirror with his girlfriend
Dean and I thought that was funny
They were attracted to us, for once
We got a bite to eat, my head, like a gyroscope
Universal karma
Revolving, self-stabilization
Into the palm of reconciliation
Forced by nature
With interdependence
A means to measure
And counter each sentence
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
Spalshes of blue
Bursts of pink
Dapplings of red
The smell of the ocean
The taste of ice cream
A song that makes me smile
I'm singing
I'm dancing
I'm falling
I'm running
I'm swimming
Its the Renaissance
Tumbleweeds blow by
It's Christmas
It's July
I'm happy
I'm content
I'm scared
I'm laughing
Then he's there
Holding me
Devouring me
Setting me on fire with his passionate kiss
Sometimes he's an actor
Sometimes he's a fireman or a soldier
Other times he's a knight, a lawyer, an architect or race car driver
And, he's always mine
He's tall
He's short
He's fit
He's stout
Tonight he has no face
But I remember his smile
I know his voice
We go surfing
It's bright out
The sun is warm
I'm on horseback
I'm driving a fast car
My friends are laughing
They are dancing
They are acrobats
We are at a party
We ice skate
We fight
There's an explosion
It's bright.......bright.......bright
My eyes have opened
I am awake.....or am I?
Everything here is smeared in hues of gray and blotches of black
I laugh and it doesn't sound real
I don't dance
I don't sing
I don't swim
And he's not here
I can barely capture his voice
I vaguely remember his smile
There is no great adventure
There is no great love
Is this real?
Or is this plain version of life the dream?
I am nothing here
I am no one here
I look at the clock longing to go home
Longing for my life
Longing to wake up from this terrible dream filled with gray
I want to return to my splashes of blue
His smile
And the warmth of a new adventure
I long for life
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
Our snowmen, they're not made of white,
they're tumbleweeds, rolled up tight.
No top hat upon his head,
a cowboy hat sits there instead.
His face and buttons, tree ornaments,
boots and lariat, his accoutrements.
Saguaro cacti with lights wrapped round,
illuminate the landscaped grounds.
Old horse drawn wagons get the festive touch.
With lighted garlands, packages and such.
Porch rails glow with colored lights,
Christmas trees in windows, warm the nights.
Our little town gets all decked out.
Then we gather along the old parade route.
Folks on horseback with ribbons and bells.
The horses know the parade route well.
Marching school bands play Christmas songs,
trucks and tractors carry carolers along.
Floats abound from businesses and groups.
Braving the cold, the Christmas Cowboy Troops.
We all stand up to clap and cheer,
as Santa, as usual, brings up the rear.
Waving his red cowboy hat, in a horse drawn sleigh,
Welcoming Christmas, the Wickenburg way.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 11:42 AM UTC
'Tis not with gilded sabres
That gleam in baldricks blue,
Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez,
Of gay and gaudy hue--
But, habited in mourning weeds,
Come marching from afar,
By four and four, the valiant men
Who fought with Aliatar.
All mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
The banner of the Phenix,
The flag that loved the sky,
That scarce the wind dared wanton with,
It flew so proud and high--
Now leaves its place in battle-field,
And sweeps the ground in grief,
The bearer drags its glorious folds
Behind the fallen chief,
As mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
Brave Aliatar led forward
A hundred Moors to go
To where his brother held Motril
Against the leaguering foe.
On horseback went the gallant Moor,
That gallant band to lead;
And now his bier is at the gate,
From whence he pricked his steed.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
The knights of the Grand Master
In crowded ambush lay;
They rushed upon him where the reeds
Were thick beside the way;
They smote the valiant Aliatar,
They smote the warrior dead,
And broken, but not beaten, were
The gallant ranks he led.
Now mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow,
How passionate her cries!
Her lover's wounds streamed not more free
Than that poor maiden's eyes.
Say, Love--for didst thou see her tears:
Oh, no! he drew more tight
The blinding fillet o'er his lids
To spare his eyes the sight.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
Nor Zayda weeps him only,
But all that dwell between
The great Alhambra's palace walls
And springs of Albaicin.
