"pored" poems
I have left, pig-mudding drunk,
having sipped from stock to stock on fraying cheer, stages.
I have stood in foreign basements; sweaty cellars of youth;
begot by attitude breeding spaces of the hip;
drawn circles searching for love in recreating nonsense:
a silly pupil, moon-eyed, out of breathe.
I have heard them quack, reveal their cords;
heard them whisper a thousand and one secrets,
heard them deconstruct their circumstances as pilgrims, penniless and sick.
I have their memories now, an image of a depressed,
ass-imprinted pillow soaked in liquor and a feeling of nausea
where ribs sleep on this couch tonight, every night.
I have heard one refute the weight of living, ******
on the banks of his best friends hospitality, and thought
How much is it worth?
And I have envied every **** greasy pored hipster,
the ones fixing on makingitnew now kind of clan; stared blankly at fashion,
a culture back door where pink fish scales sparkle high from runway halters
to the tops of grown men, bearded and chesty.
And your mothers pearls sit, not your mother’s pearls but your mother’s, mother’s pearls,
that old world clout ornamented around those hairy *******
Oh yes, I have seen men become peacocks, charmed animals of **********
seen them teeth at discourse in the noise they create, wide-mouthed and pointed;
I have seen them masked like frantic felines: wooly bully cats trying-to-roll their own meter,
their tobacco stained black charcoal over soft bricked lips quiver to their beats:
those painted lemmingings, without a parachute: kamikaze felons.
I have desired absolute sterility: white china,
in the egg of a toilet bowl I spewed out, shut-up my exuberance for the night;
sorry-pleaded my resolutions to gag out the naughty nouns in my life.
I have quit; turned in my lust for performing the lioness, paw-licking,
snarly creature: the predator of my youth, and now,
I am pretty-headed, tamed in bath oils and schedules;
a spotted fox, in plain view, one medium-sized mammal getting by.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
If only we were figures...
Accentuated in the night sky.
Starlit effigies bound by cosmic tethers...
Secrets of the universe many would attempt to pry.
If only we were figures...
Painted on pored upon canvas.
Fantastic renditions by masterful painters,
Abstract oil swirls dancing to a whimsical opus.
If only we were figures...
Given life in the lyrics in a song.
An example of harmony in verse,
Bridge and chorus...where we belong.
But we are only figures...
Trampled on by indifferent feet that came to mock.
We can't undo such a potent curse...
We are but grounded figures outlined in chalk.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
There’s no grace for a sinner here.
In this little white room,
with the little white girls
and the good little boys.
They all cast the stones, cracking
my fragile bones,
and making my dress quite black.
There’s no place for a sinner here.
Where they all look the same,
all out to tame us,
damning us all to hell.
Technicalities steal pride, and
Legality’s crushing tide
forces our dignity to fall.
There’s no room for a sinner here.
You’ll do as you’re told.
Dare ask why and you’re bold;
never to make much in life.
Backsliders are peered on
over pretty noses apparently smeared on,
by simplicity and a bit of wine.
There’s no peace for a sinner here.
Perfect footprints are left over,
those lively blueprints we pored over
through many a midnight candle.
Both innocence and experience
leave them incensed and indignant.
keeping our consciences guilted.
There’s no rest for a sinner here.
Enjoyment is frivolous,
laughter is selfish,
and love must be evil incarnate.
If this is what perfect,
must look like, then I’m perfect-
ly happy with the mess that I’ve made.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
Darkness. That was the only thing left. Apocalyptic nightmares turned true.
Groups of families gather at Ralston Mansion packed tight into every room.
Tents pitched and quiet talking.
My tool was an axe that my family used for chopping wood.
I carried it effortlessly and would never let it go.
The loss of millions seemed like a terrible joke.
A joke of which nobody spoke.
Exploring the giant abode was my new mission.
Gleaming the crevices and dark corners, until I come to a large empty room.
The walls are high, and centered in the middle of the main wall was a single outlet.
From it out pored a strange dark stain that patterned a beautiful fractal.
As I studied the design, the wholeness of the geometric patterns stunned me.
There was something behind the walls.
