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) (
Offline) - Published: November 13th, 2023 15:15
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 12
- User favorite of this poem: Nicholas Browning.
Offline)
Comments2
👏👏👏👏👏
thank you Tiffany
most kind.
Brilliant.
thanks Thomas
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