My face,
Contorted into a projection
Of what I think
They might want.
My bed
A tomb
Of dashed ideas,
Mangled sheep on heartless rocks
Flora$$$ghostw12
 8200
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Poet modern?
CATEGORY
life
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COMMENTS
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Coalhouse says: I see your style |
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love_supreme says: I like this poem. |
OTHER POEMS WRITTEN BY Flora$$$ghostw12
Poiemeh kalosHold a lamb around your neck  |
Silver tongue
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Easter Sunday
Now I finally feel the resurrection. My Father smiled at you, Like an artist gently resting his paintbrush, And, breathing out, he admired his work. |
Easter Sunday
My Father looks down on you, His children, As if you are the sun, Smoothing out his wrinkles. Believe me, he is proud of you. |
God is good
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The major generalI'm the Major General I'm smart and stern PATTERN UP YOU ain't got time on your side |
31420Thirty one thousand four hundred and twenty. Damn |
The lightExists only in certain postcodes W6 w12 are OK don't Subtract anymore though Or the light becomes disturbing Refracted in an odd wsy Because it is too far out |
Jazz tubaA silly idea |
DIS ERE BY BOBBY TIMMONSDis 'ere..." Cannonball announces, E flat sax of his all lit up In the smoke-filled club, "... is a jazz waltz." Brother Nat' s horn Plays a foreign fanfare, Proclaiming the second coming, Like a thousand tongues of Prostrated Pentecostals. This here's a whole congregation, Of foot-tapping listeners who, In the Spirit, are slain. As they pray for life in 3/4. 3 counts and no rests. Jazz. Period. No Bach Chorales, No laboured grace notes No European overthinking. A primeval urge to survive Set our ancestors, Like driven jazz drummers, Hurtling towards This promised land: thuggish, smug in its all-knowing 'un-reality'. This double-edged sword Of knowledge: Science and Faith. Which one's the gloopy black Murderous residue? Product of neuroses, Our glib hypotheses? PAIN. Is an entire people, Destined for syncopation, Like a band on the brink of combustion, Yearning for open fifths And blues scales, Imperfect cadences like Suffering unansw... |