"matinee" poems
I
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
II
O the valley in the summer where I and my John
Beside the deep river would walk on and on
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above
Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love,
And I leaned on his shoulder; 'O Johnny, let's play':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
'Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver and golden silk gown;
'O John I'm in heaven,' I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
'O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away.
15.2k
As they walked along after the matinee, the older brother teased his sister, “Hey, guess what, Frankenstein lives in the attic and he’s goin’ get you.” With a flushed face the little sister responded, "Nah-ah, besides the attic door is locked." And her brother smirked, “Think Frankenstein cares about locked doors?"
Throughout their childhood, the brother jumped out behind closed doors, terrifying his little sister, and with each fright he gave his own fear seemed to lessen. After a startle the sister thought, ‘Does my brother love me, like I love him?’, and she concluded, “He must, why else would he try to scare me to death?’
Within the decade, a sudden brain hemorrhage took their dearly loved mother. Now, untethered in their mother’s love, the siblings changed, tightened, within, While their father, a traumatized, war veteran, swiftly fell off the wagon, and the brother and sister cast off, rudderless, uprooted into troubled waters.
And with their hearts snapped shut, immersed in relentless grief, they parted ways. Some years later, their father died, bequeathed them both his unhealed pain. The brother, the sister, slid secretively into alcoholism, conceded the family custom, invested deeply in their despair, the two went on, married, raised families, conformed.
And time went by, as alcohol soothed the pain until the brother breathed his last, his belly taut with fluid, his liver destroyed, a life sentence ended. While she, the lone survivor, mysteriously yielded unto Grace and was pardoned, recovered, she finally understood, she knew deep inside; everyone did the best they could, even her.
…and within a circle of one; I loved them all forever and ever.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Don't believe they've met
This family matinee
The kids come with guns
But it's the roll-on wife who's loaded
Beneath the rhythm and sound
There's a sign saying 'POLICE – INCIDENT'
Love may have the right to remain silent
Yet when it ends, it ends badly
Love motionless
At the bottom of
A backyard swimming pool
Now quietly referred to
As the crime scene
Jan 19, 2023
Jan 19, 2023 at 1:16 PM UTC
Kindness is not nice.
Nice is soft and inoffensive.
Nice is easy and effects no change, it's cotton wool - not stuffed tight, but just resting on the surface ready to be blown away or trodden into a muddy disinterest. Nice is a damp whisper, a mouse cowering in the corner, taking up as little space as possible, lest it be noticed, lest it presume too much and cause a whisker of offence.
Kindness isn't like that -
Kindness pushes in, claws out, quick and heavy, uninvited, unexpected, taking pleasure in disturbance, in leaving nothing unsaid and little undone in its pursuit of creating a disruption of difference. Kindness counts everyone a target, anybody a likely candidate for a three act matinee and evening performance of loud Kindness. Surprise is its currency, smiles its language, common humankindness its passport to lands yet to be explored, to vast red territories with drumbeats of gratefulness for the opportunity to march in with regiments of compassion and to leave a signature devastation of brutal Kindness.
Kindness is not 'nice'.
Kindness is loving awe-ful.
Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 3:37 AM UTC
Ghost Relics
Downtown,
where Main intersects Main
you'll see the last living tissue
of a breathing bazaar.
They weighed down her chest with bricks and girders.
It's a wonder she breathes at all.
-
Wander too far in any direction
and you're sure to see the husks
of once proud and bustling businesses.
Abandoned sanctums of mortar and majesty.
Scars of the Midwest etched as constants in our mind.
Dusty and silent since the cradle.
-
The theaters are bedeviled with dolled up haunts
who just wandered over from Greenwood to catch the matinee.
Management still leaves the lights on for kicks after hours
to throw off their sleep schedules while they wait for the feature to start.
Up all night, sleep all day; they read by neon and slumber under Sol.
Here I am, left lounging in The Devil's Chair. Crickets keep quavering.
-
Underneath the Franklin Street overpass sleeps a family bound by naught.
They watch in dawn's light as the few pedestrian that traverse Cerro Gordo
advert their eyes as some sort of silent symbol of respect for their situation.
It's as if the very stare of a privileged man could drain 'til depleted.
They never ask for anything, they just wade it out and listen to
the cars overhead, the train-clock's trumpet, and the heartbeats in between.
-
Leaks are patched, potholes filled, and yet
we're still loosing blood; becoming beguiled.
So many stray cats in the civilian savanna,
aimlessly seeking names and second chances.
"This premises is under police video surveillance" -
hanging like ornaments from streetlamp poles.
