"tilts" poems
she was leaving
and got the gumption
to see me before she did
so we went to dinner
she sat, crumpled
at the edge of the booth
playing with her silverware
hands sweating
our knees barely touching
underneath the table
they shook like the day we met
they shook like floodgates
when the clouds get upset
her hair was drawn back
into an apology
and she didn't answer
when the waiter asked for drinks
she pans, tilts
looking for the restroom
but doesn't get up
covers her mouth
to hide her furled chin
i cut her a piece of bread
not sparingly
i didn't want to ruin the symbolism
of cutting a gangrenous thing
from ones self
she half wept out "tell me a joke"
i thought to say "look at us."
that's it. that's the joke.
the premise & the punch line
sharing some silence
here in this ominous moment
so thick with goodbye
you could touch it
i said "when they asked what the name was for the wait, i should've said "awkward, party of 2"
but that's not the joke
"knock knock"
she whispered "who's there?"
i sat for a moment and said
"so we've come full circle.. we're even in the same seats, from all those months ago"
her lips quivered
and she hid her mouth
"i just wanted to hear a joke"
she said
i came back with
"if i fell for you in a quiet restaurant & no one was around to hear it, does the laughter of children i drempt we'd have make a sound?"
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
My pen is a wand. It can write a curse or a powerful charm. My pen is a mirror. It can show you a monster or a beautiful figure. My pen is a key. It can free you from a trapped door or it can lock you inside that door until the oxgen runs out and you can't breath. My pen is a weapon. It will fight righteous battles or make a gruesome dissection. My pen is a balancing scale.
It is a balancing scale because it tilts when the yin & yang of my being begins to out weight one other.
Nothing is safe from my pen if i choose it not to be, my pen writes freely without filters or censorship.
My pen is a ship in the sea unable to maintain equilibrium set on a course to land. One day it will stay still, but on that day my pen will run out of ink.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC
Age and Grace
Her steps were always slow;
Even in youth she swayed,
Walked with sultry composure
And seductive flow.
Like a heathen goddess,
She tempers movement with grace.
It was not done out of vanity,
But pleasure in the flowing stream of steps
That mark her pace.
The relaxed fulcrum of her hip
Tilts with undulations in the turf;
Her feet tread lightly with a claim
On the summer fields,
On the bending trees
Where beauty still abounds..
She savors the trailing of her skirt
Through unseen paths in drooping grass.
Until the evening mist accrues
From out the forest paths
Caressing her as she yields,
Until she and it are almost one.
Like Whistler’s “breath on a pane of glass”,
She bargains with nature,
Waning to become an aesthetic phantom.
She stops at a window and watches
With a sad smile, the warm light on life,
The laughter, talk and dancing grace
Of her children, who don’t yet know
The bittersweet taste of withered garlands.
Yet she accepts and passes into the dusk.
Now she executes a careful,
Battement fondu as her hands dip
To reach the soaking pods
Of next year’s summer flowers.
Every move must be planned,
To manage every hour.
For they are as precious now,
As her own days,
Fading into glory and reborn,
Into spring and youth’s careless riot.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
he pushes me onto my knees
our father who art in heaven
i open my mouth for him
lord, i want to recommit my life, my heart to you
he holds my head in his hands and i take in all of him
you alone are worthy of all honor and praise
his eyes close and his head tilts back
***he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you
by his love***
i can feel tears running down my cheeks and i look up and capture his eyes
i saw the lord...lofty and exalted
his mouth tilted into a grin
***make your face shine on your servant; save me in your
steadfast love***
he pushes my head back and i come away with drool and tears dripping to the floor
now the works of the flesh are evident
i smile at him and my gaze demands his admiration
for this is the love of god
~
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 3:59 AM UTC
*~
**Him
sits in an arm chair
slouched and relaxed,
watching her
with a glass of whiskey
in his hand**
~
Her
lays on the bed
naked, long legs spread
watching him
watching her.
~
**Him
asks her to do
what he had
been dreaming of
even before seeing her naked.
