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Rose-Red Delusional Grandeur

poetically fractured retractions gnashing night prayers, scribbling braille, written sideways dipped in holy water's resolution, compromising statements of disbelief's proclamation spinning music the color of nakedly sick psycho, yet burnished souls keep on ticking quarter past total trade-offs in a spoonful of smoky reflections sans acid's sugar trip, anointed of rose-reddish bloody false pretenses dancing off center phases in disillusioned pirouettes of pseudo redemption, whirling out of control on staged tapestry's loftiness surrendered ballet slippers in blistered half promises, as twisted metaphors sprightly tuned out spun anomalies below birds on a rusty wire tweeting admissions' cobalt blue hazed execution, rendered inky alterations' inquisitions 'pon pedaled pink fluff profundity, exhaling paroxysms' jazzily engaged poesy in vehemently enraged deliverance, naught one is ever as they seem through pigmented film 'neath figment's imagined looking glass of ingratiated delusional grandeur

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Lim'Rik Flats

Date: 1/8/2017 9:23:00 AM

That was fun! Now excuse me please, I have to go wring out my anomalusses.

Carolyn Fish
Date: 1/14/2017 8:06:00 AM

hahaha

Freddie Robinson Jr.

Date: 12/17/2016 11:02:00 PM

The full arsenal of mixed metaphors was tossed in this poem, Paloma. Scorched earth poetry, eh. Don't leave the frazzled mind standing able to recover. Blow by blow death poetry. As you aptly phrased ... birds on a rusty wire tweeting admissions' cobalt blue hazed execution ... Your pen is dipped in hemlock on this one. Or am I just being delusional? Another avant-garde masterpiece. Love and joy to you.

Doug Vinson

Date: 12/15/2016 11:38:00 PM

This poem looked beautiful as I made the web page scroll down, so all the words fit on my screen, before I'd read any of it. It's the positioning of everything, and the mixture of long and short words. It is a roller-coaster ride of images and emotions, perhaps in and out of exact comprehension, taking its own vengeance with apocalyptic devastation. It throws bombs at us. Yet the biggest explosion would be if there were no such expression.

Chris Green

Date: 12/15/2016 11:23:00 AM

The lines are cold and unforgiving but still we must stand in them to get what little they are offering. Basted in reflections and streets lights, the song of those warm and happy come about like static on a winter wind, biting through this second hand or perhaps third hand jacket that any self-respecting moth would have no part of. Don't mind me, I have just returned from a trip to another world where all is as it seems but never really is. Out of control Paloma. This one aches.

Daniel Turner

Date: 12/15/2016 9:25:00 AM

I check mine at the door. The soup kitchen is a humbling place. Nice write. Paloma:)

Daniel Turner
Date: 12/15/2016 10:00:00 AM

Gee Yogi, Thanks:)

Paloma P
Date: 12/15/2016 9:48:00 AM

You're smarter than the average bear BooBoo. :)

White Wolf

Date: 12/15/2016 6:16:00 AM

How do you do that? You just hit another level here I think!

Paloma P
Date: 12/15/2016 8:05:00 AM

I don't know, how do you do it?! ") Merci beaucoup Rick!