Bleeding through the ancient wallpaper, something lied hidden.
I was undoubtedly enthralled and decided to force my axe heavily into the seeping image.
Instead of a solid hard noise, a gushing chop persisted.
I hastened my blows to my own disgust and horror.
For as the chips of wood peeled away the secret was revealed.
Packed as tight as our putrid tents were,
the masses of dissected corpses flopped and thudded and fell to the ground.
Before I could move, I was piled.
I was suffocating and gasping for air.
Then it fades.
When I wake up, I’m sitting on an airplane.
I'm flying to London, and I cant remember what happened prior night.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
Sitting on this table here
Is an orange
It is the sun
And it is the only orange from here
To New York
Where another orange sits
On another table
Sweet and juicy
If you cross the room
From my orange
You will be the earth
Only a trillion times too big
And no matter how bad you want
To grab that orange and
Peel it
You can’t
If you half that distance
You are Venus
In love with the orange
And half again
You are burning
From its pored skin
If you are earth again and leave the room
You are Mars, then farther still
Made of gas
If you jog outside your house
And down the block
Your breath will form rings
And moons
Around your body
And if you so choose
To pace 800 more lengths
And shrink to the size
Of sand
You can be Pluto
The Hungry
Cold and spinning
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
Texas mud, a mud that cakes
A mud that strikes fear
In boots and trucks alike
After fresh summer rain
Billowy clouds rolling a long
Singing their thunderous song
Natures long cool drink
I was muddy once
Moms words i didn't hear as i hit the back door
Thoughts of squishy toes and big smiles
A freshly made mud pie for my sister
I was muddy once
To a boy of ten 2 acres goes on for miles
A whole mess a villains ever willing to meet
The business end of my B.B. gun
And the neighbors nurf gun
I was muddy once
From the trenches of France
To a foxhole on Mars
Only fenced in by the outermost stars
I couldn't be bested
Backyard hoops to creek jumping
Swing sets to sword fights
I was muddy once
The only thought of future
Was what tomorrow would bring
New adventures, new places to see
And all you can drink sweet iced tea
I wanted to be something great when i was a kid
I wanted to be great
I wanted to be a paleontologist, doctor, lawyer, cop, superhero, captain of a yacht, a and mountain man, and never wanted to get married cause girls had cooties and dolls
As it turns out I am none of those things
As it turns out, what i needed most
Was i ran rarest away from
I became something i never thought i would be
I became something i never thought i could be
I am becoming a servant of the King
The mud which once covered my hands
Bound my heart in a thick, clogging bog
Only when i thought no longer of receiving glory
I began to poor grace out from this imperfect jar
Glory pored to a being more eloquent than I
Who hath poured mercy like wine
Love as a fire
Turning my so called foundations into Texas mud
Turns out God doesn't want me to be a doctor
Turns out God wants the willing not the able
i found something bigger
Than the thoughts i thought i knew
How glorious days of old
A tear to my eye and a distant memory
To stretch and grow is one thing
A loss of splendor another
When others think of yesterday,
Dream for tomorrow
Dream and dream big,
For God is bigger still
He rejoices in imagination
Delights in the mind of a child
Reclaim that which we've lost
For you were muddy once
I was muddy once
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 12, 2011 at 1:30 PM UTC
She was a sweet straight A student.
She was quite and an intravert.
But she lacked friends.
She wanted to fit in so bad.
And she took extreme measures.
She dyed her hair.
She pored on make up.
She started showing of her ***** and ***
She shattered her innocence by sleeping with
The first man she could.
She went from a sweet shy girl to a royal *****
But hey.
At least she's "popular".
At least she has "friends"
She finally done it.
She got everything she "wanted".
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 9:40 PM UTC
The Jam Jar
Breakfast taught me a lesson this morning,
As I waited for my toast I watched my brother
Struggle with the jam jar,
He squeezed as hard as he could, he shook the
Bottle wildly, trying to get the jam out.
The air bubble in side popped and the jelly pored out.
I watched as he smothered they jelly on his bread,
Just staring at the pile left that he didn't need.
He had more then enough but did not share with me
Instead he through it in the garbage.
It made me think of life when people work there
Buts off and get more then they need and they don't
Know what to do with it all so they just throw it away.
He handed me the jar that was now almost gone.
I shook and shook that thing I scraped the walls
Clean, but I didn't even have enough for one piece
Of bred. It made me think of all the poor people out
There that work there hardest and barley get anything
To survive on. I was about to give up when m mom walked
In and gave a full jar of jam. She reminded me that there are
Caring people out there watching out for us.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
Love is broken
I am dieing
Would you care
If I died
Orcorse not
Because
the broken black rose
Saw your mind
It was dark enough
And mean to me
So seam to be a problem
For me and you
Be proud
I have pored
All the hatred on you
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 11:03 PM UTC
Craving the crack of the whip possessing the flesh
Before it hits the air, the breath of the bound captive
Hearing in the silence of the caressing hand a touch
Pored out behind the shackles, the feathers, the rules
Trying to make sense of the frustration and delusive
Desire of the entangled ******* rough and intricate mesh
Taking off all misunderstanding, embracing your blush
A sort of rituals of carnal, Sir, Mistress, Save Our Souls.
Bound to love the feeling of expectancy in a dark room
Dealing with all traumas and successes bending a knee
Savoring the exquisite or frightful balance of pleasure
Muttering an ****** language known by all yet dreaded
A scene in which your persona stages a fantasy
With a consenting partner or in your mind, it is easy
There is no self-help book for this topic, it all takes place
In your body and your heart, you decide if you keep pace
Power plays challenge your equilibrium, your lust
Whether you believe in a prophet or in flesh and dust
The beginning is near and she carries all your hidden rites
If only you would disrobe and lie down in many of your nights.
Lyon, July 28, 2017
11:04 pm
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
Koliko dugo neprimjetno lutaš
prljavim rijekama zla?
Darovana krila gube ti svrhu;
zašto se bojiš poletjeti?
Otvori oči - rekla sam ti nježno,
puno toga ne primjećuješ.
A ti tvrdoglavo zatvorio si dušu
i toneš u psihotičan san.
Iluzija...
Vrijeme prolazi...
Srca su nam prazna pustinja
Gladna ljubavi vičem bez glasa
tebi što ne čuješ i ne vidiš.
Probudi se anđele nezasitne utjehe!
Otvori se dvama morima plavim.
Slijep pored zdravih očiju živiš,
ubijen od strane vlastitog prijatelja.
Probudi se, preklinjem!
Ne želim da toneš u vječni san.
Tihi glas šapuće ti na uho:
Vrijeme prolazi...
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
Someone once told me
to mend a broken person
breaks the mender them self
I tried to rearrange their broken heart
But as I reassembled it
The shards of glass sunk into my skin
As if it was heavily pored.
My emotions fell down like hail
on a harsh winter's day. However
I felt the rain wash over me
Sending chills through my heart
Soaking me for all eternity
No one gave me a towel
To dab away the imbibed feelings
of everything, from love to hate
to lust and lies
Someone once told me
To mend a broken person
Breaks the mender them self
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 3:36 PM UTC
Snow White is in the kitchen making cakes
Cinderella tells her to make haste
for the witch is coming soon
she comes from the west she cries
this time surely she must die
So together they pick the biggest ***
then the fill it with oil to the top
then with tender hands on the stove they plop
but they don't just want to singe the *****
they want to burn this horrid evil witch
As the oil does come to boiling point
they plan the demise of the witch, joint
with oven on at full heat
they draw up their plan complete
so her horrid visitations will cease
That evening the witch did appear
Cinders and Snow held their fears
then as planned it went ahead
for they wanted that witch truly dead
so from the window they pored upon her head
The witch did scream as she fried
like Kentucky fried chicken she did die
and all that was left of the wicked old witch
was the cloak smelling of cat ****
and her hat and her broomstick
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
I slammed the door.
an echo strained it's way
throughout the universe
with a
shudder.
that made still even the pattering of children's feet.
or so i thought.
i believed myself to be far more powerful than i truly was,
or, perhaps, i was more powerful than i could possibly fathom.
regardless,
i shut the door.
i shuffled throughout the cold room.
white walls,
black tile floor
glinting in the fluorescent light.
cold radiated throughout the room
it was impossible to tell whether that cold
was inherent to the room or
if the room was inherent to the cold.
regardless,
i shivered.
my body shook violently with the disgusted vibration of a
million
angry
bees.
i continued to walk, the hallway stretched forever.
each step added
a
m
i
l
l
i
o
n
inches
to the length i would never cross.
