Riding a greyscale wave
of cold coffee and half-sleep,
the usual drag, a drowsy drama,
unfolds in slo-mo, like a porno
you've watched too many times:
here I go, a harsh wind lashing
my face and eyelashes with fury,
in a hurry, but what for?
Disgregation, I need connection
to something real to steal me
from the narrow narrative
of the living dead people
but I'm stuck in treacle
and the usual coal black clouds
are getting ready to cry again
upon my topsy-turvy lame parade,
so gimme something to believe,
a small reprieve or, better,
a truth to retrieve
before I collapse,
before I lapse
into total eclipse.
of cold coffee and half-sleep,
the usual drag, a drowsy drama,
unfolds in slo-mo, like a porno
you've watched too many times:
here I go, a harsh wind lashing
my face and eyelashes with fury,
in a hurry, but what for?
Disgregation, I need connection
to something real to steal me
from the narrow narrative
of the living dead people
but I'm stuck in treacle
and the usual coal black clouds
are getting ready to cry again
upon my topsy-turvy lame parade,
so gimme something to believe,
a small reprieve or, better,
a truth to retrieve
before I collapse,
before I lapse
into total eclipse.
-
Author:
anonymousblue (
Offline) - Published: April 18th, 2020 15:52
- Category: Spiritual
- Views: 24
- Users favorite of this poem: A Boy With Roses
Offline)
Comments1
The only thing that will save you is writing your excellent poems!
Thank you very much, Fred!
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