The fluted profile that greys in shadow
over the imaginary Ionic column,
who sighed at sin for grinning over
the rumble of cracked macadam,
he utterly changes every time
the light bulb flickers in the creepy breeze.
The roar of the glasspacks is the wet fiction
that has been prophesy
in your purple tense of every instant instant
that might never even happen,
not unless in a thinly minded white conrer
just behind the flowered pantry door.
You're in good hands, he said,
it's only the squeak of a mouse.
Posts
Thanks, Gerry. I liked that one.
ReplyDeletePG
Your in good hands, he said,
ReplyDeleteit is only the squeak of a mouse.
gentlemen, your work rocks.
keep it up.
simply fabulous.
ReplyDeletelove the flow.
@Old 333: Thanks my good man.
ReplyDelete@Jingle: Much obliged ma'am.
PS: Fixed an egregious typo.
Wet fiction reached out and grabbed me.
ReplyDeleteah, my pet
ReplyDeletefrom here
you're howlin'
smoking hot
in your type
of scribe.on
scripts
that flip me out
"in a good way"
xo
always great to see you my friend. :)
@willow: yes, that was the key phrase.
ReplyDelete@Izzy: your comment is better poetry than the post. Ha!
Very well crafted..!!
ReplyDeletekeep Writing My Dear.. :)
@olivia: cheers. What poem is not a reverie?
ReplyDeletehe utterly changes every time
ReplyDeletethe light bulb flickers in the creepy breeze.
Like nightmares...
@Jinksy: Boo!
ReplyDelete