Cycle of disgust ( narrow visions of fantasy)
Posted to Poetry
by Tim Cunningham on 2002-02-26 12:28:00
I never kissed the rain
and thought of dying
for the liquid drops refreshed
my mouth and appealed
the urge to radiate
there is a horizon,
far beyond the one
our weak and laisy
eyes perceive
it shouldres high above
the brazen city
with fumes and burned-out
conjunctions...
that is where the whitest cloud
hides in a tear-blue sky
and pours drops
of pure essence on all
that believe
I saw a dog, it walked away,
the suburban sun
is just not the same
