The Triumph of Verbosity;
or Sweeteners in the Surreal Afterlife
Space nor motion
neither can exist
without a marker, black,
magic, plastically spastic, shooting demarcation
in tommygun spasms.
some point of surety,
love's demise brings flying into the eyes
only cindertears ceaselessly sweated from the worm's
gut of indigo void.
If only I could
measure this stainless steel
tapeworm of loss,
writhing through my night
of sin and scrapple.
No dimensions are assigned
to the bucket of sugar
glimpsed fine balanced on the distant windowsill
until it falls in Icarian flameout,
making a hole in stomach's soft plane.
The plain red coat wore a
perfectly matching blooded scarf, but
there’s a price for every illusion
even a price for words
straight into the twisted lips
of an altered state.
I never answer when you say,
“Are we going to do this
by the book,
or are we just
going to do it?”
There is only one question left:
Bowling with the blind; who
picks the team colors?
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Challenge: Out of Standard with Izy
The ever scintillating Isadora Gruye asks us to step outside ourselves and have a bit of fun by writing 'a poem which parodies your own style, structure, or tone.' I tried, but I think it actually reads just like one of my usual poems. :P
Image: The Triumph of Death, by Peter Bruegel the Elder--NOT the younger! circa 1562Public domain, via Wikipaintings.org