"nines" poems
Love is a ***** soup going stale but steaming like it's brand new;
And I'm Oliver twist walking up to the *** with a rusty spoon full of desire and hope asking for more but getting none.
Love is a Doctor gathering dead bodies and shackling them up in chains;
And I'm a green freak with Frankenstein bolts ****** through my head walking around with only a mumble to muster trying to love people who just want to run away.
Love is a white paper rolled so finely, full of sedatives and drugs;
And I'm sitting by a fire reaching in for a log to smoke.
Love is puzzle made by Einstein and Sam Loyd;
And I'm a child with eyes made of glass and hands made of thorns crying to my mother because that puzzle is a *****
Love is Navy Seal training on a beach covered in cold water spilling blood for a chance;
And I'm a pot-smoking hippie who holds up signs and tells soldiers they’re monsters as I take a puff of death.
Love is a ten-syllable word compacted into one;
And I'm a hooked on phonics children’s thesaurus struggling to find a comparison that I can actually pronounce.
Love is a white egg timer sitting on the fridge set to all nines;
And I'm a busy housewife waiting to cook dinner at the sound of its bell.
Love is a robber with a 45 in his belt;
And I'm an eager dad trying to protect his family with a wooden stick.
Love is hot coffee from a luxury beverage shop;
And I'm a plastic party cup melting away.
Love is a doctor with a PHD in heart surgery;
And I'm a sick child waiting with his mother with no healthcare ******* on a free doctor’s-office lollypop.
Love is a huge pink eraser;
And I'm a graphite pencil struggling to write while me and the eraser fight.
Love is a pickup truck speeding through town drunk;
And I'm a lost puppy running through the same intersection looking for my owner.
Love is meant for fish;
And I'm a bird.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
Check it I be the mic originator greater than the next hater
So my nines will degrade ya send ya back to ya maker undertaker
Shake ya
With my earthquake flows formin' portals bigger than the black hole leave ya third eye swole
My thoughts travelin' faster than the speed of light say goodnight from the snake bite
A rhyming python wears cables and nylon runnin' bars harder than marathon true champion none could knock a don
Birthed by the sun raised by moon Sonic booms soundwaves from heart rates feelin' doom and soon
To be resting in the womb
The belly of the earth retaining my turf know my worth make words hurts
So suckas better tuck in ya skirts
I'm catching mirth
Along with death til my last breath cookin' up rhymes from the *** of my mind n continue to shine
Its asinine to flex ya mind if you cross the gun line don't be a victim of a graphic design
(Ya tapped out)
Scatzzz all over the kitty katz with my woody bat making them brains cracks
Cells it ain't hard to tell ****** fear me cuz I be the archangel Michael
fallin' deep into the depths of my hell o well
If you try to inhale my lyrical tales this ship is set to sail
On ya brainwaves these days fools rappin' for cheap pay lookin' all gay **** that I rather use the AK
Sittin' by the window seal signing the release will my soul'll still
Be reaching regardless the hardest artist
Usually ends up a carcass manifest the darkest
Rhymes but shine light at the same time crime at an all time
High once I blaze my thoughts cells fought & caught
By the smokin' arrows of a ghostly pharoah
Thats just my ancestors though lettin' me know it's time to show and go blow for blow toe to toe
Hands or the chrome pistol
The ghetto Aristotle makin' bodies mold from the enemies that caught a cold
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
There is some girls in this world that you call a six, they go home and cry. Some girls you call a six and they get angry and yell at you or slap you.
I realized that there was something wrong with me the first time someone called me a six, told me I wasn't good enough. I spent eight years after that trying to find him the ten that he was looking for; meanwhile sitting in the background trying to improve myself to be more like all of the eights and the nines. I bought him things and I showed him the most beautiful parts of me, I cooked for him and listened when he needed an ear. I let him use my body and I let him feed from the beautiful thoughts in my mind, the dark thoughts in my mind as well. I let him crawl under my skin. I did whatever he asked me to do and I gave whatever he asked me to give until I felt like I had nothing left.
