Late Summer?
I haven't done any poetry in some time... this feels somehow unfinished though... but it was fun to write, so that's something.
Late Summer-
here is a bleak inner core, from
inability to institute liberalism.
there is a singer's voice, warble-
the reader walks on simple floors tiled
listening to arpeggiated syllogism
between pages of exegesis find
two lonely knobby nerves sopping
in sloshed puddles moistened at the
lips. Secrets.
Attributes and anagrams, co-stenciled
on arms, or shoulder blades, indications
long days nights and cremsicles
suckled down, like a greedy baby, just a
greedy baby. Just maybe -
poking through eyeballs lit, lips split
and another ad, ¡hurry! circle it.
These are our later days, with sunlight
shedding tree bark & laziness.
Suspicious explanations into dimlit
people watchers, observational
pragmatists wearing life changes on
their phallus' and surrendering to traits
they rallied against.