la beauté de ces fleurs du mal...

'Portait de Baudelaire'
by Gustave Courbet, 1848-1849

la beauté de ces fleurs du mal


a thought bubble poem for this witch-y looking woman, 
who was ahead of me at the checkout line, 
earlier in the day...

"I know the algorithm 
that seeks my soul", I exclaimed, 
somewhat awkwardly
"have you met yours...?"
I ask hurriedly burrowing into 
my crept silent staging...

--------------------------

behind my eyes... I'm jittery, I'm needing a drink, 
I'm fumbling for something clever to say
something to stop me from staring at her eyes 
something to keep me from getting lost 
inside the rest of their wake...

do you know 
I ask myself, by way 
of concealing myself, in poem...

do you know 
your sown intentions, 
are thee spawned to crawl 
the deep lulled tides 
or are thee subtle like 
right up until there is 
no point in pretending 
not to know better...

does this routine 
get you chanced
to your fabled 
other sides...?

EJR ©