Poseidons' Son, a poet (Or: The Day Job)
Posted to Poetry
by rain70 on 2003-02-28 09:21:00
You walk inside and there are things
You can have if you pay for them.
Mostly, the meat is shark. A
Lifestyle that journals murder, no? It's
Not my fault or my responsibility. I
Sleep to dream and wonder who
Made the constellations. There's
Barely mention of fish, but
Plenty of insomnia to learn
The oceans' black roofs' placement
Of guide and anxiety of store to
Remedial legend. There is an
Anvil. And a forge, extinguished. A vice
And some gear so one does not have
To breathe into air lungs and die. Mostly here
The eyes don't blink. And the walls are made
Of irons and bubbles. And bass rum
From through the walls of neighbors'
Still party, quiet. And a clock that's
One day fast and another day slow
And shaped like destination is to beard
Slowly to where bib is sternum and thoughts
Are cheap. And tiny bones like rib and fossil
Of rib and lash of thrift and register of gift
And memo of crime and fin glued to
Mind all gather to be caught when cheaply wrought.
Just like an awkward poem.
