"whiling" poems
Mind is a super computer they say.
It can think of millions of stuff in a matter of day.
From the bombings in Iraq,
to the hurt in my best friends heart.
From the moment its up,
It never stops,
To stop. Blink or breathe.
It keeps running at night.
The subconscious consumes power.
Often leaving the mind tired at the break of dawn.
When it meets people,
it reads the signs at many levels.
Subject of talk,
Body language.
Positivity of the vibes,
The way the person jives.
A handshake.
A wink.
A hug.
A swiftly made jug*
It notices everything.
In all this processing.
It accumulates a lot of clutter!
And the mind with all the confusing thoughts,
becomes like hot butter!
Sparks fly like an electronic of fire!
And it needs something to distract it.
What works best is a bit of exercise.
A bit of chattering,
Or writing it all out.
Some find solace in Games or Movies.
Why do they work?
Because they engage all senses,
And make the mind groovy.
Smoking and doping do great too.
But reducing the processors of our mind to grade two!
Hallucinating and dreaming 80% of it.
The mind thinks its being more productive that most of it.
But illusions destroy us further.
Making the mind believe it’s just another wonder.
Wonder though it is.
Using only 10% of it we create,
Science, History, Mystery,
But this wonder has a lot on bate.
If it goes in the wrong direction.
Even thinking too much is an addiction!
Original thoughts are like endorphins to the mind.
Making it jump and do cartwheels inside.
Stimulating discussions are named that way,
Because engaging in one makes us jumpy all day.
It satisfies the mind that,
I have done something constrictive besides,
Whiling my days in sorrow,
and waiting for the morrow.
Mind is like a baby that need attention,
if not given that it runs in all directions.
Mind is a super computer that needs,
the dedication of a programmer.
Be that programmer and feed your mind the right numbers,
And see it become the eighth wonder!
*Jug- short for juggle.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
Eternity is closed !
- come back another day with
flower smears for eyes and sincere
passion on your
palms (weathered)
I need another Russian Doll -
Princess to frequent curtains
fashioned from fire & lead
equaling out to crimson folds
which mysteriously call to
the mystical hierarchies of
imagination
Silent requirements signal beneath the steps
which welcome
one (a stranger/
an Ibis-Beak cane & dark coat
stamped with August rain)
They arrive unexpectedly, as if to play the game
of cliches, they carry promises fashioned in foreign ports
tapping my knee
instead of my shoulder
having only known or recognized
entombment
(there is no hyperbole which lacks within
Nature's haunted heavens)
My strange visitor leaves / glass umbrella
in hand / to privacy / our brief interaction begins & ends with simple eager undertakings implemented
in the afterword
What is in another's contemplation of me?
whiling in manifest Theosophy -
- Thought form -
Primal child-rage / whisp of violet smoke &
inksplotches abolished, mutually panting.
Our decorated
four-legged hunter
has arisen and impatiently
craves for the Earth to partner at last with
the Sun
..The Sun a blazing dime
I can smell crispness
in the air
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 1:20 AM UTC
There is nothing here
Not the façade of a façade
Can’t you see our idea fading?
We thought we were Hobbes’ Leviathan
The modern alchemists of state
We’re nothing more than rodents!
Scurrilous, maladapted membranes
Spewing from democracy forth
Ought they to encapsulate us?
They must needs encapsulate the naïve!
Whiling away at the trough as though livestock
I’m to be ground on the wheel regardless;
Nay, stretched on the rack of modernity!
By the comforts of progress and superficiality
Sought after as if vital
By the people, “We the people!”
Rallying cry for throngs, imprisoning themselves
With society, a subtle hocus pocus
The trite, aged argument
Of those who’d force you build your very tenement
Paying rent to breathe,
Countless yet believe
Tripartite consumer, greed and slavery
Surrounding you and me
Separating ignorance from squalor
In a ghetto of the mind
You're right, we're alright
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
They hail me as one living,
But don’t they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?
I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.
Not at a minute’s warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time’s enchantments
In hall and bower.