I knew that there was something wrong with me when you called me a six and instead of crying, I felt the urge and needed for you to hold me and to use my body. I wanted you to know what a six feels like instead of how she looks. Some people fail to realize that I was a ten once. I was a ten being made to feel like a six, being told constantly that I was a six and I needed to be at ten. Imagine how many times someone told me that I was a six because they realized that I was vulnerable, imagine how many times I had to clear my mind of that thought but couldn't. Imagine all of the substances that I poured into myself trying to drown those negative thoughts that had been planted. Imagine how many conversations I had and how many people I let slip in under my loosely sewn skin. Imagine all of the men that I felt the need to be held by, imagine how they "held" me. Imagine how I felt after, imagine what I became. One day down the road I woke up and looked into the mirror and saw someone that I didn't recognize. Here I am, a six, trying to find what I lost.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC
In My Salad Days
Salad Days
**Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Salad
Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.
All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.
All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.
Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when you feed me in
My Salad Days.
The Days
Though it was a life, decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.
Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.
The Salad Days
Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.
Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.
It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
between my thoughts
she streaks like eyes
down lines of farmland
razed for tithes
a naked field
to the nines
dressed up in sunsets
through ribbed spines
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC
If I ever see you again
I'll spat insults and hope they
Spray on your aviators
like the bugs that squashed against
my windshield the last time
I drove away from you
If fate destroys me
and I am in the same pub one night
as your wormy self
I'll tell you how you're the most
arrogant, vapid, shallow, womanizing,
******* male mascot
I've ever had the disgust to know
I'll slap you hard across the face
Oh and not like Scarlett O'Hara,
you demon darling
No crushing kiss will follow
and I'll mean vengence
vile will seep through my mouth
instead of the sweet saliva
I let you taste
long ago
If I ever hear your voice
or see your mocking manequin
among my tele again
With disgraceful force
I will lift that 50 lb set
and propel that ******* screen
across the state
The way your black static apology
shattered the brightness
that used to reside
within
me
If I hear of you
one more dispicable time
I'll grow bombs maticulously
within my empty core
and time them so perfectly
that all of your dysfunctional doormat
confidants
will explode the second they come near me
and their manipulative cells
will burst
and be burried among the soil
of ***** words
you whispered in my ears
**** if I ever see you again
I'll shatter every martini glass around me
and down a fifth of fireball
and breath venomous fire
and burn you, you beastly boy
And I'll pretend beauty amongst you
and walk away, a tall glass of water
That could diffuse
that angry licking fire
that is swallowing you up
When I see you again
I won't acknowledge your existence
and I'll be dressed to the nines
and I won't do a ******* thing about it
Because you aren't worth a sentence within this stanza
But I know I am.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
I'm a Kool g rockin' coogis poppin' coochies
Haters get murked like Colhese my rap lease
Debutin' numero uno the heavy weight sumo
Born on Jupiter raised on Earth my heart's colder than Pluto
Mic judo flows stickin' of ya corticals
Check me in the articles I be the broken particle
Of the universal ya need rehearsal **** goin' commerical
I lay raps like a hearse flow for rappers funeral
I a criminal none keep gats by the abdominal rhymin' phenomenal the mighty Apollo
Blazin' my cocoa flippin' crime like Bardellino
One luv to my nino got it locked like a Vegas casino
We checkin' ya dough at the front door so stop ya show
Fronting and stunting once my nines get the hunting
Bullets spikin' like kickers punting raw taunting
Game hungriest similiar to the lochness
Mon-star far from subpar rhymes ride bizzare
A pharcyde takin' ya into a spiritual homicide converged to the angelic hide
Still a crime shame all of 'em say the same
Thing flexin' diamonds on they pinky rings yet another sad soul that sings sub siblings
To the underworld debators contract initiator so you can create a
Pace between the stage and the audience face
**** that rather keep a gat tucked in the front or the back
With wisdom to rack
Imagine that fools breakin' for stats? see where my heart at?
Diggin' reachin' into the minds of the youth with the brutal truths
Chippin' my tooth
From killin' booths once I plot ya will ya loose
bringin' the ghetto blues and cruising *****
Still a sober jealous God am I call me Jehovah
Tactics of a Cobra one strike it's over
Venomous ridiculous hataz so conspicuous
Hatin' us only to anger my artillery surplus and who bust?
More rounds than Matt Dillion coatin' ya brains
With my lyrical penicillin stealin'
Back the spotlight
Catch the bright sunshine that stares into my mind
A Pharoah prophecy laid in the back of me
Head til I touch my final resting bed I'll embed
The realist **** ya ever heard shooting a bird
To all my enemies I blast at 'em with as the bullets herd
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 12:40 PM UTC
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
3.6k
Bright flashes of red
Give away the Cardinals.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee
from the capped visitors.
