if demanded meet.
The unaltered Dropped gone Dead
Taught me Touch
And your Delicate White Skin.
He Could say, Hello, to things
Like Bumpkin, He can Dance, Alone.
Lowly worm Climbing through by think and feeling,
Like Wind, Wandering aimless, through the House,
I am something less, Your Versace Hobo, Designer Dressed,
For alley Beds and Psycho Vietnam-Vet Parties.
A Fetish for you, I Know, But seriously
I’m gonna Have to shave sometime this Week.
(And Can’t I at least wear my New Jacket for Christmas?)
Another Hour of Raggedy Homeless Sex,
Pure Sensuous Form of Green eyes cloudy with Silver,
The Gravel of Your Heart, Made of petrified Kittens left in the Box,
Forgotten and Under the Tree,
While Even the Wind creaks by you Slowly, Yes,
The Flowers Of Your’ Bringing Are Fangs.
The Warm Comes
Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
to post a comment