-
Guarding the gates
of a dwindling dominion,
as the armies of Union and Grand
wait in their camps
for the rust to take hold
of her iron veins.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
Like an abandoned creek bed
Hosting a river for a day
Or a desert sky
Screening a rain storm matinee
A parent will wait
No matter time passing
With a heart that remembers how
When our children need us to be strong
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
Spy Kids (the original)
A 5 dollar matinee with your mom
A box of Bunch A Crunch
Or a plastic sack of
Dip N Dots
Ninja Turtle walkie talkies
Flare denim cargo pants
Bobby Jack zip up hoodies
With blue Fla-Vor-Ice stains
And hide and seek
Now That’s What I Call Music
Volume 17
Playing from a 10in x 10in
Silver box TV
And high frequency noise
To accompany
Akon’s latest bass line
A razor scooter
The foot powered kind
When the Preacher’s Daughter
Has a shiny blue one with a motor
Weeping to Secondhand Serenade
Because your mom won’t let you have
A Wii
And your crush checked “no” on the
Note you gave them last week
Detention after pre algebra
From shooting a girl two seats over
At “close range”
With a hornet
And she was unfamiliar with the school wide
NO SNITCHIN’
policy
The words
Beastly
And epic
Used to describe what your
8th grade field trip is gonna be like
A phone call from your best friend
About finally finding Ben Franklin
In Tony Hawk’s Underground 2
Now
The OK symbol is your most used emoji
There are too many guys with long hair
And beards
White girls all have a weird obsession
With house plants
We’re all at least 50 thousand dollars in debt
And I think we all
Just really hope Donald Trump
Isn’t our next president
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 12:19 AM UTC
On Sunday, my S.O. and I
Drove to see Chorus Line
At the Stratford Festival.
A matinee. Beautiful day.
We left the Refineries of Sarnia
For fine entertainment.
The Avon flows gently
Buoying white swans gracefully.
Blah... blah... blah.
All very real.
You can see why it's called, Stratford;
There could be no other name.
A good choice.
Best Shakespearean Festival in N.A.
She explained all this to me on the drive.
If contrary people suffer
From low self-esteem, I didn't help
The situation.
As we drove through rich, green farmland,
Grazing cattle.
She asked why some barns
Have ramps leading to the barn doors.
Well, says I,
*The farmers, because of the economy,
Have to sell their livestock in parts,
So the ramps give easy access for the animals
Back to their stalls.*
Huh, said S.O.
That's so thoughtful!
Timing is everything.
Sincerity in voice, critical.
Hurry on to a new topic.
Someday, for sure, she'll tell someone, somewhere
About the considerate farmer.
She will.
Timing.
Like the kick line.
Like a punch line.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 6:47 AM UTC
3-D
popcorn
and kisses in the balcony
little soldiers
showing dogtags
to get a free refill
before duck and cover drills
at intermission
it's all one big movie
whether the summer rockets
arrive with Flash Gordon
or by way of Cuba
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 8:51 AM UTC
We both read our scripts,
but we're not on the same page.
You and I are just actors
who treat life as the stage.
We rehearse our lines,
but they're not what we mean,
for once lets break character
and call cut on this scene.
We could steal the show
if we rewrite the play
and end the charade
of this macabre matinee.
We've reached the finale,
there's no encore after all.
This is our shot,
our last curtain call.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 10:38 PM UTC
Your old man
opened the door
and stood there smiling.
She won't be long
Benny boy
she's just making
herself beautiful
or haven't you
got that long?
and he laughed
and went back indoors
and left the door open ajar.
I stood there
on the red tiled doorstep
and waited
looking back
into the Square
seeing the man
with the boxer dog
walk past on his way
to the shop.
The milkman
was over the way
delivering milk to the flats
on the ground floor.
The door opened again
and your old man said
just off to the work
someone has to keep
the railways going
and he stepped off
down the steps
and away across
the Square
and down the slope.
Your brother Hem
came out the door
he stared at me
and went past
and around the corner
he didn't like me
since I beat him up
for throwing a firework
at my sister.
Then you came
to the door
in that white dress
and your hair in a mess.
Won't be long
you said
just got to have a wash
and be with you.
Ok
I said
see you soon
and you went back indoors
and closed the door.
I sat on the doorstep
watching the world go past
hoping you wouldnt be long
and sorted through
my small collection
of football cards
which ones to keep
and which ones to swap
at school on Monday.
I hoped you wouldnt be long
as the Saturday matinee
started in half an hour
and I hated
being late.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 3:51 AM UTC
’Tween hither and thither we wended our way
skipping, dancing through sand dunes, in seascape croquet.