Warning! Warning!
Shriek the Blue Jays!
Loud as a siren
our tiny wrens.
Crowned with a point
the titmouse displays.
Dressed to the nines
the juncos present before a storm.
Sparrows flock about
White crowned ones too.
Nuthatches scampering
like the squirrels around the limbs.
Brown creeper so shy
round and round the trunk.
Mockingbird flashing white on the wing
singing multitudes of songs.
Crows hold caucuses
along side the road.
Whirring wings buzz
Hummingbird zips on by.
Feathered friends on the wing
Speak to nature's diversity.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 7:52 AM UTC
Few freaks
have such impeccable taste,
Singing Pagliacci, smoking a Cuban cigar,
And sipping L'Essence de Courvoisier,
As he lowers you into the shark tank,
To feed his hungry pet.
Forget appearances
He cloaks himself in affectations,
And feigned cordiality
But he will take you down at the knees,
And kick your face until he can hide his shoe in your skull
Or put a bullet through your brain,
Before you can ask why he has an umbrella
When the weatherman said
No rain
Cobblepot
A name as Gotham
As Chapman and Wayne
Always dressed to the nines
He drinks the finest wines
But he can humiliate four thugs
Who try to mug him
In an alley
Cut the fools down in a fury
Steel shod umbrella,
Razorblade shoes,
And a gun up his sleeve
Appearances deceive
The definition of The Penguin
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
Weeping turtles
On angels' wings
Electric harps
And choir sings
Traveling time
Remembering
As an era
Comes to close
French chabot
In fruited hues
Revving engines
With horses used
Nothing that
Compares 2 U
And songs
We'll never know
From pain
Was born a troubadour
Pushing limits
Breaking doors
Supernova
Evermore
Songs with
Silent lines
A legend lost
Within the mist
Of mewling souls
Interminus
Taking time
To reminisce
The party ends
In nines
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
I'll cut out my bad habits
It's time to be classy
Sit straight
Be polite
No anger
Be classy
Small smiles
Small laughs
Genuine
Dressed to the nines
At all times
Be classy
Heels
Scarves
Sunglasses
And gloves
Unique and stylish
Be classy
A right socialite
A Queen who plays the part
A Goddess of a lady
Love, Class is an art.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
caught up in the game, he ran my mind tired.
i was crazed and my body wired.
staggered at the thought of being without,
my tired mind filled with doubt,
i couldn't live this one out.
my eyes scrambled from face to face,
heart to heart,
glancing,
gazing.
the innumerable parts to this true tale of two who never knew of this legends end were left isolated,
self-contained in their indigenous state.
warnings fired, screaming through the heavens,
rip-roaring,
adorned to the nines and past the elevens.
the immediate lash or forever's perpetual dream,
spiraling,
striking.
the masses laid down without a word.
silence.
not a soul resisted the fate of what was to become.
my mind was stormed,
clouded with the unmapped essence of nothing's everything.
so i too sat,
in silence and tears.
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 11:54 AM UTC
so this is where it ends
still drunk, in a shabby room with half full bottles of liquor
last night stuck in your hair,
glitter like snowflakes of a single night out’s winter
this is where it ends
heart broken, shattered in two
hung up and longing two years after
his name a poison on your lips you refuse to stop tasting
this is where it ends
wallowing in dreadful self-loathing,
contemplating your idle blues, your black hole of sadness
the smile you wear is but a painful reminder
this is where it ends
with your small group of girls, fellow high heeled warriors
lip glossed and pretty, shiny hair and perfect skin
dressed to the nines, miraculously young and fearless
intelligent, outspoken and strong and far from empty
too broken to do anything but go on
more nights will be filled with hollow, tinkling laughter
more nights will be spent lying on floors than waiting in towers
all because you forgot them all
your forgot his harsh whisper
you made up you mind and decided
“i love me”
and laughed at the sheer terror,
the insanity, the undeniable ridiculousness
at the end there is just you
this is where it ends
this is where it ends
This is where it ends
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
Chances!
Faith in an empty space.
Blazing maybe,
After a perfect kiss.
Loving perhaps.
Given half chances.
After gone issues.
Spent like chocolate pennies,impractical.
