a pocketful of catacombs
charcoal grey
pointing to the alters in decay.
to the mourning sun
spitting like a cobra on a portobello street.
the big brass-band of surplus
from the pork rind raw as Saturn's smitten glow,
marching through the tantrums of a doll.
from the orderly
to the buttons of a queue
now open for the fingers of a storm
as homeless as a streetlight
on a concrete bed of mittens in a ball.
through a mist of red
cockeyed archways wrestle
to the summit of a thumb
where Alice; rich and beautiful
stands erect
in a prelude damp and dusted for a song.
through her looking-glass of anger
the still-born nightshade
haunts her head-to-toe
through an artificial light
from the garden of amphibious romance
swimming through the cat-gut of reform.
our croquet lawn, at least
still proud and green;
as I as many others
have never walked the places
where your naked feet have been;
-
Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 29th, 2023 05:41
- Comment from author about the poem: the song says it all.
- Category: Sociopolitical
- Views: 10
- User favorite of this poem: Teddy.15.
Offline)
Comments6
Made me think of that ultimate paradox, where the poor get it all.
Probably right off, to blind to understand.
we were absolutely synchronized !
your words my worlds !
And the opposite ...
we are indeed
Such brilliance. Beautiful.
thank you Thomas.
very much appreciated.
Bones are all that's left in the end, what superb poetry from you as always, what's it all about this life! So thought provoking dear Melvin. Bravo ❤️
thank you so much Teddy.
I really like how you give a beautiful flow to your words, great work!
thank you.
I appreciate your comment.
Streets of London has inspired and haunted me for decades... one of my all-time go-to songs for solace and inspiration... your striking Alice is a wonderful reimagination... getting lost in your catacomb-poem is pretty cool too!
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