While woven in waves watching dolphins at play
I first tasted her lips in the ocean’s wild spray.
Mystic moonbeams, suffusing clouds’ shimmering sails,
unleashed us and whisked us down sensuous trails,
soon evoking the trills of untamed nightingales
as our passions pervaded green valleys and dales.
Being spectres of splendour in wanton sashay
we mastered our meaning in love’s matinee –
the breezes, in passing, slowed down to survey
blazing bodies embraced in youth’s blooming bouquet.
With the wind as our wings, till the Never we flew,
two gypsies, on junkets through dusk’s residue
gently floating like pollen to everywhere new,
so eluding pearled teardrops that paint the past blue.
Yes, we gamboled and gambled, two waifs led astray,
with our shackles afire and anchors aweigh –
rising higher and higher, the sun lured our sleigh,
teasing time was our temptress, night’n day after day.
Having stars in our eyes and all time as our view,
we’ve drifted, like dreamers where sprites rendezvous
and feasted on laughter and sipped morning dew
while rambling forever as one made of two.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
Kindness is not nice.
Nice is soft and inoffensive.
Nice is easy and effects no change, it's cotton wool - not stuffed tight, but just resting on the surface ready to be blown away or trodden into a muddy disinterest. Nice is a damp whisper, a mouse cowering in the corner, taking up as little space as possible, lest it be noticed, lest it presume too much and cause a whisker of offence.
Kindness isn't like that -
Kindness pushes in, claws out, quick and heavy, uninvited, unexpected, taking pleasure in disturbance, in leaving nothing unsaid and little undone in its pursuit of creating a disruption of difference. Kindness counts everyone a target, anybody a likely candidate for a three act matinee and evening performance of loud Kindness. Surprise is its currency, smiles its language, common humanity its passport to lands yet explored, to vast pink territories with drumbeats of gratefulness for the opportunity to march in with regiments of compassion and to leave a signature devastation of brutal Kindness.
Kindness is not 'nice'.
Kindness is loving awe-ful.
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 2:01 AM UTC
Behind my eyelids
Lives a world of bliss kids
Swallowing clouds
Making flowers into sinking sounds
Baths made of popcicle blood
Marshmallow flood
Curtains open with each day
Together all those behind my eyelids start the play
My emotions a ballet
My reason a matinee
Twirling as one in an unforgiving sway
Bongo bursts
Swimming in verses
Lashes shade
As setting suns fade
Bliss kids never rest as the war in my soul carries on
Painting peace with each yawn
I lay down to sleep
As the bliss kids knitting sheep
Out of felt
Things felt, hearts melt
Blurred blossoms overcome this battle and as the moon sighs
Bliss kids ride
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
in a dream I robbed a bank
and one of the cashier fell in love with me
I wore a mask and when asked to describe me the cashier said I resembled a matinee film star
all chiselled cheek bones
I sent her a £1,000 and a note saying thanks
she thinks about me daily
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 1:11 PM UTC
Aged, wrinkled and worn
Our Palms of fortune and destiny
Show tracks leading to new places
Playing out the timeline of our lives
Like a show - a Chorus Line
The queues will flock for the matinee
And so this poetical line ends.
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 5:10 PM UTC
After morning matinee
and after dinner
of sausages and mash
and baked beans
you met Helen
by the post office
at the end
of Rockingham Street
she had on
the red flowered dress
you liked
and held Battered Betty
her doll
by an arm
her hair was held
in plaits
by elastic bands
and her thick lens spectacles
were smeary where
she'd touched them
but not cleaned them
where are we going?
she asked
how about London Bridge
train station?
you said
we can watch the trains
come and go
and watch the porters
rush about with luggage
and things
she gazed at you
through her thick lens
shall I tell my mum
where we're going?
sure if you think
she'll worry
you said
be best if she knows
Helen said
don't want her to worry
where I've gone
ok
you said
and so you both
walked back
to her mother's house
and she told her mother
and her mother came out
and looked at you
and said
ok so long
as you're with Benedict
and so you walked back
along Rockingham Street
and got a bus
to London Bridge
railway station
and sat on the seats
downstairs
by the conductor
and this guy with glasses
and a thin moustache
gazed at Helen
from the seat opposite
his eyes moving over her
his gaze focusing
on her knees
where her dress ended
he licked his lips
his hands on his thighs
Helen looked away
pretending she didn't
see him looking
you stared at the man
watching his eyes
dark and deep
they say it's rude to stare
you said
the man looked at you
kids should be seen
not heard
he replied
and you're seeing a lot
you said
he muttered something
and got off
at the next stop
giving you
a hard stare
Helen said nothing
but seemed relieved
after a while you got off
the bus at the railway station
and went inside
there were crowds
of people
and the smell of steam
and bodies washed
and unwashed
and the sound of trains
getting ready to leave
and voices and shouts
of porters and rushing
and going and coming
of people
and you sat
with Helen
on a seat
on the platform
she with Battered Betty
and you with your
six-shooter in your
inside pocket ready
to get any bad cowboys
who came your way
and Helen said
why was that man
staring at me
on the bus?
just a creep
wanting a peep
you said
peep at what?
she asked
I'm not beautiful
yes you are
you said
anyway it wasn't
your beauty
he was looking at
you said
what then?
she asked
oh something
he oughtn't
you said
and a loud blast of steam
echoed around
the station
and a voice called
and a whistle blew
and you all
sat watching
Helen
and Battered Betty
and six-shooter
carrying cowboy
you.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
A Simple Walkway
By this device just an old ordinary taken for granted side walk there is no place it doesn’t lead
Hops scotch any one key skates on your shoes how they let you zoom oh the prints left there
A bike for Christmas feel daddy’s strong hands hear his feet running to keep up ever feel so freed
Remember when you were there playing mother walked by her perfume caused womanly fantasies
Up town on Saturday shopping day take the sidewalk get a haircut one two Jims the other to Dressings
Montgomery wards that great wide white stair way sports one floor clothes on the other
Get dolls toy guns all kind of assorted toys at Ben Franklin if not there find Woolworth’s full blessings
Whatever, hurry you know the Roseland will be starting the afternoon matinee action packed thrills
Live out the movies Carl Wessel Western Auto arrows fifty cents Coast to Coast BB guns
Can’t afford a bow take a mop stick and cut an inner tube into a strip nail on both ends watch her fly
If you’re not allowed to have even an air rifle use more inner tube a forked stick wa la slingshot what fun
Grocery shopping great on second St Piggly Wiggly or Wempen’s on the alley up from Bryson’s garage
Need shoes Summer’s store or Duez get a pair of Buster Browns this follow the side walk your welcome
If you just need a repair Ray does fine work Pen well’s store has all the dresses guaranteed no guessing
Hustle and bustle going on all over town activity nonstop great foot traffic go to town the past will come
You will stir up endless memories in this new time that could use those sweet happy times at the five
and Dime
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
It's the reality
you're sipping
when you should be
gripping
the unknown
the universal
telephone
the wind me up
and go home
toy
they employ
the nights
staring out a window
into the void
that's not choice
it's called life
and if you don't
like it
leave it
but where to go
who would know
anyway
where would you go
what would you say
where to stay
a needle in the hay
and they'd never look
one second
of one day
because
the **** they give
is all one way
there's no round trip
tickets at this station
it's the amalgamation
of frustration
and surrender
there's no tender
way to say this
but the dream
you bought a ticket to
was overbooked
you overlooked
the irony of this
till now
standing with your
hand out
acid rain
melting the matinee
away
your dismay
is your parting gift
the only lift
you're getting
is the one that will
promptly drop you
further away
from where you wanted
to be
so you see
forget the thumb
just turn the other way
and walk
till the lights
make lemonade
with the sun
leave the myth
of fun
for the young
and find
a ladder
to another world
cause this one's
dying
the airplanes
stopped flying
the birds are dinosaurs
in a plastic museum
a cosmic trash can
in a rest stop in space
the stars know more about you
than you were ever shown
it's written in the ...
well,
you know
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
maybe it's supposed to happen this way.
whenever Joe the convict raked leaves within the compound,
he would always find scraps that had blown in from the other side
of the double chain link fence
--a ticket stub to a weekend matinee that
young lovers could barely afford to see, a fast food napkin
with lipstick and ketchup stains, an incomplete note
written on rainbow-colored paper, a square cotton
pad the size of a ring box--
these he would gather along with the other leaves,
using both hands to shovel everything into burlap sacks
as fast as he can, as fast as he can, as fast as he possibly can
until there was nothing left
but grass and his tired breathing.