There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death …
—A Troubadour-youth I rambled
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
In me like fire.
But when I practised eyeing
The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
A little then.
When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
I died yet more;
And when my Love’s heart kindled
In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
One more degree.
And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,
Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.
3.1k
You’ve seen, I’m sure, my blog. Perhaps. Maybe..
(Am I being blasé?) I like, such things
Not found in mainstream minds; I guarantee
I’d rather be in ancient halls of kings,
Or fighting beasts in far’way lands than here.
Occasion’lly I’m Belle, at times I’m Croft;
I will admit at Ten dying I shed a tear
(Alright many), and a sweet man; but soft
What light through tumblr breaks? It is nerd boys.
Oh! They understand, and yet always are
In America, or some place far. Toys
I have never thrown away, but kept. Hours
I spend whiling away the days, online.
Nerd Girl I am, an awkward thing (divine).
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
early after-noon, she quizzes,
“would I be ok with
skinless boneless roasted
chicken breast, with sautéed
mushrooms for our dinner,
ce soir?”
so smile I,
for it is a favored menu
of pleasure,
from one who has never
presented us a meal
that is less than perfect
later, she shyly inquires,
“would be ok if we to eat
a little early, I have a salon,
followed by an
Argentine Tango dance milonga
tonight and one starts early (and
tango parties
end typically
the next day?
(no|si, me, don’t dance)
of course, respondez in
the affirmative, thus
confirming our love with the
consideration that veins
out affection mutual
and then I add:
“instead of an hours food prep,
which distracts you from the hour
deeded for dressing
for dancing motivation proper,
and add a little kick-her:
*I love you so much,
would happily consume
your tuna fish salad sandwich,
every night, for the rest of our
lives together, it’s fast
and simple, a dis-less-stressing
concoction, that we both enjoy*
she (s)miles a sweetened thanks,
after numerous reassurances,
that our love only grows
stronger with acts of smart
sensitivity to each others needs,
no standard of care breached,
au contraire, meant sincerely,
earning me a secondary
whiling smiling
and this true story is a poem,
has been writ a thousand times,
in a million different tiny gestures,
of which, I am proud
she exhales a breath elongated,
a release of an admixture of differing
pleasures released, and goes into the
night to dance in the arms of strangers,
which concerns me
not at all,
after all,
these many years,
aware she moves exquisitely
in a dance that demands years
of practice, for it requires
intangible silent of the merest
slight finger pressures to guide
the dancer what next steps
are coy coming,
and I have stolen this
knot of knowledge,
for mine own purposes,
secretly & selfishly,
employing these techniques,
for most of the time we’ve
been together
this poem of
tuna fish sandwiches,
becomes a dance of words
which is
my specialty, which she will
read in the morning l, maybe,
if I send it to her,
though obviously,
that is unnecessary 😉
as she returns to our bed,
me asleeping, she,
exhaustingly satisfied,
sleeeps deeper
secured by the knowing
that we, are both,
the beneficiaries of:
my learned dancing
practices
for such is
the ways of the poet!
Dec 14, 2024
Dec 14, 2024 at 10:39 AM UTC
15 March 2018
09:33 PM
In everything there appears to be a pure crystalline form
Chiseled, clear cut, categorised
Perfectly defined
We're one touch away from knowing everything and nothing all at once
Machines of habit
We're predictable, we're sequences and probabilities on a screen
Craving what we don't have and ignoring that we do
Seeing what's directly in sight and dismissing the depth
Imaging intangible possibilities yet living them through a screen
We know and don't care
We have arduously laboured over assembling a fortress in protection from fluctuation that we have unwittingly forged a cage
Lit by screens
Ruled by 'don't's
Deviation from living to halt death
Abruptly it did come, now slow does it wait
A blessing perhaps but for the dying, a curse
We uncover love so easily, so readily
and yet we lose touch of it so fast, despite our ever growing connections
We have knowledge
We have our memories to scroll through
We have lives to read about
We have inspiration upon every touch
We have it all a second away
Yet we spend our lives whiling away
In situ
Constantly buffering
k.g.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
(tales of my mamasita)
after breakfast
father would tend his tuba
father and mother
would then forage the farm for
cassava, sweet potatoes, green bananas
tarot roots and fruits
sometimes harvesting enough
for two days
while mother prepared lunch
father would fish for viand with
his fishing net
going to the far side
of our part of the island
or staying not far from the house
sometimes big brother and little brother
would go with him
to carry large baskets for catch
father was an artist with
his fishing net
circular and hand knotted
lead pieces sewn to the rim
his fishing net
was carried folded over his shoulder
the tip held in front of him
the heavy weighted part hanging behind
eyes shaded with hands
he searched for schools near the shore
in the clear turquoise
putting it down on powdery dry sand
his fishing net
was supported on his forearm
grabbing another part with his free hand
he would turn and fling
his fishing net
over the blueness
seemingly effortlessly
arms stretched skyward
his fishing net
would expand in mid-air
arcing like a geodesic dome
hovering like a frisbee
floating down to the water
in slow motion
finally sinking into sea
father would wade waist deep
stir the fish with his hand
then haul
his fishing net
full of mullets and other small fish
we would feast for lunch and dinner
with a plentiful catch both
father and mother
would scale and clean
sun dried, smoked or salted
preserved for tomorrows
everything was cleaned up
and put away after lunch
siesta time
afterwards, mother would
do her pottery
fix the tree bark for father’s tuba
or repair
his fishing net
using a tatting device
father and mother
always kept themselves busy
never whiling away the time
till dark
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
Dancing through a field of white flowers.
Doing nothing more than whiling away the hours.
I sit in the grass as I wait for your return,
but suddenly, the field started to burn.
White flowers begin to catch light,
and the birds of the world being to take flight.
That's when I realize that you are not coming,
and suddenly, I find myself running.
I run in the direction I think I'll find you,
but am left wondering if your love is true.
I can't understand why you left me here
but I understand that I love you, my dear
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
“Oh hell yea, they’re suffering! They’re believing that they can go home, but aren’t getting any closer to the Entropoid Valley which leads to Kubla Khan, by whom they were cremated and born. Instead, they’re here, whiling away their days for boys who are bringing the death of days.”
“Hold your thoughts, lad!” Yells the Cameraman of the Head.
“I’m here, I’m in your head ImhereImhereImThere. You’ve no right to chastise the boys who have not kissed the horror. They’ve seen it, yes. But they haven’t captured it, you see. I am the camera, in my ribs are the film reels, the oscilloscope in my uvula, the trigger rested in my right earlobe. I tell you, there is strength in their brutality, I can bring you the tribal taste.”
“Man, we was just talking about centrifugal farce.”
“Centripetal.”
“No, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Hey! I believe-“
“Can’t be”
“Shan’t be”
“Oh, whatever. Those bullets find their way to the ***** anyhow.”
“Anywho.”
“Hey, grab your Coca Cola, Clean. We’re ‘bout to miss the show. The cameraguy could record it if he wants.”
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 12:18 PM UTC
I am walking towards a park to feel a sense of life and to await my companion. I walk past countless familiar faces and potential kindred souls only to end up here at a red light waiting to cross.
"Why, how and when?"
The park was alive on this cool October Thursday evening, well, almost evening. I walk across the grassy field, under the trees and upon the fallen leaves which decorated this ground. It once was green and now its an unpleasant brown. I walk and I kick the leaves, feel a breeze and I pull my coat around me. Squirrels are hoarding, birds are chirping and a sole singer is singing a song about Moondances and October skies. This grassy area is surrounded by benches occupied by loners who while the day away with pen and paper.
School children, set free from the prisons they occupy 8 til 4 every day - run wildly, some singing, some screaming, some crying and some laughing. Parents are all in otherworldly mindsets filled with questions...
"Why, how and when?"
I walk towards an empty bench and sit there with my pen and paper. Whiling the time away 'til my love gets here hopefully right on time.
A lone ice cream truck playing a familiar tune hoping to hypnotize the children into begging for a cone, or a cup of Italian ices...but even the kids know its too cold and too late for that and he starts his engine and drives away.
I've been a loner, I have been a loser and my heart has been broken, taken out, cleaned and put back in...with nothing but a scar that runs down my torso as proof. But I stand tall and I stand proud - "I do it my way." I smile to myself. I hear in the next bench a couple speaking and the woman begins to cry...
"Why, how and when?"
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
It's a melancholy kind of midnight as I sit here chasing dreams,
Whiling away the hours with my well-worn reveries.
Cocooning myself in a blanket of whimsy as the moonlight gleams,
I melt into a world where I am welcomed heartily.
Jan 13, 2010
Jan 13, 2010 at 12:41 PM UTC
I spent the lonely evening counting
minutes/ on a digital clock
while whiling away the empty hours
Imagining the tick/ and tock
and chime of clocks on towers
Where time is full of sounding
Not quite the same
this clock of mine
The ticks don't tock,
the tocks don't chime
How does the chime
know when to rhyme?
I spent the lonely evening dreaming/
of lands where distant towers beckon
Clocks that strike with vibrant sound
a chime that rhymed/ in reckless abandon
Disturbed the sky and shook the ground
So long the endless minutes seeming
Red-eyed/ digital numbers gleaming.
r ~ 23Mar14
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
The hunky lad passed me smiling.
I sat and wondered what he was into.
I spent the next short time whiling.
Did he like the same things I like to do?
Was it possible he’d find me beguiling?
Or was I just a romantic Ford Pinto;
A bit of data barely suitable for filing?
Not worth a kiss let alone a good *****
Thus run the silent mental maunderings
Of a fool with little else but fanciful wishes
As he went about his chores like laundering
Dusting, vacuuming and washing dishes.
Dreams like those of a damsel in a castle
Drug me away from the drudgery of the day.
And helped me not see life as a hassle;
Instead it made my mind a place to play.
If fortune could send a lucky handyman
To fix something I didn’t know was broken
I could think it was a very dandy plan
And that God was sending me a token.
Almost like a voice was whispering to me
Everything is gonna be okay, my child.
So go ahead and celebrate giddily.
Your life is will soon go from mild to wild.
Oh yes, I would sing and dance in joy
Around my tiny rent-controlled home.
God was going to send a perfect boy
So he would never again need to roam.
He could stop here in his **** travels
And I would make him so glad that he did.
He could stop pounding the gravel;
Just stay with me, almost on the skids.
I’d serve him chicken from the Colonel
I have lots of coupons I’ve set aside.
Maybe he’d like something from McDonalds.
I would set the table with great pride.
And I would make sure there was wine
By the lovely gallon, here for him to drink.
If he wanted a more inexpensive kind
He wouldn’t really even have to blink.
Yes I would make a lower-class heaven
With our modest Rent-a-Center stuff.
I’d do the scutwork twenty-four seven.
I do it all now, it is nothing that tough.
He would only have to love me madly.
Life would be a fairy tale for both of us.
He’d consent to stay forever gladly;
Life would be simply, totally marvelous.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 12:56 PM UTC
this old heart
wasn’t always so old,
it once was young and
tenderfoot,
wandering through days and
seeking regalement at night.
this old heart
rarely defeated it’s angst,
clenching fists at duelists
only with intentions of
defeasance,
never relegating the significance
of the win but focusing on the
sacking in a loss.
this old heart
played board games with
his sister on snow days after
laying out paths in the white dust
with an orange saucer
while chasing a laughter
only the belly could muster.
this old heart
was once a boy,
with hair like the white hot sun
on an August afternoon,
with bronze skin running about the grass,
chasing an aging brown dog with a ball
in it’s mouth.
this old heart
was once a boy, yes,
but remains no longer.
this old heart grows weary now.
this old heart bears weight.
this old heart stopped asking questions.
this old heart doesn’t laugh.
this old heart has no dog.
this old heart gets lost in the dark
whiling staring into the blinding sun.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
Mother's world exploded.
'Twas July in 63.
Hell broke free.
A kicking dervish whiling.
A noisy hurricane.
A twister.
Megaphone.
Bringer of joy.
Carrier of performance art.
Drama queen.
A bit of a worry.
Always in a hurry.
A hurt.
Impatient as a fly.
Annoying.
Irritating as a spot red and hot.
Perfect match for an old fashioned English postbox.
Burning hot.
Cold as ice.
Cute as candy.
Sharp as lemon drops.
Mellow as a ****** summer's afternoon.
Peaceful as an Indian brave.
Relaxing before rest with my greatest friend.
My only lover, my very chewed on pen......
(C) LIVVI
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
Up to our feet and let's leave the world:
My darling there are too many too much
And too few; my sweet, feet down
On the ground and let's go.
Into a cabin a fortress, into the whiling
Of quiet hours and smiling at
Birdsinging noise from the sun world
Through the window — into us, my love.
Into us and we and none else
(For a dreamtime if not forever)
Dipping our feet into no need no care;
And only no one shall find us there
When we retreat, the world out of our hair.
And we shall come back to dark outside
Sunshining and birdsinging.
We bracing us until rainclouds shout
"Downpour, deluge!" into our ears;
Then up to our feet, my darling my sweet,
And again into leaving.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 10:09 PM UTC
The rumble of rolling thunder
And a breeze settles in
Cooling this prairie night
That the sunny day began.
Summer days of freedom
And whiling the hours away,
Nights filled with dreaming
Waking to a brand new day.
The simplicity of watching
As a baby bird begins to fly
And the contented easy feeling
Of cherished days gone by.
Knowing there are days to come,
Times to laugh and give.
And when there are no more for me
I’ll be glad I loved and lived.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
breath the air of spring time in
a robust chest swelling
hard knobs fingers glands
pressing into the sky
spreading and seeking
full of air a chest waits
to formalize titillation
the cushy mounds
arouse bringing heat of spring time live
the season of expanding
citation of love modern nation
we hold this moment
with palms of hands
earth life giving
these feelings to demand
we know such love of life
nurture and hold creation
for I am this creature of spring heat
of earth blooming I see the living light
the snake eyes of mona lisa
the jerking of hands
star in heart star of mind
whiling west ward seeking
crawling out of my skin
a peace debater a living shadow
of intellect arises this truth
the rapture of the living
movements of spring
the growth of our destiny
whiling west teaching
gjmars 5/10/15
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
Time goes by.
Clocks tick tock.
Sun rise to Sun fall,
days get lost.
Hours drag.
Minutes do to.
Whiling away this period,
until I see you
When I then see you,
time stands still.
The sun beams a warm glow,
a warmth thats felt within.
Hours become wondrous
and minutes so worthwhile.
This period spent with you, is sure to make me Smile!
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
Mortal passions.
Whiling whole days away,
wishing instances of just this
artful vision made mere words.
Accounted for, line on line.
Actuational responders.
Hello,
World
Initiative, INIT run
plain, lain flat to show one side,
while hiding one side,
and all that lay beneath this
surface, now still pond holding the sky.
As intelligent, gentled warring monks
and monkeys, chatter in the trees,
solitary man, with an array of antenae,
sending and receiving dry ideas
to be read and rethunk, at once, indeed
as wisdom tends
to evaporate, leaving inklings
traced with artifact and story, back
to when our kind being generates
an instance of on
to logical word forming wills,
breaking branches in harvesting races,
to the victor goes the glory, in story form.
Drama brought from life experience, dared
and done,
for no good reason, at the time, daring devils,
mocking saints, saying in one's reading mind,
this day, have we not come to know, today,
now certain, this one day, we have to be in
and have our own being and breaths in.
May 1, 2024
May 1, 2024 at 2:28 PM UTC
Sitting on a park bench
It was a lovely summer's day
The sound of all those seagulls
We were whiling the time Away.
The garden looked so peaceful
Everyone felt at ease
Relaxing laughing talking
Just a mile away from The sea.
It's name is palace gardens
And it dwells there in the park
It has a display of wonderful things
Like flowers and beautiful art,
It has a war memorial
Of soldiers who died in war
And has a certain atmosphere
One we've never felt before.
Maybe there's a presance of angels
It really feels seriel
If you were here with us
You would know just how we feel.
But nice things don't last forever
Soon it will be homeward bound
We truly had a lovely time
In the palace garden grounds.
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 10:35 AM UTC
a spirits heart lingers
held by the creation of earth
to deny life the gift of the Stars
the universe all spirits memory
held in kind by the creation of Earth
whiling Universe remembers its birth first
the path altered by the powers of Earth
creation maligned by greed
life wealth in creation a power
to control destiny of being
denying the spirit forces of Eternity
the Stars and shards brilliant meanderings
to aline its dreams together in creation
yet life with held the glory of Eternity
Earth built its own realm
the Universe cosmic travelers beings
denied the living power of eternity
thru the makeup of Earth forces
usurpers of sovereignty tyranny power
over the minds of human beings
to divide by the pull of contrary forces
sustainability verses the power of god in heaven
yet the hearts pumping lingers rich
a river of blood the flowing filling
of beings body vessels carrying
the senses around n around
pushing the extremities
to hold this body in form
a chosen diet food of human made
carcinogens fermented waste drugs
addict-able for profit a being
manipulator driving life
pillage **** and taxation
to insanity to the end of humanity
a blood that ignores eternity
lets just arouse the passing of time
comfortably numb full of vice virtue
whose brain will save them
from themselves a tipping point
to return to the quest for Eternity
we are the pollution we have made
the Universe the Big Bang
we know no end no time for Eternity
a glow harp waits for time
glow harp glow gjmars 5/28/15
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 8:55 PM UTC
I hide in the shadows
Calm and collect
When I join the light
I'm wild and I'm active
Yet a price of me only sees the ghosts
Of pasts and the future
Where do I hide?
I hide in nook and cranny
I hide where no one can find
I hide in my mind
And in my eyes
I hide in my sleeves
And on my knees
I compact my self into a ball
I can see the walls
I shake in my sleep
And scream when I'm awake
I hide with the shadows
This is my domain
I have claimed the very purpose
Of living whiling hiding
I can't show my true nature
That's for people to bring out
I'm a dragon with the need to collect shining things
And then I'm a tiger
With the need for solitude
I lurk through the darkness and watch
Everyone grows and I shape myself
I'm a serpent and a mammal
Yet everyone thinks I'm evil
I'm not the devil
I'm not a angel
I'm the shadows
Creeping up behind you
And surrounding you
But someone has light and I flinch away
I have my own will
Just let me get away
I snicker at your plans
You forgot I was even there.
Yet only time can command me
For I'm my own hell.
You ask Where do I hide?
I hide where no one looks and no one thinks
I hide in plain sight.
I had in the corner of your eyes
I hide in peoples dream and hopes
I hide where people go to die
I hide in your thoughts
Where do I hide?
I hide in the thought
Of people who want to survive
But only one thing sticks out
The pain of others.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
His first wife died in a fire,
She’d taken her last breath moments
before the blue lights had reached her
and it really hit home how alone he was.
He had loved her more than anything,
Gave her the best he could offer
and still didn’t think it was enough.
She wasn’t really as devoted
but they managed to love to Silver
and he’d made her his trophy
and showed her off to no-one.
His second wife didn’t really like
him very much and
neither did he
and he was still alone amidst the fighting.
His trophy got smashed in one of the bad ones
and they never got past Paper.
And he was glad to be rid of her,
Shed of a cloak in the summer,
Glad of the lonely
like a cloak in the winter.
And he hadn’t had any children
and his family had died
a long time ago.
So all he had to his name was this place,
A quiet
in the
middle of the noise.
His quiet had oak-panelling
all around and little black books
full of people like him
for people like him.
And the smell of *** pourri still lingers
like the smell of his first’s perfume on his bed sheets for ages after she went
and he never washed them.
His quiet was frequented by workers whiling away
their lunch hours.
And he ate a packed lunch
at the desk.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC