it cannot rot,
this memory of my artificial cloth.
the tillerman with a southern tone
clamped my tongue both sides of scorpion
through seas of festered light
two mothers each with thimbles in their ears,
with needles old enough to sleep alone;
each day a daydream, nothing more
than sequels from my post harmonic waves.
the picture perfect Balinese
hanging like a painting on my wall
as nervous as a fiddle chewing crack;
each sun-cry, drab and weary
is it fair to say
the moon has fewer enemies than I?
too many whispers gather to my throat
through chairs of herculean manifest
gossip-green, they choose to sit alone
temptation free
celibate and dry;
no mothers cry
no fathers day charade of pleasantries.
now old enough to know
the rag that sleeps bends brighter than a doll,
brighter than my wardrobes hidden gut;
murder me a mile
watch me crawl,
a pregnant man
if only for a while;
-
Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: November 13th, 2023 15:15
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: Nicholas Browning
Online)
Comments2
👏👏👏👏👏
thank you Tiffany
most kind.
Brilliant.
thanks Thomas
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.