Zeno crossed my mind.
I had never believed he was correct but in that moment,
i could never doubt him.
I took a step, the hallway stretched,
I took a step, the hallway stretched.
I took a step,
the cold permeated the pores of my body.
I took a step,
the fluorescent lights stung my eyes.
At last, the end of the hallway.
I did not see a mirror but, rather,
an alternate universe.
I saw myself,
most poised and calm as I had ever been.
I could not be the same person
That I was staring at.
This being pored into my soul.
This person gnawed upon my
mind and
exhilarated my senses.
This could not be me.
The eyes across the glass, identical to mine own.
stared.
stared.
until i was forced to look away.
i glance back.
the eyes continued to
stare.
continued to
stare
with an entrancing understanding
that i did not even bother to wish upon myself
the base futility of this wish rendering it meaningless.
this being, this was not me.
another realm i had seen,
for only that moment.
another realm so close,
i may just have touched it.
Mar 29, 2011
Mar 29, 2011 at 9:16 PM UTC
we lay like dirt
sitting peacefully under the dark night that sits heavy upon us
where the last star shines for you
we sat until our souls grew grass
and the hungry bugs came to feed upon our dead leaves
then our blood bleeds black unto the rivers
our grounds grew moons
which we climbed upon
reaching high into the sky
then plummeting into our oceans of blood
covering our body's in the darkness
feeling all the things of being alive
washing away all the bad memories that linger in our minds
waiting for only one scream to show everyone we have fears
and fingers open up my chest like a book
shaking the black beads of water from my skin
reading me like you read the bible
with my last passage saying
God is an angry child
I wiped the last drop of black from your face
staring deep into eyes that have made me dream since the moment I saw them
dreaming up wild conclusions of the end of the world
then the rain pored upon our heavy breathing chests
I touched your cheek
your face was icy cold from the cool wetness of the air
and the rain washed over us
discarding from us all our confusion
letting the feeling of discomfort wash down the empty streets
where we once walked upon writing are memoirs
and standing there after I burst into a flaming pyre of remembrance
I held your head upon my hand
trembling at your vary beauty
not knowing weather to stand or to kiss your lips
with my mouth opening and closing
opening and closing
until the darkness of the sky and coldness of the air began to snow
snowing like it would never stop until we've met
until I grew so tired of bugs that I scooped them up in a jar
and the crows that perched themselves upon the fence
swooped down and swallowed the whole jar
flying back into the night
we made snow angels that took hold of their shape
and blazed right into the sky
snatching up the crows
covering them whole until they burst into cylinders
then fluttered down like ashes
melting away all the snow
all the pieces of our souls were placed back into the earth
exposing the nights street
where mine and your lips finally touch
Jul 24, 2010
Jul 24, 2010 at 12:42 AM UTC
Catherine stood over the bar counter and pored herself a glass of absinthe. She placed the special spoon over the top of the glass and put a sugar cube over it and proceeded to pore slowly the water over the the sugar and into the glass of real Pernod. She watched as the drink turned its green tinted color and she could feel her insides hunger for the wormwood drink.
She loved the preparation of such a cocktail and if she were truthful it is one of the reasons that it was her go to drink. Another equally important reason it was her drink was because it awakened the creativity in her and inspired her work. Catherine was working on her fifth novel and had come to an impasse and could not write her way around nor through her dilemma and she sought hell from the Green Fairy for a little inspiration.
