he dances a kind of genius
against white walls;
all prim and branched out
the fireplace, calm as the setting sun,
carries me
to
him
fingers sweep each other
collecting dead skin and dialogue
we giggle like short-lived kids
playing with drugs
his smile vintage, lips dry as cocoa mix
now moist as dew kissed grass
the table acquaints us
panties wilt to the obese rug...
among spilled wine and cradled glass
©iampoetry















Comments
--
An Irishman has an abiding sense of tragedy that sustains him through temporary bouts of joy.
--
Poetry is truly boundless. It is my passion, writing to you, that is. I am the canvas.
--
my poetry, lemon
both bitter and tart
you decide the taste of my art
©iampoetry
ღ
--
Poetry is truly boundless. It is my passion, writing to you, that is. I am the canvas.
--
my poetry, lemon
both bitter and tart
you decide the taste of my art
©iampoetry
ღ
This poem is excellent. Every line adds to the poem. Bravo!
--
Clearfield Review: Prose, Poetry, Art.
--
Poetry is truly boundless. It is my passion, writing to you, that is. I am the canvas.
--
my poetry, lemon
both bitter and tart
you decide the taste of my art
©iampoetry
ღ
--
"what do we want?"
"BRAAINS!"
"When do we want them?"
"BRAAINS!"
*facepalm*
--
Poetry is truly boundless. It is my passion, writing to you, that is. I am the canvas.
--
my poetry, lemon
both bitter and tart
you decide the taste of my art
©iampoetry
ღ
collecting dead skin and dialogue"
--
i like to
put haikus where they
don't belong.
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