'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 ©
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