She took the drink to her lips and savored the anise flavored liquor as it rolled across her tongue. She closed her eyes and held on to the affects of it, seeing the edges of her vision go an opaquely luminescent green. She walked over to her desk and dipped her quill into the jar of squid ink and began to write on the parchment, letting the absinthe take her writing on the journey it needed to finish the story.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
~~~
The Poet, God,
God, The Poet,
smiling beguiling disguising
as old man tailor,
in dusty shop,
well hid neath the arch of well trod
ancient medieval arcade
in modest, peeling letters,
of gold plate,
hawking, hawking,
suits of poems,
made to measure,
cut to the cusps,
so profound unique,
each will be a promise,
modestly guaranteed,
at a price proffered,
profoundly inexpensive,
to be merely,
"only the very, very, very, best of the best"
grasping torn yellow cloth
measuring tape,
the tailor takes your heft,
drawing broad lines,
sketching your pored cells,
measuring your 'made,'
the stuff that you claim
as only your own,
"only the very, very, very, best of the best"
this delivered,
but none of the finished,
fit to the sane, none fit the same,
all off, hanging wrong,
each different, each suit, each poem,
fitted but still imperfect
angered and human,
de-man-d,
an explanation,
why each poem bespoke,
speaks in a different tongue,
tongue stained with complaint,
these are missed leads, misleading,
none made to measure
The Poet, God,
God, The Poet
the the tailor
of each and every
misshapenly one-of-us,
condescends to explain
the foolishness of
human shape
my tape, with steady hands,
takes with accuracy,
the who, the way, the which,
of your momentary composition
but who can say with honesty,
what is the best of the best,
accept that flaws are your finery,
and the skin of your fabric
every changing, a peeling changeling,
excited atoms of colliding constancy
there is no 'best of the best'
there is only one standard
of each creature
that can be accurate recorded,
and this poem, I have delivered
give and gave the
'very, very, very'
e-very stitch and syllable,
is a truth, a ver-ity,
unique to the measure of
who you are
but there is no,
'best of the best,'
from this classification,
you, yourself, must
deselect
make no error of compare,
the wrongness of unfair,
crucify not on the altar
of a golden calf made of
erroneous bitter 'betters than'
every suited poem
suits you,
well and proper,
of this I certify,
all a verification
of the
ver-i-fiction
of the
'best of the best'
of who you are,
reflecting your mirrored image,
of who you wished to be
for in every exhaled instance,
in every poem,
is the
'very, very, very'
of you
is not misshapen
perfection?
what could ever be
better than the best
poetic imperfection?
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 5:26 AM UTC
Something has been scratching at the back of my skull
It's just been sitting there for way too long
It yells, it whispers, it's become a splinter in my head.
Something told me I was happy, so I believed it
I was certainly happy once before, but now,
I get an uneasy feeling like the happiness will quickly fade
Something told me to go away, so I stepped to the side
I shed my tears, I pored my heart into my writings
I sat there in silence, waiting for my broken eyes to focus
Something told me to come back, so I walked towards you
I tried to smile back, but I am greeted with distraught eyes and a face I well remember
It's a face that I used to wear. Could it be that you may feel the same?
Something told me I was confused, I'm not sure what's next
my car has broken down in the middle of the freeway
They all speed along while I am screaming, "Wait!"
Something told me I was sad, so i went away
I tried to talk, but they gave me no solutions
They just ignored my words and said, "Be happy."
Something told me I was scared, but why?
I don't want to sit in the corner of the universe
I just need some help while I figure it all out.
Something has been taking my sleep, I'm done with this
But as they examine my head, they'll chuckle and say to me;
"It's absolutely nothing..."
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Hello, I'm sorry if I ever hurt you
I'm trying to turn my life around
and I guess I've cased some casualty's
remember when we would steal your parents wine
and drink and talk about our lives
weir we would go
no one would know
as were flying higher than the sky
but now your gone and I'm left hear alone
a broken soul in a broken home
sitting in a dark room
wondering why you had to leave so soon
I wont drink until you come back to me
the liquors being pored down the sink
I'm calling the line up into haven to let you know that all the wine is gone
I cant stay sober for long
because when I do remember a lot about you
and all the things we said we would do
so Hello, I'm sorry I have to move on without you
all the liquors gone
and I've ben sober for so long
but one day we will meet again
but until then drink for me all you can
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
I never go back
I never re travel the lines pored
In penmanship
Although pressed between the pages of a journal
As if thrown off into a weightless universe
The basic laws of motion apply
So with every recollection
A piece of me leaves forever
I wonder when she reads
Does she know ?
