each scratch the masked decision
empty tyre fitting bay where drunks piss on the words
equal dancing deaths circle and disappear into seedless concrete prisons-
two people in love squealing-a high pitched chant
seems borrowed from another balancing act they saw swimming beneath there dripping dreams
herds of misspent words gather on the bottom step
windows become the beach the oceans fringe
creeping through another midlife crisis
fridge light flickers -door open or door sealed
marble head stone reads publish or be damned
shall i retreat shall i be beaten
shall i hide and if i hide who can be found
and will the hidden be looking
an empty tyre fitting bay
a drunken loving shrine
space taken we all fitted in at the very end
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Author:
giantgentlebear (
Offline) - Published: October 17th, 2016 19:48
- Comment from author about the poem: insomnia playing with bloody yoyos and i want toffee apples
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 28
Offline)
Comments1
Old tires are thrown out as are our old ideas. New ones can be fitted and balanced as can our livelihood which is under constant threat, complicated by relationships and crises. We can hide or face these head on but The journey ends for us all the same way--- interred in something resembling the tire bay. Some careers depend on being published. Just another way to die. I don't even know if I am close but I had fun. Thanks.
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