“write what you know!”
nah, just write down what you want and don’t sweat what who does or doesn’t know,
though i know fewer things than i’d dare admit,
heh, ya catch what i just did?
see? i never know which secret’s safe or best hid or dare i admit it?
best part of art is love,. oh! and not givin’ a shit
and i care so little and give so few shits that i wrote a whole dumb poem chewin’ out the subject.
eve’s maroon is velvet plume,
blooming vines up my fortress insides,
to slightest hint at light piercing dreams with blue,
professed– to skies
i sighed, i tried,. not you
Those of you who have been generous enough with your time and engagement to follow my poems know I used to post poetry of other writers i felt deserving of attention. I’ve decided to launch a new site, ‘Grumpy’s Gifts’ dedicated to my solidarity as not every talented wordsmith is also a marketing expert. 😉 Please come visit, share, join in if so inclined. As always, thank you for your support.
her smirk, the silver dagger
of what had gone unseen for folded hours.
maybe it was the gold blush in her rust,
or tongue tissue chewed to dust,
still sharp enough to carve me up n’stuff,
in just her style.
time’s flash- fading out
and thank god , time’s not all we’ve got
elements jet through dammed shunts of totem trees,
into fruitless soil, then bloomed as light of we.
dropped a window on brick ground
then hot-stepped through it, towards light’s shroud,
limbs sprout whole healthy hearts, swelled past their mercy’s burst,
thereafter spared old portrait’s curse.
in ripe of sweat and flower patterned walls
it’s a last dance call for play’s dress-down wind-up dolls,
boy king hoists mighty crown, jewels catch spin of strobe and kiss the ground,
sheds golden robe for modest glow he knows alone-
blazing birthday suit in summer snow-
candles lit for party after blows.
if this is the end, my friend, then let’s cheer it on from within-
tornadoes packed back socket flashin’ bottled magic from belt buckle at rising sky-
trusting it’ll catch her eye just fine.
clocktower’s down, and you’re late for tomorrow,
but meeting minutes, ticked along just fine without you,
which suits ’em just fine, ’cause suit no longer fits you-
tracksuit n’ tie, new uniform-
sucking pillow for chloroform.
loosely, a numbers lesson:
and favoured number’s always been the squarer take on seven,
still a few notches from eleven, friday drags me through thirteen,
into box of baker’s dirty dozen, minus one frosted cream,
forever shit at math, sugar more the momentary scheme.