"syllogism" poems - Hello Poetry

There should be a genre of poetry called waste verse tasteless and terse like the khaki pine needles that litter the space underneath your porch. a neglected place, where the broken blue bottles and dew marry in early morning , attended by a congregation of woodchips, beers cans and guinea pig **** dancing easy with the morning breeze, and carried like the currency of an early dreamer's reverie, morning. morning. morning is gluing a teacup together knowing that it will be broken tomorrow. and day by day, the absence in form will grow until that once teacup becomes nothing but empty space, with its base designated in place of the back porch ash tray. when i turned back one day, there was nothing left of its body nothing left of it that i could see but paint dust, a couple of cuts and some blood covered by a bandaid that doesn't stay on because feet sweat a little too much. morning is repetition for comfort but breaking routine is starting to feel more appealing than keeping it, because I know one morning I will wake alone, with a rusted infrastructure and fractured backbone, and have to look upon a screen with thousand texts that read, "there are other fish in the sea" well, **** you, maybe he was my sea. i mean, he is my sea, maybe. there is a genre of waste verse called poetry, and the simple syllogism of it all leaves me reeling. but after i finish my cigarette over the khaki pine needles beneath your porch and go inside, "good morning", i say. "good morning", he said. i cannot remember what was so important just a few moments ago. morning.

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Mar 8, 2013

Mar 8, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC

jf

Variations on Waste Verse (Morning)

There should be a genre of poetry called waste verse tasteless and terse like the khaki pine needles that litter the space underneath your porch. a neglected place, where the broken blue bottles and dew marry in early morning , attended by a congregation of woodchips, beers cans and guinea pig **** dancing easy with the morning breeze, and carried like the currency of an early dreamer's reverie, morning. morning. morning is gluing a teacup together knowing that it will be broken tomorrow. and day by day, the absence in form will grow until that once teacup becomes nothing but empty space, with its base designated in place of the back porch ash tray. when i turned back one day, there was nothing left of its body nothing left of it that i could see but paint dust, a couple of cuts and some blood covered by a bandaid that doesn't stay on because feet sweat a little too much. morning is repetition for comfort but breaking routine is starting to feel more appealing than keeping it, because I know one morning I will wake alone, with a rusted infrastructure and fractured backbone, and have to look upon a screen with thousand texts that read, "there are other fish in the sea" well, **** you, maybe he was my sea. i mean, he is my sea, maybe. there is a genre of waste verse called poetry, and the simple syllogism of it all leaves me reeling. but after i finish my cigarette over the khaki pine needles beneath your porch and go inside, "good morning", i say. "good morning", he said. i cannot remember what was so important just a few moments ago. morning.