In wild romances.
Chances are wishes and kisses are dreams.
Nothing at all is what we perceive.
Chances are odd.
Not even the evens.
Dressed up to the nines, but only find sevens
Where nothing else matches.
When nothing else matters
In the sentiment from the diligent delicacy.
As only women bleed.
****** tears bless face.
Enigmatic smile retained!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 5:40 PM UTC
Winter and Spring have long since passed,
cold wind, rain and frost belong in the past,
darkness thankfully no longer descends as fast,
long hot summer days arrive at long last!
Colourful flowers and plants, trees and shrubs
burst forth from hanging baskets, gardens and tubs
outside homes and shops, hotels and pubs;
brightening roadsides, roundabouts, parks and golf clubs.
Exams are over and school is finally done,
children everywhere mad to get out in the sun,
playing outside all day, having such great fun,
warm summer days being enjoyed by almost everyone.
People everywhere outside busy doing something;
weeding, mowing, watering, general gardening;
cleaning cars, washing windows, mending or painting,
or simply sitting out with the neighbours, gossiping!
Time for sunglasses, sun cream, getting a tan,
Wimbeldon, music festivals, holidays to plan,
ice lollies, ninety nines from the ice cream van,
water shortages of course and the annual hose pipe ban!
Time for day trips, sports, to picnic or sunbathe,
for the park or the beach, to swim or just wade,
to get burnt to a crisp or just relax in the shade,
for beer gardens, barbeques as the sun starts to fade!
People making the most of each sunny summer day,
determined to enjoy the sun, lap up every last ray,
each enjoying the summer in their own particular way,
“Long may it last”, people around the country pray!
For not getting a summer seems to be our worst fear,
but thankfully the summer seems to be finally here.
All around the country there is a party atmosphere
such a shame it cannot be like this all through the year!
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 3:59 AM UTC
whats up
comin at cha
from a different perspective……
I
don’t have to be a gangsta
pack heat
rock jordans
300 dolla feat
ice coated nines
blindin muthafukkas
actin all hard
causin a ruckus
I roll wit style
my own I made
not actin like a *****
still getting paid
I
been married 10 years
still eatin that same salad
real love is better
than ******* tryin to act valid
see if fake *** **** is what you sellin
my crew see threw
be handed out honeydew melons
I’m a new kind a rapper –
See I
help ya move
and loan cash
same friends
since way back
roll deep
smoke ****
life cheap
retire neat
buy a yatch
drive a jeep
grow my own
still a freak
I’m a different kind of rapper –
you can call me Sammy T
or MCDJPJS, if a please
i bring it hard
put ya on your knees
have ya starin up, mouth all agape
but when I still don’t touch ya
you be callin ****
try to knock me
down like Cosby
***** I’ll trap ya
sell ya *** to Pauly
feed ya mushroom
set you in a field
play some grateful dead
watch ya spirit yield
Im a different kind of rapper –
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
Earth in iniquity overall clad,
in a stained satin of sin:
loose garment
of a loose life.
Heart's maidenhead in twain was torn,
in Eden,
by Satan's scissors of lies
and wiles,
so crimson did stain
the purest soul
with red spots.
Gold embroidery of righteousness,
silver stitches of sanctity
have all been marred
by Lucifer's tailor-made sophistry.
Wherefore bespoke beauty
and dignity fell
off Adam's body,
and his nakedness seen.
Calvary's grace, the bleach,
the remover of blemishes great,
doth make darkest heart
than cotton to be whiter,
dressing man up again to the nines
with heaven's glory nice.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
Waters waltz land dancing,
Dragon flies flutter a buzz,
Cat-o'-nines torching tales,
Where beavers are logging
Time with fresh water fish
Who breach as they mouth,
Fly catching in a casted sea,
Mossy and bogged with peat,
And the colours, mottled, fey,
Brindled, brim, know they say,
There are lessons, hear stillness,
Punctuations in the spry singings
Of the never tardy larks, windrous
Riddles ripe rushing through reeds.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
Babylon Sisters
one of them is blonde
the other one a redhead
but both are very fond
of fine liquor and giving head
their painted lips and coiffured hair
finely dressed to the nines
you can take them anywhere
snorting coke and sipping wines
they will spend your dough
and let you touch them everywhere
but upfront they will let you know
it will cost to remove their underware
they are ladies of the evening
finest of the maidens fine
not interested in a wedding ring
just lustful *** time after time
they remind one of times gone past
ancient world of love and fun
so beautiful and fast
**** sisters of Babylon
Gomer Lepoet...
