Meow, lewd leery cheer
Leaning on doorposts, this
Woman. Whiskers on hand.
Georgia ovule, the maritime
March, the obvious confession.
This lackadaisical attempt at
Poetry is showy; skimpy on
The fabric — new age dementia.
Lace it with laudanum, to make it more
Alive. Rhythm happens. Let it
Flowery. Passive. Bowing. Curtsy.
Everybody hopes you’re happy now.
I really do hope you’re happy now.
Ruminating campanelles of their existences on Sundays,
The warble of the thrush, the snowflakes on the paintbrush.
The flower’s curtsy. A maiden’s smile.
The call of the wine when it’s past midnight.
When the chimneys blow smoke and obscure
The sunrise or, more precisely, when they try to.
Posted 2 months ago