Saturday, May 5, 2012
competition
I might even chance to stand on your back, for a lift,
I wish my conscience could shirk the endless streaming seeds,
inside my head, your breath, so windy, inspired.
But, no, I am not who you once were I am forever me.
but you don't remember, even though you were there.
I see a wrinkle in the corner of each eye,
for every smile, a wrinkle in your neck for each nod,
a wrinkle in your toes for each step ahead. And at times
it seems that is all that separates us, a toe.
What is competition? Should we compare notes? Stains
in our teeth? lumps in our flesh? woes in our head?
Should we compare pricks, in our hearts, a pissing contest
of damages.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Tickle your toes. . .
-
motionless sap. ogling your shadow, you have much thinking to do. has the potassium kicked you in the arse yet-and got you going? you a...
-
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across but... -
The Opera The eyes of the firing-squad are aimed with lashed cross-hairs for now we, the chorus, all look like oiled up black ducks in a ro...
-
At age 25 for Sir John Donne Down went San Felipe. Crimson and pale, rippling, clinging to it's mist. Oh, how that flagship hurled itsel...
-
in August for John Keats I didn't die unrequited. I took a wife in August. My wife was wearing silky white shoulders holding out her bon...
-
I thought it would be fitting to do an original of mine, but one of it's earlier drafts. I have recently reworked this poem so it includ...
-
and now that the anger is gone there may be a few more glimpses like looking out of the window through a thin veil of silk. a look in...
-
The Anchor for Joel When love embarks, with its generating propellers slicing through the interminable oceans of imperfection that are, for ...
-
Exhibit A: When this was first documented, I was more flattering of him than I should of been, but it was another reminder of that star-spe...
-
There is something spooky about me. I am certain of it. Or else why does the thought of you dying for me, somehow slightly perk me up. Bette...
Poets United Contributor
No comments:
Post a Comment