The ladies weep the flower of knights,
The brave the bravest here;
The people weep a champion,
The Alcaydes a noble peer.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
2.9k
1.
white chapel on a hill
sheep dot rugged, earthy slopes
ruminate on warm, sun-kissed dale
endless lines and lines of verdant tones
late afternoon sun slanting
behold, jaune compassion
alfalfa ocherous leans willowy in wind
distance of silence yearns on
afternoon shadows lie within majestic vales
powder-blue ranges in 3D tiers
shadowy rifts, like a painting out of heaven
lone tree not alone, reaches up
blinding turns and rust-coloured bends, twisty trails
two on horseback, apples for sale
reservoir as a hold all for all
brown mud is where redemption lies.
2.
sun dips away, out of reach
beyond the eye's catch
step out car
feel the ping of silence, deeply-alive zing
crowd in and then,
into the slot of torched horizon
the orange world slips . . .
S T, 19 May 2013
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 6:29 AM UTC
Her fingers were covered in corn.
the corn after chewing, broken
pierced, churned- it could spread as butter
thick on stale toast, if needed
"it's fine, don't you worry, we'll get you all cleaned up"
she stared indifferently
Strings dangled from her mouth, unswept
full of necessary greens ---"mhm there there, this will give
you so much energy" --- drags of breath,
half inhale half choke. nothing to look forward to,
not the next soaking glob, not the cursing woman
in the bathroom, not the spill of light to her eyes
Where are the ladles, Did you check on it? The key? Just moved, most the suitcases aren't there yet. Remember to bring the Did you check on it? pay attention. Have you seen my grand kids?
who are you?
Sunday's are for the active ones
The games down the hall are too far. Why worry with legs, if she could just adjust to the left
the world could sag into an ongoing dream- No demands, no games, no movement.
The nurses hair net had more presence than the splotch of gray against her peeling itchy scalp. Drool leaked from leather lips, dampening the collar of her two month sticky blouse. Arms curled and locked,displaying under the wax skin cranberry patches-
she never wiped them off. Always the soft murmer of
a snore, always the smell of unbrushed teeth and hampers.
"Did you touch those where don't touch me scott scott scott leave my things alone thevenin I need a stop lying I want to go scott, scott? scott. I can't remember any"
I said my name four times before she heard me, knew me
I fixed her pillow and my sister marked off the day on the calendar.
We told her about school, the marching band, each word
filled with forced enthusiasm. She bobbed her head in circles, lazily
rolling her eyes, the curtain shading the empty space. We spent 30 minutes precisely.
She was more than I realized.
I never knew she had horseback riding, violin playing days. She traveled and hiked. We could have been close. Unraveling with the mystery, I felt the lateness of my curiosity.
It was 30 minutes precisely, always.
We acted as strangers, reciting routine and wishing each other a happy day and a quiet love you
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
Senseless
Palm trees wrapped with barbed wire.
I like gingerbread cookies of pillsbury dough, of that you already know.
Frappuccinos without whipped.
Like a dream
Y.M.C.A.
Rollerblading the past is fading.
Summer camps horseback riding, rock climbing, arts & crafts.
Friends confiding, connections binding, lots of laughs.
Swimming, smores, canouing, & row boats.
Gemini Loved Scorpio
Solar system of a higher altitude.
Astrology to set the mood.
A date which is charming & not rude. Greek or mexican? My favorite food.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
Ten minutes now I have been looking at this.
I have gone by here before and wondered about it.
This is a bronze memorial of a famous general
Riding horseback with a flag and a sword and a revolver
on him.
I want to smash the whole thing into a pile of junk to be
hauled away to the scrap yard.
I put it straight to you,
After the farmer, the miner, the shop man, the factory
hand, the fireman and the teamster,
Have all been remembered with bronze memorials,
Shaping them on the job of getting all of us
Something to eat and something to wear,
When they stack a few silhouettes
Against the sky
Here in the park,
And show the real huskies that are doing the work of
the world, and feeding people instead of butchering them,
Then maybe I will stand here
And look easy at this general of the army holding a flag
in the air,
And riding like hell on horseback
Ready to **** anybody that gets in his way,
Ready to run the red blood and slush the bowels of men
all over the sweet new grass of the prairie.
