Arthur Flockwhimsy Poet Blank verse

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-

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