Hand Me a Feather, I'Ll Fan You Warm
Sipping connoisseur of street-light eyes,
(Spaced and Every Twenty Feet)
The Shadows are Empty, the Sliding Internal.
Angels Take’in their Time,
Yeah,
Drawing your Final Breath,
Pencil in the Air…
But
Care? Bear?
Oh the Burden of hair
---Speaking, Rabbit, of course
(Not the Dead things growing out of your Head)
{Yeah{ Your Head is a Cemetery}
{And There’s Ghosts in There} Probably Even a Few}
But… whose counting anyway…
A Tongue like Head-Lights, straight into my Eye.
(Or was it my Throat?)
To Busy, and Oh Well,
Drinking 100 Proof Tears in the place All Light comes
Nothing but
Dope-Fiends ____'n in The Streets.
...
(yeah)
(supple tommorrow, touching hours of moan into gone)
Come to me, Milk-Nose. I Need a Loan of the Quick.
-thend-
Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment