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DrewTM |
and the grass is turning brown, turning sick.
here we go, just us two, like feathers floating we float away
Labels: Drew
0 Comments
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Dalia |
where I was born
I ruminate into a black cloud
I hide and emerge all the fiercer
I kick down walls and throw the bricks at the ones who built them
I crush rough into powder
I trample basket-shreds and unfolded paper and melted bullets
I drink milk and honey for breakfast
I vomit manna into a locked box
I sprinkle the ash of tradition into the sea
Labels: Dalia
1 Comments
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DrewTM |
Labels: Drew
0 Comments
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Greg |
wow that does wonders to what one thinks of himself... and not the good kind of wonders either...
i'm going to go ponder this over a nice tall glass of dreams...
Gnight moon!
P.S.
pete has no shake to go with those fries...
Labels: Greg
2 Comments
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DrewTM |
And I am a clay pot, too. I squat, but unforgotten,
in the corner where the carpet still looks new.
From hunger to hunger the lead-beast pulls
its wagon of flesh past hard plates and abrasive walls.
My shoulders shudder when I look up.
My magnetized, steel-throated tunnel of a mind
still traipses through the marsh, pulled both ways,
to another and another place and time.
I follow my feet and still they lead,
from dusty hillocks and abraded desert
to screaming lakes of necessary vacuum.
I go Novembering, Decembering, babbling
into brook-fast streams of milk and shredded wheat,
Trudge-running toward something made of
dusk mixed with morning, an unfolding sestina
drapes the hills with dust-light,
licks the sky with sodden flames.
Labels: Drew
1 Comments
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Fred |
And I am a clay pot, too. I squat, forgotten,
in the corner where the carpet still looks new.
From hunger to hunger the lead-beast pulls
its wagon of flesh past hard plates and abrasive walls.
My magnetized, steel-throated tunnel of a mind
still traipses through the marsh,
to another place and time.
I follow my feet and still they lead,
from dusty hillocks and abraded desert
to screaming lakes of necessary vacuum.
I go Novembering, Decembering, babbling
into brook-fast streams of milk and shredded wheat,
Trudge-running toward something made of
dusk mixed with morning, an unfolding sestina
which drapes the hills with dust-light,
licks the sky with sodden flames.
Labels: Fred
0 Comments
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Dalia |
"Ok, here is the plan. I am going to seed a poem, and you will each add 3 lines, rearranging the whole thing as you wish. You should all do it, all seven of you, and then it will be full grown, and we can title it, depending on what it's about. Post each expansion as a new post, and feel free to post other stuff in the meantime--this doesn't have to monopolize the blog. Here it goes...”
“So, due to lack of participation, lets just each add another three lines:”
Wood is made of mud, and stars of sawdust.
And I am a clay pot, too. I squat, forgotten,
in the corner where the carpet still looks new.
From hunger to hunger the lead-beast pulls
its wagon of flesh past hard plates and abrasive walls.
My magnetized, steel-throated tunnel of a mind
still traipses through the marsh,
to another place and time.
I follow my feet and still they lead,
from dusty hillocks and abraded desert
to screaming lakes of necessary vacuum.
I go Novembering, Decembering, babbling
into brook-fast streams of milk and shredded wheat,
Trudge-running toward the something.
Labels: Dalia
1 Comments
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DrewTM |
Wood is made of mud, and stars of sawdust.
And I am a clay pot, too. I squat, forgotten,
in the corner where the carpet still looks new.
From hunger to hunger the lead-beast pulls
its wagon of flesh past hard plates and abrasive walls.
My magnetized, steel-throated tunnel of a mind
still traipses through the marsh,
to another place and time.
I follow my feet and still they lead,
from dusty hillocks and abraded desert
to screaming lakes of necessary vacuum.
Labels: Drew
0 Comments
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