Beautiful scenery**
~
Her
strokes light and feathery, at first
delicate fingers tracing
up and down
while the other hand
on her breast
tipping her nip
~
**Him
mesmerized by the show
he takes a sip of whiskey
the burn does not compare to
the burn growing in his pants**
~
Her
dips a finger inside,
spreading the glistening liquid
found across her inner lips
increasing the pressure
and moving from side to side
~
**Him
doesn’t know where to look
as she concentrates
on her ******
pulling at the tip
she gnaws her bottom lip
he settles on her eyes**
~
Her
picks up speed,
the circles of her fingers
smaller and smaller,
focusing on her pearl
shallow breaths growing rapid
as she nears her peak
~
**Him
slips out of his shirt
he starts to sweat
unbuckling his pants
to release
the growing pressure**
~
Her
tilts her hips
finding the optimal position
to intensify her pleasure
~
**Him
holds his breath
to hear the
gasping of her breath**
~
Her
eyes on him, longingly,
back arches,
head falls back
and lips part
“Oh God”
in heavy breath
~
**Him
“Amazing”
whispers unsure he said it aloud**
~*
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 8:05 AM UTC
(i want love in these woods)
while walking in
the quiet woods
humidity causing
blonde hair to stick
to my neck
on wooden path
my footsteps move
and on highest railing
a squirrel beckons
i smile /a real smile/
she stops
as if listening for my footsteps
then scampers forward
a few more feet
stops...tilts her head
eyes gleaming
listening for me again
i think she is the squirrel queen
bidding me to follow her
to my lover
waiting in the woods
i want love in these quiet woods
in the quiet night
under the moon
*oh what a night
that would be
with you*
the smell of the leaves
the sound of the crickets
eyes twinkling
soft blankets
this night
you should whisk me away
to a place in the woods
but, alas
the squirrel queen
scampered into the woods
and i'm sitting
at a picnic table
in filtering sunlight
sticky
transfixed
heart pounding
dreaming of
love in the woods
with you.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
The fiscal snare is drawing tight
Putin’s day... now courting night,
Rouble tilts vertiginously
To Satan’s **** religiously.
Fiscal snare is drawing blood
A trickle then... is now a flood,
Russia’s central bank adjusts
But ineffectually, combusts.
Hard line prospects elbow dance
Aligning for assasins lance.
Perhaps….
Better now, the Devil known
Than facing down an Unknown throne…..
Facing down an Iron call
With finger poised in nuclear thrall.
What choice now for ego’s Prince
Retreat from Eastern Ukraine’s wince?
Retreat Crimea’s balmy shores
To face the nationalistic howl of hordes?
Brinkmanship…the other way
A gamble that the West might sway?
Either way the game is up
Now bitter wine brims Russia’s cup.
M.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
The ballerina rises off her feet to stand en pointé.
Sparkles from her white costume shimmering
From the bright lights focused on her.
She elongates her arms into the air, bending her small wrists
And the tips of her delicate fingers lightly touch each other.
She glances at the crowd, looking for him
Even though she knows he is not there.
The long legs of this ballerina are linked, chained together.
And as she hears the music begin to play,
This ballerina slightly tilts her head and turns.
She does not blame him for leaving,
For this ballerina knows she drove him mad.
And onstage she chained her legs tighter and turned faster,
Eyelids fluttered shut, head tilted downward for a brief moment.
Obsession to the point of perfection.
He would never understand, which she always knew.
She had to be perfect.
Her head spinning and facing forward, this ballerina turned faster.
Drunken from Dom Pérignon and love along the coast of La Seine.
Allongé, this ballerina reached further and
Tourné plus vite sur ses pointes.
*Kisses filled with wonder outside the Place des Arts de Montréal,
Yet still she had to be perfect.
Faster with every chaîne tour; never stopping, wishing he could stay.*
She began to slow with every turn
As the ballet dancers flooded the stage.
White sparkles glistening everywhere,
The Prince made his presence known.
The tears she shed one night on the Pont Marie bridge as he walked way.
This ballerina slowed until she no longer turned, slowly lowering her arms,
One hand gently and softly grazing her face.
She stood in front of two rows of ballet dancers, searching for a face
That she knew would not be there.
Allongé, she bent her wrists where the tips of her fingers lightly touched
Before lowering her arms until they were in front of her.
She danced across the stage towards her Prince
Where he waited, arms outstretched, the ballet dancers facing him.
This ballerina turned once more before falling back into the arms of her Prince.
“I’m perfect.”
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
His nights are restless, endless dreams
of young men climbing ladders.
The ones who stop to fix their vests
are left below, row after row
there seems no end, distorted faces,
silent screams through bottle bottom glass.
Twenty winters wishing that
the dream might finally end,
he tilts his head and looks at God
above his bed, a crucifix upon the wall,
his Jesus hangs and bleeds for sins
of lesser men but for him there is no comfort,
he can't escape the scene of drifting death
and flotsam, sailors drinking blood
from swollen corpses, greedy
in the eyes like the sharks
that encircle them.
When daylight comes
still no relief, he sits among
his salty sheets and chokes
on waves of guilt. Deceit
will always be his master,
every day no different
than the rest
except,
today he’s had enough,
the dead,
they will not cease their torment.
Twenty winters waiting
but the dead won’t go away.
The boys who stopped to fix their vests
The man with gaping wound in chest
The burning wreckage going down
The screams of those who soon would drown
The oily water thick as mud
The utter chaos, flesh and blood
The rabid thirst he could not quench
afloat in pools of human stench
He goes outside and lies upon
the grass, a Navy Colt revolver
in one hand, a toy soldier in the other,
he puts the gun against his head
and pulls the trigger.
Twenty winters
Twenty winters
Rest
Mar 20, 2011
Mar 20, 2011 at 8:00 AM UTC
Quite a picture of a happy woman ... in love ... or falling in love perhaps - two rows across me. Her earphones are plugged to her ears, but she is listening to no song. She is busy; typing messages - perhaps whatsapp!. Someone is teasing her ... must be quite adept at it. It has to be a boy ... not yet her boyfriend. Her smile ... her blushes ... are giving away the truths hidden in their secret flirtations.
She has to wrack her wits ... she must win this war of words. She purses her lips and her cheeks cave into a lovely dimple .... that flattered glitter in her eyes has enough for a novel to begin. She is determined to reply to this message and is scanning the lounge through the corner of her eyes as if we have a cue to offer. Her head tilts and a strand of hair falls across her temple curling in a single curve from her thick eye brows to her lips, presently secured between a thoughtful bite of her teeth.
The dimples are back again ... and her smile tells me that she finally has won this conversation ... and my mind tells me that while the war of words is her to win ... she has pleasurably lost the battle of hearts.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 6:54 AM UTC
~
he sings to her
in floral bloom,
melodic language
all his own;
his magnolia
blossoms heralding
the rays of warmth,
his utterance to come.
its shyly spreading pink,
and softly budding green,
proof enough
to her aching heart
that winter's cold
cannot for long contain,
within its icy grip
any life that
from their union came.
for deep within
these roots,
yet he lives again
in breathing form;
that every year
til him she holds,
winter's loss
must yield to spring.
she beholds
this heralding;
as with slowly,
warming heart
she tilts her ear,
listening;
waiting for
this dearest voice.
for to her ears alone
and to her heart only
a rising medley,
tender melody,
a lullaby returned,
to her...
for her...
he begins
to sweetly sing,
unmistakably,
recognizably...
his magnolia lullaby.
.
~
post script.
*inspired by a dear friend's photo and accompanying caption...
"Logan's magnolia showing her first winter bloom."
a remembrance of her title bequeathed at his birth;
a reminder of his legacy that has not, will not ever end.*
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
Fighting demons
Bursting bubbles
He's in my head
Among the rubbles
Seeing that most things get done
He works at it from moon till sun
He tilts at windmills only he can see
Please meet.... Don Quixote
My affliction
or my soul
hearing voices
takes its toll
Fighting what may not be there
And if it's not, why should I care?
Before the windmills in my mind
Don Quixote....you will find
An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
Hidden loves
Broken hearts
So much to do
just where to start
No Sancho Panza by his side
In my head he's stuck inside
Keeping madness at arms length
Don Quixote...my minds strength
Unfinished tales
Broken dreams
So little time
Or so it seems
A wayward soldier on his way
What windmills will he fight today?
