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
receptors,
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
thoughtless,
gaze wildly while floating,
oh, why not scramble a few feet onto
new paved concrete sidewalks
and bring forth the indie lurking in
Pikolo.
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
tonight.
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?