Poet or Poes ? Pregnant pause, disssymbol expecting a dissembling? or bow-bent from a tension or a P that shat its bag of sickles seek fickle hammers or a detour to a microworld of inky period, like death? A whopper, as lies go, as punctuation goes, I go on. I wrote about my Daddy period. And mawkish! snapped a stick in my dry, side-lit garden of sorry sorry sorry trees so I whisper an ugly truth, to myself that truth’s beauty, only in the shadows of desire, sincerity and- Sincere? sneered a belittler while paste on a pedestal copy skin-deep paint-by-words signifying, identifying, po-ess steals purpose from polemic and proclaims herself a poet to own, alone, our words. I hope, some day? our words will own me. I’ve drowned in cliché surf on the shores of her thighs, flipped tiddlywink attitudes plates of empty platitudes at the illiterate, and the poor from a strangling leftie laager, blaked out in mystic chemistry, boxed up liquid notebooks with the formula for madness labeled left, labeled right, labeled not quite right poes-like, y’understand? Now I’m falling down to terminal Earth velocity’s a blurred moon a world of words, our moon in our soft, lovely light, I fall down to sticks and stones or swerve, a secret garden might just save my bones.
Posted on: Sun, 27 Jul 2014 17:37:00 +0000
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