The thoughts I write reveal what's me
Allowed outside by Quixote
An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
I want to be close to you like Mercury
to see your full glow
and brightness of your intimacy
I see you like a Venus
because of your unsurpassed beauty
and your unfathomable, abysmal kind of love
You are like the Earth
where living with you is not a problem
and with you it is always easy to breathe
I see your ardent desires like a red Mars
to fight a war to cover and protect me
even sacrificing your own life
You give a gigantic precious tenderness
and enormously unselfish affections
like a Jupiter
You give me snowball rings like Saturn
that gives remembrance to all the beautiful
things that we had been in the atmosphere
of treasured memories
Your warmhearted axis
that tilts on the rocky core of my life
is like in a deep ocean of Uranus
that clasps me with grasping arms
You are like the depth the Neptune brings
who takes me beyond the known
to what's alive only in my wildest dreams.
On a very far and infinite distance
deep into the darkness like Pluto
you are perfect to get lost with
nothing matters but You and Me
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 5:53 AM UTC
What could compare to that first kiss?
To the expectation of bliss?
Testing the softness of her lips,
Awkwardly touching noses’ tips.
As her pink lips open a touch,
As you slow from pressing too much.
The first time that she tilts her head,
You touch her cheek with words unsaid.
The first time you slide down her chin,
And she lets your upper lip in.
The dream you had seen in her smile,
Is there for you to stay a while.
You taste her and smell her perfume,
With feeling too much to consume.
Sugar has never been so sweet,
As when your tongues finally meet.
You don’t need to open your eyes,
Each movement’s a perfect surprise.
Tongue and lips touch delicately,
With powerful intensity.
Love at first sight waited for this.
Nothing compares to your first kiss.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
#
*She makes love to him with words
spilling ink of passion on paper.
She creates the sensual mood
with each stroke of her pen
splattered on the sheets.
She caresses his flesh
in every love letter.
She kisses up and down his
length in sentences and prose.
She tastes all his masculine scent
without ever speaking a word.
She bites his lip and tilts her
hips in between the lines.
She paints a picture that
makes him hard for his
release and it only
took her mind.*
#
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 6:55 AM UTC
The world warps
And goes fuzzy around the edges
Like I am not real,
A place holder or chest piece.
My limbs do not move like they are mine,
As if they are foreign bodies attached to my trunk.
The floor is the only solace.
I melt into the stiff boards and rough carpet
Until the world tilts back and becomes
Whole again.
Nov 25, 2020
Nov 25, 2020 at 8:36 PM UTC
glasses 'you look beautiful'
her teeth are a little yellow, she
brushes in the morning. somehow
they're still a Colgate white. she mouths
Iluvu eyes squint quiet smile arches it's
spine and finger caresses the barely stubble of my face. her blonde peach fuzz mini moustache tilts left and kisses false worry, charisma. she takes
it as insult when I read line about peach
fuzz moustache. obligatory insult *shes a
woman, women don't have moustaches
haha* she stretches like a resting cat and
returns to thought as my suicide
hangover crunches into a headache of
blind relief
relief
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
It's been a long time.
You still look good.
The house is still the same.
The carpet still has that one juice stain
And the picture frame still tilts at that weird angle
I feel old.
But i'm really just a part of the stupid youth
Looking for something that is never found.
How have you been?
I really did miss you.
I just had some growing up to do.
The night is young
But I'll sleep it's loneliness away
Because tomorrow will really only be just another day
Although for the first time in a while
You'll be here so i'll wake with a smile.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
I
The Princess sings:
I am the princess up in the tower
And I dream the whole day thro’
Of a knight who shall come with a silver spear
And a waving plume of blue.
I am the princess up in the tower,
And I dream my dreams by day,
But sometimes I wake, and my eyes are wet,
When the dusk is deep and gray.
For the peasant lovers go by beneath,
I hear them laugh and kiss,
And I forget my day-dream knight,
And long for a love like this.
