|
I am water. a giver of life. raging and powerful as a storm-filled ocean. home of the deep...where sharks linger ever moving.
I am water. calm and gentle on a cheek in a midsummer drizzle. I am water. patient and quiet, jostling through tree-filled forests, navigating what comes my way. I am water. persistent. carving valleys. forming canyons. I am water. a drip. annoying to some, pinging off the metal of a pan left in the sink. I am water. stagnate and I turn gross. boil me and I'll be gone, transforming into the wind. I am water. complex and vibrant, transparent and mysterious, a clear substance required for life.
0 Comments
Mon coeur rit comme des piranhas qui dévorent ces proies.
Les nouilles de la soleil marchent en velo au tour de tes joues. Les arbres sonnent. Les voitures fondent. Les marteaux sautent à la corde dans le ciel. Et enfin, le crocodile lèche mes yeux. Maybe I’d have red hair,
And ears down to my toes, And glasses big as basketballs that balance on my nose. Maybe I’d have giant feet, But still could do ballet And when I’d do a pirouette, my ears would swoop and sway. And maybe I’d have rocket farts To boost me way up high, ‘Cause then I could say “howdy-do” to eagles in the sky. And maybe I’d have snake arms, But friendly ones, with bows, That way I could give extra hugs to people that I know. And maybe I would have a tail Of blue and orange and gold, That I could wrap around my neck to warm me when I’m cold. And maybe I would wear a hat, Like Lincoln, really tall, And it’d be full of hotel rooms for squirrels and mice and all. And magic pockets in my pants Where all my friends could stay, With snow machines and arcade games and penguins that could play. But maybe I don’t need all that, And I am fine like this, ‘Cause really all I want in life is someone nice to kiss. Oh to be a flower
And not know when petals wither Falling to the ground When plucked by Cupid’s count. Or water flowing Never caring for direction, simply taking shape To evaporate and transform into a warm breeze. Or the brush of an artist To bend and crinkle Dips and dancing on the canvas Leaving marks to smear and smudge. Or a sound that fills the air And does not care Where echos bounce and jingle Until on ear it lands and turns to melody. Pin stripe figure.
One. Two. Three. Shadow dropped. Marking the way. Centered. Blue green with yellow mixed. The sky above. The concrete beneath. Keep it. Hold it. Let it go. She walks. I cry. The heaves of boulders on my chest Arise to pierce my cheeks. The curls of strawberry echo in the dusk. And she is gone. I sit my voluptuous, bulbous ass on the rack.
The hot pink light-weight to my right is always getting felt up. Same with the turquoise hussy on my left. I presume it’s their tight holes, And the gloss they always wear. Such sluts. But, give me a break. I’m always up for a good spin. So what if I’ve got a few dents and dings And my name’s worn off my chest, My holes can still handle anything. Just looking for the right guy, I guess. I keep getting picked up by every hairy Tom and Dick over 275lbs, With stubby, fat nubs that reek of cigars and last night’s pizza. I suppose it’s something. The grease does always lube me up nicely. But, c’est la vie. The life of a 45-year old, 16 lb grey bowling ball. Slowly with the
Finesse of silk Easing first the tip Followed to the knuckle Until it buckles under pressure; release the rushing tension built as fibers woven, knit to hold, slip open, teasing what‘s inside. Sliding ever towards the rear, The creases bellow soft And smooth. The burst. The tear And quivered crinkle Reveal the delicate letter, simple. Oh. It’s just an electric bill. |
AuthorHere I will collect poetry and other thoughts. Archives
March 2022
Categories |
RSS Feed