two footed cat with a twisted smile
leftover bananas is lunch to dinner
tap-dancing in the weeds
deep sang roots in my blood's desert
difficulties born on an island offshore
ridiculous notions beep and soar
pour lotion on rabbit-flowers, nor
seaside in my ocean door
galore? what more gore can we moor?
Let’s picnic in the a-capella mire:
notorious eyes and well-waxed lips
mice that rinse their finger tips
snotty instruments that lie
like office paper, or a tie,
brainley mechanisms without ventilation
to the point which they burst into flames
covered in hall passes, ashamed
urinated in his hat!
pretentious. always feasting.
she was the lady Pralta
perhaps regurgitation
and mottled modern zibalda
everything's to wear
\six inch ideas
\six dollar minutes
but when it's too dark to hear anything, she'd sometimes whisper
you're my miracle.
we all get one.
you're mine.
Comments (2)
Love this comic! Where did you find it?
I like your poetry, and it leaves me wondering sometimes. Your language is powerful and your images real.
I love this line:
but when it's too dark to hear anything, she'd sometimes whisper
you're my miracle.
we all get one.
you're mine.
I like "we all get one." Though how scary -- only ONE. After that one, if it comes early, then the sweet expectancy of waiting for another one is lost.
Kind of sad, huh?
Posted by Bonnie Orzolek | October 17, 2008 3:11 AM
Posted on October 17, 2008 03:11
THIS is what you are. THIS is what you do. Now I understand that you are T.S. Eliot with a wireless Internet connection. :)
Posted by Anonymous | October 18, 2008 3:38 AM
Posted on October 18, 2008 03:38