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Jak Woods Poem
The terminal prophesised an eternal line
of moving faces arriving at their destination,
mothers hold their screaming babies
as the business guys drank their coffee
like insomniac puppets on strings
valleys n lagoons of young children and elderly folk
all moved in a singular motion
to a melee of sound buzzing above their heads
a hubbub of civilisation on soap dish.
Back to life with the old soul and the funky dollar bill
like genoas khan lost in new York city
with new York city blues,
watching the jet planes fly above the mass of buildings
circling the weather stations in New Orleans
in autumn winds and summer rain in Chicago
floating like clouds with its over whelming usual conscience
Towering over towers of old motor’s
with junk yard hands on the dog
and the women drinking buds swearing at a elderly man
for having a faulty back tire on his bike
and the look of hell shaved fear on his face,
used to be in Korea and nam probably still thinks he is.
Copyright © Jak Woods | Year Posted 2009
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Details |
Jak Woods Poem
Okay here we go again two in morning
on the end of nothing known
trying everyone for what they had
I know its bad
but not so long ago it was what it was
no brimstone or magic in you her and him
and 23 billion of that other bacteria that exists
in a hand of soil thrown into a blue sky
dices of stars joining onto her
holding on to whatever goes mangling
with the warm gods of autumn
some crone playing softly in pools of swinging gold
besides the broken rooms
of yesterdays bleeding snow
giving honey trip don’t fly to Latino girls
who don’t know there taking my money before they go
and leaving me with a hole
which holds the moving lips
saying don’t leave
and crone
don’t leave leaning against the whole truth smoking
with slow magnetism
as burning rubbish with wings circles around your soul
and souls of other Latinos girls crooning for souls
flirting with car salesmen across the road
crooning softly with souls to be sold by big fat hands
moving slowly through the fire and into the inferno
the place where dogs wheeze in dust clouds
wherever long forgotten angles are flying
for the sound of midnight blues playing
in the streets below the clouds
and a high sun leaving but never leaning
into the west of an American daydream.
Go, go, go country girl go.
Copyright © Jak Woods | Year Posted 2009
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