Nothing read
for days
Nor slept
without
some haze
Gone whiskey (Whiskey gone)
hidden pills (Pills hidden)
Music plays
as I eat
for ways
Violins soaring
strings bowing
wishes whoring
our requited dough
Heavy lids
on pizzle eyes
hooded flesh
not so wise
Slumber summons
artificial rest
so I finish this poem
wishing you the best
Nite my brothers
Nite my sisters
leave your comments
leave your blisters
Labor on
cold night
for tomorrow
shields lifted
into the fight
This thought
I leave to you
who will you love
who will you sue
3 comments:
This image is spec*tacular! Am absolutely mesmerized by it, though the one below is vying for complete attention too, and winning at times. I know I have said it a hundred times or more, but of all the dreams that I have cherished at one time or another and still, of those that got left behind for one reason or another, I am probably most determined about this one, one day I will have the wall space with light reflected in the ocean streaming through floor to ceiling windows and there these will be, all the favourites, my home will be like a shrine to DT and Trebuchet. :-D You may come visit. :-D
Image first, title next, and a classic example of the intrigue and plain fabulousness of your expression. Just those two words in themselves are riveting, salt and pepper, land and sea, crossing each other and in the fusion becoming something else entirely, thoughts provoked as to the innumerable possibilities that this expression could cover engrossing the imagination before the poem itself even begins. Between image and title, covered one is by art, by creation, by beauty, by writing. And then, feeling perfectly satiated, seduced and engaged all at the same time, thereto comes the poem. As there is beauty in purity, one can placate the decency I guess that would be that when reading wants to erase any reference to beauty, to talent and so forth and speak only of the conveyance within, but that would be a disservice. So forgive me if ever I sound, in these comments, eager and bright and as though I am disregarding the sentiments. It is due to your immense talent for expression, your innate sense of timing, of communicating not only through words but through silence (unspoken, pauses, and other such devices) that beauty is spoken of to the extent it is, like waves your poems wash over, each illustration soaking to the skin, beyond. Water that soaks the eyelashes and the soul. Red, not read since this morning, I cannot get out of my mind, everything I have done today, everything I have said and am saying, it is there. Will have to do that one last.
I feel as an hourglass, my value as sand, slowly slipping away.
H
Poppet
May you then, I wish, be granted and with acute awareness a royal hide blessing from all who can alleviate that feeling. As it slips, be filled once more.
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