wordplay

/ grumpygorman / Leave a comment

you’re a chord change
in quicksand
song

rewound to skip
the fade,

smokescreens only delay
mirror’s gaze,

each surface
blemish-

a stroke of
genius,

both hands firmly on
your helmet,

i spit hornets
but half mean it,

watching a dove
land

in desert hand
of man

like shrine to
longing.

/ grumpygorman
image: Leonhard_Niederwimmer (pixabay)

..found crumbs
in road

on my crawl
to carny
ride-

sun dipped
in tank
of

deep sea sounds
drowned

in cheeky
pink

…relief-

candy floss
teeth

of mouthless
clown..

his comb over
blown-

i fled
fairgrounds..

to find no sign
of home–

just empty
road,

then flagged down
the freaks

and begged to
tag along,

“sorry pal, this circus
ain’t for fleas,

best
move on.”

image: mirkosajkov (pixabay)