Litkicks Message Board Archive

phantom femur mallets on obsidian

Posted to Poetry

the years do ring
a keening sedge of nil
ceasing undoes the door of mud
cascade in crumbling streams
devoted to a body's flood
of scratch from rustic hills,
those regal wings

by austere springs
sipping tea with a tome
not so bland as elegies blend
the red by mirth of cream
in agony of pampered hens
massed in the silver bones
so glumly glean

a subtle swing
that brings an urn alive
and hours gasp the peasant wrongs
to rebel the blood dream
exchanging all for newborn throngs
too scant to feed the hive
of plated kings

under the green
shade, as siddhartha squat
shall sit they too, perhaps in time
ignore each the street's scream
with an eye on the dime
and laughing with a gat
aim at the scene