I never go back
Those once traveled roads
Moments lived only in my mind
Or a blueprint for a future dream
A love letter
Intended for only one heart.
I watch the binder fatten
With each new page digested
Penned with the same inspiration
As the very first
a simple ode
Created to express a feeling
Mere words could not.
Dipped in the oxygen enriched
Blood flow
Straight from my heart.
That belongs to her
I never go back
I never re read the waves of emotion I've flooded her with
Only to wonder if she felt me
I don't wanna see my heart dwindle
In pieces, sprawled away
Or tucked in a corner
I wonder if she values the snippets of my life
Devoted , to sharing my affection for her
I left them with her
I look at my journal
The words are there , but the spirt is let go
Along with the piece if my heart that I wrapped it in
That's is why
I never go back ....
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
- There are days when he mentions your name. I take it like a sugar pill — a little too sweet; becomes a coating of whateveritis on my tongue not long after; on my teeth, the grinding; what am I saying — I am no longer able to taste anything; maybe it’s better this way.
- There are days he says it might make me happy to be with you instead, it being easier. He is 7,307 mi away, and there are a million and one places you and I could ‘accidentally’ meet in this city. Today, I agreed with him, that it might be easier, but not for that reason.
- There are days when I wish he would stop being in my conscious so that I can remember memories from before him more clearly. I want him too much, so my mind focuses on the memories I share with him more. I have no energy left for anything else. I can’t remember what came before him and I can’t picture life after him.
- I became too confident that I have mastered the few concepts on life we so arduously pored over together; I have forgotten how to state them in words.
- There used to be a time when I couldn’t picture life without you too. I make too many drafts now, and edit posts after publishing [kudos to Adam Jones].
- I wish you didn’t let me give you up so easily. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t have been honest and clear about my intentions so there would be room enough for you to guess.
- I still can’t picture life without you.
- But you leave too quickly, I don’t know if this means anything to you. If I mean anything to you.
- I am still waiting for you to come back.
- Come back.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
i dont know what i am more upset with or who.
the world for making my dreams to high and far away to catch
or me for not trying hard enough
its tough to try
to reach the heights of the epire state building
to cross the atlantic ocean by just swimming it
to fly to hong kong with a jet i made all.by.my.self.
its hard to reach these things that are called dreams,
these things we are told to create at such a small age,
that disney makes so easy to come alive,
at a wish upon a star,
at a rub at a bottle,
with a simple kiss with some random guy ive never met.
dreams are so far away
my dreams that i oh so long for
the things i can taste so strongly when pucker my lips,
the dreams i can see so clearly when i shut my eyes real hard and wait until the tears come flowing down my open pored cheeks,
when the salty rivers take over my face and die the color of my skin to pink
these dreams
im supposed to be so excited about and spend my life catching
but when there is no way to get there
with out the right plane, with out the right map,
with out the right pilot without the right tools,
theres no way to reach my silly ol dreams that i stare at in the mirror every **** day,
that i stare at through the television scree,
that i dream about and replace myself with another
i can see myself so clearly
i know i can make it
i know i could sucseed i know i can
if i was just given that passport, that right pilot
to cross the ocean and land in the right airport
but for now i have nothing
but a jar of wishful thinking,
and a page full of remorse,
and cheeks stained of salt water,
and a computer whos keys are so tired of me expressing the same **** feeling,
dreams,
will remain
in my sleep.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
My drum has perforations; now flawed
Mylar parchment once taut on bone
Leaks prose; but each metaphor pored
Percussive skull reverbs teeming tome
Waning instrument yet waxing lyrical
Tympanic threepenny opera still plays
Snare split - verbose ****** spiracles
Whip quick flick of offal; tongue flays
Well weathered but - oh still sensual
Drum bongo crammed with lyrics learned
Skin leathered; worn – still beautiful
Spills tales – well told – well earned
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:23 AM UTC