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3-Poem Collection

October 31, 2015 | Creative Writing

A Day in June

Free imagination is nothing more than

interludes of distinct speculation,

With mindless alterations.

Speaking through tongues with no


breathin’ the dull river under

and ascending moon.

For naked inspirations that begin at

one feet,

demonstrations in accordance of

moonlight poses and acrid eyes.

June full moon, wake the morning up

from atonement,

shimmer an inch of thought on the


gaze wildly while floating,

oh, why not scramble a few feet onto

new paved concrete sidewalks

and bring forth the indie lurking in


Do not feed us to the serpents like

Laocoon and His Sons,

or Kronos’ stone gut.

Ah, solemn dusk,

our distant courts.

Atwater Corner Sights

Spewing out tales of yesterday,

Atwater corner bus stop,

appalled by delegation and torment,

vanquish residency.

A seagull munches on Big Mac,

bum lies warm clinging to a paper cup.

Mental anomaly of a passer by defecated movement,

allowing pseudo glances

and frail conclusions.

Spotted by overhead eyes claiming the vulnerable

breath which lies in the scarf of the sinner.

The bus closes its doors,

no more nomad nights.

Staring at the street like a newborn leaving

the womb,

head down Atwater to Cabot park to mingle,

slug day old beer.

Baby doll roughnecks with

the tired crackers.

Blurry stars are on


Still Pantoum

No one to tend him

If only….

What am I but a burning cigarette,

The still buds lie there,

Yet a candle is lit

Black and grey as ash hue.

The still buds lie there,

Mock holes bend forward,

Black and grey as ash hue.  

Thinking-no-take a sip,

Mock holes bend forward.

Ill spark a rig-yes

Thinking-no-take a sip,

Of stale winter.

Ill spark a rig-yes,

Smoke the despair

Of stale winter.

Where snow lies amidst of purity,

Smoke the despair.

What am i but a burning cigarette,

Where snow lies amidst of purity

Yet a candle is lit?


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