maybe it's supposed to happen this way.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC
Laying on my back on my bed alone
Fingers laced, hands over my forehead
Fans mechanical whirring, trying to soothe my ravaged mind
Replaying in my head, every word exchanged on the phone
Moonlit shadows pirouette across my walls
Smoothly and so gradually they become our shadow selfs
Our very own love story playing out like a movie shown
At an old time drvin-in, the screen so big you can't miss a thing
It shows our endless nights of talking, about all our hopes and fears
And how we nurtured our love and respect and how it's grown
The shadows played on, to show that first ****** kiss
Our lips interlacing for what seems to be a life time
Two bodies entangling, if you listen you can even hear the moan
Our shadow selfs now inseparable, the rest of our lifes spent together
Even as the shadows slip across the screen and age creeps in
It is the greatest love story I have ever seen, it's our story that the moonlit matinee sown
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
She liked to play games,
Not in the malicious way,
And not in a way that didn’t make me want to stay,
She played like the way people feel the need to light up the night’s sky in the cities that she loved,
To make what is there different,
To shine a comforting, milky, glow over the natural state of sky that is known well by those
Whose veins pump a wealth of that dense black nothing into their chests until their hearts are heavy,
And their fun loving games are just an actor’s play,
Complete with a weekly Sunday matinee,
Featuring scenes from the girl who they think about too much during their day to day;
So just let it be what it is.
Let the sky at night make you feel small,
Like a strand of hair lost in a shifting pit of snakes,
Let your fear be too overwhelmed by awe,
To speak about things like you were on a hazy carrousel,
A fun up and down ride with no real need to dwell,
Because we are young and still have many coins left in our pockets to feed the machine,
Things do look funny when you pass by them quickly,
But if you would stop the ride,
And take the time,
To focus fully on the things outside,
You may still find yourself spinning.
The truth is, is that the truth is, as direct and striking as a visit with the night’s sky without the comfort of our own lights,
With a black that’s not broadcast,
Like the sleek coats of dark and powerful horses buried by the overwhelming snow of a crashing roof,
Trapped and still for an untold amount of time,
Because the memory of the image is too emotional to be measured by things as precise as seconds, minutes, hours.
They were poetry from a beautiful girl,
Who liked to play games,
She made my week by stepping off her carrousel,
And ridding on mine,
Until the golden sun fell,
And I ran out of time,
Too bad she died.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
"I'm madly in love with you."
"I wish that could mean more."
"Me too."
Tethered to concrete,
enlightened by laptop screen,
the summer went out with a scream,
autumn ends like flicking light switch.
I'm cashing in time cards with three,
Diseased, daring to get off cheap
with three sets of teeth,
crooked spines,
and
milk thistle dreams.
The bluebirds you can keep,
over-the-shoulder vultures--my scene.
Death hands me a cup of coffee for free,
and I have written up to the ending.
I have written up to the ending.
Ending the writing,
waiting for you to compose
the siren's song--
whether in hospital gown
or naked and strapped to splintered mast,
autumn ends by flicking a switch,
while your screams echo backwards
in the chambers of my memory.
"I don't know how to say, what I want you to say."
"Please try."
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 11:47 PM UTC
After tea
you went out
into the summer evening
without cowboy hat
or rifle
but your six shooter
tucked in the belt
of your jeans
to meet Helen
under the railway bridge
next to the Duke of Wellington
public house
I thought you weren’t coming
Helen said
standing in her summer dress
and holding her favourite doll
Battered Betty
my horse refused to come
so I had to walk
you said
Helen smiled
my mum knows I’m with you
but I mustn’t be out late
Helen said
where shall we go?
you asked
let’s go and see
what’s on at the cinema
Helen said
so you both walked
along the back streets
until you came
onto the main road
and studied the cinema billboards
I saw Davy Crockett here
you said
who’s he?
Helen asked
he was a frontiersman
who fought Indians
and wore a bearskin hat
you said
was he here?
Helen asked
it was a film
you replied
oh
she said
she swung Battered Betty
behind her back
from hand to hand
I haven’t been
to the pictures recently
mum said we can’t afford it
what about Saturday matinee?
you asked
you could come to that
it’s for kids only
and it’s fun
Helen brought Battered Betty
into her arms
I’m not sure
she said
I could asked your mum
you said
I’d take care of you
I’ve got my six shooter
Helen put her hand
in your hand
and said
ok she’d listen to you
Helen said
you felt her hand in yours
and hoped no boys
who knew you
saw this or
the following
small lips kiss.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 3:58 AM UTC
This trap
Creates a trance
Looking down
Things would be different
How natural is it
Inside a snow globe
Run by computers
Practicing witchcraft
As accidents happen
In cars an in houses
And the crooked ones
Create more Holdens
More scapegoats
***** dumber than rocks
In a storm with a raincoat
Looking up
Things should be different
As Santa claws through our heads
Our minds wish for mud dolls
What will they look like
In heaven’s matinee-
Blood on the snow
Under a blue sky
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 6:37 PM UTC