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
im walking along
hardly breathin cause it might disturb
im steppin in the shadows of great men
with one eye on the popularity of what im sayin
but i dont think anybody sees me anyway
cept her and its real hard to tell what shes thinkin
dressed to the nines and she lickable head to toe
hard body honey half my age
came here to pick a fight with the powers that be
dont stand a chance but thats beside the point
cant you feel the storm brewin
been there since it became hip to be an activist
tempest in a tea ***
but what a blast its been
a struggle of the masses not to drink another latte
a demand for justice for the **** who ate the last bearclaw
he trims that fashion beard
combs out the rough phrase from his latest trending poem
and some cat in london stamps his seal of approval
sold out for a pat on the back
just remember kiddo that your a greenhorn
and i got one beady little eye on ya
meanwhile in chechnya they are swaping pens for rifles
feel little like hemingway
wanna throw it all away in a blaze of glory
for the ideal of the revolt with some
things still worth fightin for
hand me that pen
got a ruckus to make
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
Porcelain white is painted polite.
Grown-up to be perfect, and pretty in lace.
Long shiny hair tied up with a bow.
A beautiful pro at hiding her woe.
Dressed to the nines with diamonds that shine,
to blind those from seeing her broken design.
Her body a shrine all knotted with twine.
Privileged, and coddled.
Loved, and swaddled.
Prepped for ascension,
despite the fine lines that grow in her spine.
Cracks in the porcelain, rigid and sly,
grow bigger with rigour as time flies by.
One more bawl and she’ll break above all.
I am a china doll, would you like to see me fall?
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 6:51 PM UTC
You won't see me anymore
I've lost faith in what I was living for
Could tell you the moment it happened
But you wouldn't listen
And I hate wasting my breath
I count the scars you left on me
Not all of them I can see
But I know they're there
Because they ache so deeply
I dress to the nines
Like I'm going to a funeral
Gonna have fun with a gun
You'll see what I mean
When the whiskey's gone
All this silence is getting harder to kick
Lets play a game of Russian roulette
Ill load the barrel and take the first hit
There's one empty chamber
And I'm liking my odds
There's no room in my life
With all of this empty space
It's funny how late at night
I can remember your taste
But I won't recall the details
Or the smile on your face
All this silence is getting harder to kick
Lets play a game of Russian roulette
Ill load the barrel and take the first hit
There's one empty chamber
And I'm liking my odds
Pull the trigger (Don't worry about the mess)
Pull the trigger (If there's one left behind)
Pull the trigger (It's only a wedding dress)
Pull the trigger (You can have it dry cleaned)
Pull the trigger (After we make it a crime scene)
You won't see me anymore
I've lost faith in what I was living for
Could tell you the moment it happened
But you wouldn't listen
And I hate wasting my breath
I count the scars you left on me
Not all of them I can see
But I know they're there
Because they ache so deeply
Pull the trigger (Don't worry about the mess)
Pull the trigger (If there's one left behind)
Pull the trigger (It's only a wedding dress)
Pull the trigger (You can have it dry cleaned)
Pull the trigger (After we make it a crime scene)
Lets play a game of Russian roulette
Ill load the barrel and take the first hit
There's one empty chamber
And I'm liking my odds
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
The familiar complaints, the cozy ones.
Ambling through the hedges of grievance.
I never know what I'm feeling at any one time.
Usually more of the same. Bragging my inadequacies.
Winter is coughed from the addled coalsmoke sky.
Chimneys chugging ash. Clumps of duress.
Blake's choir of children lying in a heap.
Noontime streetlamps regaled in holly and poinsettia.
A ***** moss enters from the vacant lot, cautiously.
The homeless have been scraped from under the bridge.
Geese call and flee. The snow is flakes of ash,
the sun finally burnt itself down.
Disused meanings are flushed. A carefully wrought
vocabulary we have disabused ourselves of.
Crumbling monologue.
A new grammar forms. Light and Motion dances
from the screen. A panoptican of laughs and serenades.
Sometimes there is a magazine no one has a
subscription to. It is the digest of a human heart
dressed to the nines in thorns and flame.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC