( 1910's European postcard ) |
morsel morality, bright packaging too...
(it is the future,
the dead presidents
will be required
to play with our balls)
it will very much be like warmed up leftover party favors
saved stolen away into crumpled pocketed secret regard
brushed nickel butt crack the scent of not so wiped-ly
clean doth rising surmising it might be time to bathe
though these poems will be cut loose as if crumbled cheese
trying the buying lines of convenience in gas-n-sip-a-thons...
and with our nightmares we've dressed
in dreamy drag vine tying dying
as we greet the tides rain to ripe
mountain birth is crept clay soul
pine rooted curried goods
and services crawling cities,
we walk standing bones atop bones...
the countryside loam(s)
say we are valley river tongues
we sing old songs
we watch the flocks
as words decay
what's written decays
what's uttered decays
meanings decay, we decay
even while young
stealing eggs
and udders
in slow tarantella
we tell it more
as we begin to store
our stories in go
and go and go
in exhale and inhale
as a tale to be told
though not being so bold
as to do so forecast-ed ham-fist-ed-ly...
--------------------
the bastard wore
a sly smile and
ran over to where
no one could see him
he looked like a glow stick
that went dark for a reason
saw himself, a white deer
and always in season...
--------------------
EJR ©
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