II
The Minstrel sings:
I lie beside the princess’ tower,
So close she cannot see my face,
And watch her dreaming all day long,
And bending with a lily’s grace.
Her cheeks are paler than the moon
That sails along a sunny sky,
And yet her silent mouth is red
Where tender words and kisses lie.
I am a minstrel with a harp,
For love of her my songs are sweet,
And yet I dare not lift the voice
That lies so far beneath her feet.
III
The Knight sings:
O princess cease your dreams awhile
And look adown your tower’s gray side—
The princess gazes far away,
Nor hears nor heeds the words I cried.
Perchance my heart was overbold,
God made her dreams too pure to break,
She sees the angels in the air
Fly to and fro for Mary’s sake.
Farewell, I mount and go my way,
—But oh her hair the sun sifts thro’—
The tilts and tourneys wait my spear,
I am the Knight of the Plume of Blue.
3k
Melodic…Mesmerizing…Symphonic words.
Taking me away, whisking me off my toes,
In my mind, my head tilts back, my arms transform to wings,
As clouds form and the angel sings.
The clouds, they move, and twirl me to the sun,
It’s blinding, blazing beauty blissfully moves me,
Not just physically, but emotionally.
I cannot let this be, my words will not be undone.
I cannot allow this vulnerability to consume me.
Tears shall never fall, arms will never wrap around me.
I will never be the weeping lady,
That so much, they threw aside.
Forever, they will try to break the clouds below your feet, to make you feel obsolete.
Clouds of love, clouds of dreams, clouds that make you want to cry,
Clouds blur the vision, clouds will lie…
Clouds shed tears you will never catch,
Clouds will never find their match,
Neither shall I; matches make fire, and fire makes you cry.
Melodic music, is what they speak,
Like sirens, I will crash the wreck that is me,
Wreck inside, I will not be transparent,
But I believe, perhaps blissfully, that I can be, oh so much more,
But I can’t keep closing door after door.
The way that bed of clouds did make me feel,
Drills around my brain in a desperate drumming beat,
I yearn for that feeling, yet fear it all at once.
How can you fight with ones own self?
Yet hope for the best?
Brooding, introvert, but that’s not me,
It’s just what I know I have to be.
Who’s to say that living in a bubble is wrong?
Yes, it will burst, and those inside feel forlorn.
You can find those inside again, all by yourself.
No world-wind weapons of intrigue to entice you to lay down your soul on a table,
I am not weak or feeble!
No one shall lie with me for they lie about me.
And sigh, I will let not it be.
I am happier alone,
Forlorn, lost and oh so sad,
Happy, in my day, however each day may be,
For who knows what tomorrow may bring,
And that’s just the one thing,
A kiss, A feeling, is it worth it all?
Please my dear darling, never ever fall.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
1224
Like Trains of Cars on Tracks of Plush
I hear the level Bee—
A Jar across the Flowers goes
Their Velvet Masonry—
Withstands until the sweet Assault
Their Chivalry consumes—
While He, victorious tilts away
To vanquish other Blooms.
2.9k
a cigarette is clenched between her teeth
and as she takes a deep drag,
she tilts her head back to exhale
a trail of smoke curls and leaves her parted lips
drifting into the twilight sky
only a trace of its smell is left in its wake
she looks over the edge of the balcony
that hangs over her pool
putting her pressure on her elbow
the blue hues danced across her face
white and blue swim on her skin,
a projection, a reflection
the ashes that fall off her cigarette fall into the pool
and decide to either float or sink into oblivion
the horizon that was once god’s strawberry cotton candy
melted into the dark burnt curtain of night
and as the stars awoke one by one
she took my hand into hers,
and flicked the remains of the cigarette into the unnatural blue below
“come with me” she whispered, breathless,
a smile on her face, a bit more than buzzed
we ran up the stairs laughing,
and i could already taste her strawberry lips
and feel her soft tongue
as night was defeated by light
we lay down to our earned slumber
in the queen sized bed
half covered by blankets and soaked in sweat
as we sink deeper into each other
the fantasies that once filled our mouths
come to life, bursting, drifting, exposed
i would have it no other way
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
Barbie's undercover of the book that never quits
Manipulative and menacing but, she never spits
An evil being, a beauty queen, more than some t.v. b*tch
I wish I had a rheostat, I'd lower/light her switch
Barbie's chasing boys again, her husband doesn't care
She's riding barefoot on the back of a costar or a queer
She tilts her head/hair back and forth, pretends she doesn't care
It's that silly kind of carefree movement; majic's in the air
And I'm
Watching Barbie in the afternoon
I've not much more to do
She's so much more than a piece of meat
Barbie, so petite
Well wouldn't it be great to meet,
to see her face to face
Forty years fly bye too fast but,
That's the Barbie pace
She knows her children have a mind thew grew all by their own
They have to learn from their mistakes even when they've grown
She wants to help her daughter out by jumping in a lake
But this ain't mike, tom, chris, or jake; this could be a mistake
Barbie's in a bubble bath, she's naked as a jaybird
With happy smile, ear to ear, she relaxes and spreads cheer
More bubbles flow from a bottle emptied quickly
I only can imagine underneath her skin now prickly
Watching Barbie in the afternoon
Barbie, she's so sweet
So much more than just a piece of meat
Barbie, so petite
Well, wouldn't it be great to meet
to see her face to face, Barbie
Share!
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
I found my way back
back, to that place I go to
When I cry
When I sleep
When I die
High in the atmosphere
into worlds.
I have my own hide away
no one can find me.
I've watched the universe
spin slowly.
Change from dark to light,
night to day,
night to day.
I've seen caves and creatures
roam the planet.
Lush green trees
ripped from their homes.
Giant animals
fall to the ground.
I've called upon the archangels for protection
from the darkness that has covered the earth.
I've fallen out of my hiding place
and landed in the darkest of nights.
Sun that seems too bright.
Nights that seem too long.
Haunted by words that will
never
never
ever
fade.
But yet, I've always return
to my spot in the sky,
to watch the evolutions,
revelations, the nightmares
and the miracles.
I've watched our
Mother
Father
God
destroy and rebuild.
Destroy and rebuild.
I've seen the most beautiful things.
Even the city lights
look like fireflies illuminating the planet
from here.
I've found beauty in everything.
Every word.
Every taste, smell, touch.
Every third eyed sensation.
I am not omnipresent.
Only...
present.
I glow a soft shade of purples and blues.
Indigos.
All shades, with a white crown upon my head
pouring out the purest of white lights.
My head tilts back as I pray for salvation on earth.
Peace among men.
An awakening.
The earth glitters with hope.
I sit and wonder as I mindlessly play
with the token around my neck.
A ring for prayer.
A reminder of greatness.
I gently allow myself to fall,
sink slowly through the atmosphere
like I am drowning during a sunset.
Tragic, yet beautiful.
Again, down, down.
My wings know not to save me.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
*did i tell you about that orca (killer whale)
that killed a killer white (shark)?
yeah, flipped him on the stomach
inducing a conscious sleeping position
of the shark, belly up... the ****** orca
drowned the shark.*
dear daffodils counting to only sixteen
springs, why blossom why bloom so soon?
lemmy was part of something better
than his solo project... no one really talks
'bout his solo crazy train antics,
so why talk lemmy why talk ozzy os' burn
and simply dismiss hawkwind & black sabbath?
oh -
*na kraju nocy i u progu dnia
kogut na dachu pieje
w głowie sie kręci
da na da na da
gorączka znów szaleje.*
given all that, imagine a seal on a drift of ice,
a stowaway of a berg,
then imagine why, it's seeking a monastery,
there are four orcas beneath the mirror surface
of the water, in formation, like horses
to the gallop of a wind's flute eolides,
and they're moving in, dipping with tail
fin exertion of some reflex spasm -
and the mini tsunami created suddenly
tilts the seal's monastery and the seal plops
into the depths... where it's only an old
cloth rag soon to be mince.
p.s. i denounce the polish diacritical mark
over o to make u (ó) as not diacritical at all...
it's an aesthetic mark, and yes, it does look pretty.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 5:47 AM UTC