Sunday,
Late night ramblings. I think I found my muse. Wait until late at night and write down some nonsense and then the next day . . . turn it into something like a poem. I say "something like" cause I'm not sure anyone considers it poetry. Most the time it doesn't rhyme . . . most times the phrasing seems to disjointed. Proper English? Forget about it. But I do try to write things that are interesting and I DO try to be "unique." Most of the responses I get to my work are rather mundane, "good work, nice description." Damn it! My soul is in here! In every word I write! Maybe my spirit is a bit thin on profound meaning . . . but still . . . it is a soul.
I need to find a new site with better font colors for the picture part of the poem. For some reason the one I'm using tends to bleed, become blurry. Don't know why. Maybe because it's free?
This only makes her frown. For couches,
of course, where made for sitting on,
watching TV, snuggling a bit, perhaps,
but sleeping? No never. Our dreams
would get stuck between the cushions
and we'd never find them buried in that nether land
amongst the ghostly quarters, dimes and pennies,
the stale popcorn SHE flings into the air
each time we watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
We’ve seen that movie a zillion times.
SHE always jumps when ol’ Leatherface’s
chainsaw roars to life. And always SHE turns
her head and drills her perfect, little nose into my neck—
a trick SHE picked up from the dog.
Stuck its wet snout deep inside a half-eaten
bag of munchies I left unattended on said couch
one time . . . potato chip corpses all over the place.
Good company, I suppose, for all the other nasties
sleeping the sleep of misplaced garbage death.
Ol’ Leatherface’s chainsaw screams,
the sexy blond actress he chases screams,
SHE screams and dog harmonizes
with a loud, mournful howl . I’m giggling
‘cause her pile-driving nose tickles. I’m
laughing out loud ‘cause I can’t believe
How much I love this big wussy of a woman.
rrw o9-o8-13
Late night ramblings. I think I found my muse. Wait until late at night and write down some nonsense and then the next day . . . turn it into something like a poem. I say "something like" cause I'm not sure anyone considers it poetry. Most the time it doesn't rhyme . . . most times the phrasing seems to disjointed. Proper English? Forget about it. But I do try to write things that are interesting and I DO try to be "unique." Most of the responses I get to my work are rather mundane, "good work, nice description." Damn it! My soul is in here! In every word I write! Maybe my spirit is a bit thin on profound meaning . . . but still . . . it is a soul.
I need to find a new site with better font colors for the picture part of the poem. For some reason the one I'm using tends to bleed, become blurry. Don't know why. Maybe because it's free?
Love Massacre
I beg her shadow to get off the
bed, “Come,
the couch is large enough for both
of us.”This only makes her frown. For couches,
of course, where made for sitting on,
watching TV, snuggling a bit, perhaps,
but sleeping? No never. Our dreams
would get stuck between the cushions
and we'd never find them buried in that nether land
amongst the ghostly quarters, dimes and pennies,
the stale popcorn SHE flings into the air
each time we watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
We’ve seen that movie a zillion times.
SHE always jumps when ol’ Leatherface’s
chainsaw roars to life. And always SHE turns
her head and drills her perfect, little nose into my neck—
a trick SHE picked up from the dog.
Stuck its wet snout deep inside a half-eaten
bag of munchies I left unattended on said couch
one time . . . potato chip corpses all over the place.
Good company, I suppose, for all the other nasties
sleeping the sleep of misplaced garbage death.
Ol’ Leatherface’s chainsaw screams,
the sexy blond actress he chases screams,
SHE screams and dog harmonizes
with a loud, mournful howl . I’m giggling
‘cause her pile-driving nose tickles. I’m
laughing out loud ‘cause I can’t believe
How much I love this big wussy of a woman.
rrw o9-o8-13
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