Untitled

[Note: Rough, very rough, very much in need of its own first revision.]



Novels spun and scratched

on recycled newsprint napkins

seldom survive the first revision.

Red ink sinks, deep, deep,

deeply, hauntingly diffused

in resurrected arboreal flesh,

hemorrhaging, dying again,

before the chance to be useful

as shield against spilled

milky caffeinated foam

or fly-crusher in summer’s

buzzing, bleating heat.

It’s misty outdoors,

an ocean vaporized,

set down among

peopled streets,

a silent flood,

to mix

with sweaty nape,

dripping brow,

to be dabbed

with a napkin’s

hasty tale in red.

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1 Comment

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One response to “Untitled

  1. Teardrops falling
    This poem makes me feel like
    calling
    crying
    so saddening.

    The flowers
    wilting
    their petals hemorrhaging, dying again,
    and again.

    I sit, depressed,
    and cry.
    My thoughts, hemorrhaging in
    my mind.
    The pain is too great,
    I fall to the ground
    and mumble,
    “Ape, ape, moop.”

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