i could circle
your shine by morning, become the yellow sky
dying to disappoint you,
tying none of it together even though it’s right there.
pushed like being down is a compliment,
i am partial to whitman and vinegar. i could carry
children like carousels,
consume them like caramels, chew them with my mouth open.
i could cycle
from weak to weaker, talk water into crevices
until everything rots,
not mind that black and white forgives a lot.
pushed like being down is a retreat,
i am partial to this particular trick of the heat.
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Comments
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one half of ~ZombiesAteUs
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“why do writers write? because it isn't there.”
—thomas berger
“no honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.”
—ts eliot
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I am creating my own style of stupidity. You are welcome to emulate it.
--
“why do writers write? because it isn't there.”
—thomas berger
“no honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.”
—ts eliot
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