It helps that she’s pretty.
but it helps more if you aren't
And really, who has seen the wind except under a microscope of black storm?
Who is exposed, loneliest and pale for the explaining
Who is opposed, homeliest and frail for the restraining.
We get what we deserve
What lay ahead
whose commentary's accepted
swallow the stones, by the spoon, by the fist
replace, politely, your bib to your tits
Replace your snivel with the snail of your gentleman's Katmandu indefensibility
concerned but not panicked
running from bugs with a surplus of legs
fuck you beardee
three fingers of guilt
I’m not drunk, I’m just disoriented.
If my bones were made of iron this compass would have more than the moon to contend with.
and I'd have a no need for directions. Getting lost would be bad habit
and habits are those for which we are made
well okay then
Don’t lose out, just lose it
the moss of consciousness was all around us.
Don't rest on your sorrows. The next moment is now, now. No, no, don't rest. The next is the rest.
Wilde played with sparrows. or did he?
Everyone plays tricks
Ask of the night,
Invalid entries spoke to our future, selves
dans toutes les langues
I see it that way, too
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply.
The Rusty Toque: Collaborative Poem
Add your line to the comments section. We'll publish the poem at the end of the month.