2.3k
I bought some Dr. Martens
a leather jacket to go with
T-shirts, logo'd
Nirvana, *** Pistols, Incubus
but what I wanted to buy
was the swagger
the intense feeling
of not giving a ****
I'm going to live forever
and there's nothing you can do
about it
invincible
with attitude
spitting in the street
I used to watch The ******
Motorhead
Conflict
I was there as the Police
went in hard on horseback
but the only attitude I found
was the young kid serving
looking me up and down
thinking
midlife crisis
you fat, balding
grey haired old ***
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
HURRAH for revolution and more cannon-shot!
A beggar upon horseback lashes a beggar on foot.
Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again!
The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.
2.4k
A simple, well-cut black dress with pearls and up-swept hair. So, Audrey Hepburn.
The way the Japanese drink traditional and ceremonial tea.
The shape of a ballerina.
French manicures.
Horseback riding.
Victorian dresses.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
Sunday's bell broke the recess
And three times as professed
The gavel rapped before the rooster's caw
The horn was blown the drum was beat
And in the top of every street
We swooned with the wounded at the wall
And we said nothing just our prayers
But if someone's heard something
Nobody cares
And now with the yellow moon
Fixed beyond the clouds that loom
It soon would be a day the devil owned.
High on horseback thru the mud
They came and bathed their hands in blood
From the thumb up to the funny-bone
And we said nothing just our prayers
But if someone's heard something
Nobody cares
And by and by
We will crawl
Before we fly
High above
The middle of
Utopia
Lightning made the thunder ring
Until the dawn when suddenly
Light divided darkness in the east
Thus once more the wheel has turned
And proved itself a viperous worm
That gnaws the bowels of the beast
And we said nothing just our prayers
But if someone's heard something
Nobody cares
And by and by
We will crawl
Before we fly
High above
The middle of
Utopia
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 9:24 PM UTC
Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
"Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
Daybreak and a candle-end.
"Kind are all your words, my dear,
Do not the rest withhold.
Who can know the year, my dear,
when an old man's blood grows cold? '
I have what no young man can have
Because he loves too much.
Words I have that can pierce the heart,
But what can he do but touch?'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
Then Said she to that wild old man,
His stout stick under his hand,
"Love to give or to withhold
Is not at my command.
I gave it all to an older man:
That old man in the skies.
Hands that are busy with His beads
Can never close those eyes.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.
"Go your ways, O go your ways,
I choose another mark,
Girls down on the seashore
Who understand the dark;
***** talk for the fishermen;
A dance for the fisher-lads;
When dark hangs upon the water
They turn down their beds.
Daybreak and a candle-end.
"A young man in the dark am I,
But a wild old man in the light,
That can make a cat laugh, or
Can touch by mother wit
Things hid in their marrow-bones
From time long passed away,
Hid from all those warty lads
That by their bodies lay.
Dayhreak and a candle-end.
"All men live in suffering,
I know as few can know,
Whether they take the upper road
Or stay content on the low,
Rower bent in his row-boat
Or weaver bent at his loom,
Horseman ***** upon horseback
Or child hid in the womb.
Daybreak and a candlc-cnd.
"That some stream of lightning
From the old man in the skies
Can burn out that suffering
No right-taught man denies.
But a coarse old man am I,
I choose the second-best,
I forget it all awhile
Upon a woman's breast.'
Daybreak and a candlc-end.
2.2k
From the backbroken fliers over oceans
From between the spiny frills along palm fronds
From Mr. Happy, the chain smoking chaperone of good times
From Mr. Happy’s half-burnt **** coiled in the ashtray
From the disciples of Theravada and the skinny Buddha’s pupilless eyes scanning jocose scansions of jungle
From the tanned holy heads of students lounging in graveled football fields
From my bowl of rice at breakfast in the shade while considering western cities, you are not here
‘You are not here,’ I’ve written in my letters
‘You are not here,’ I’ve typed into e-mails immense
You are not here, my coke head pals locked in the veins of seedy nightmares
You are not here, my penniless friends who mix music in ascetic dark rooms out in Bushwick
You are not here in no eastern Central Park running naked in the night from horseback cops after hours of merciless balling in the bushes
You are not here you fair-skinned beauties in crowded alpine funiculars bearing your aquiline noses holding your hats over the mountains
You are not here my lonely mother waiting by the phone for a call at midnight
You are not here, you are not in my poems, you are not in the distorted notes harpsichorded across my crass imagination
You are not here, you will not be here, will you read my letters home?
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 6:58 AM UTC