They keep coming
Four…three…two…one…
Four—
Slimer
Ready to slobber and slurp
All fed and bloated
You hear him fart.
Three—
The pointed heels
Have travelled from sepia to colour
Back to sepia again.
Two—
The hour of drag
Sunsign chains, good coffee, bad fucks.
One—
No one
The sound of brush
Whitewashing.
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2 comments:
i dont like poetry much. but yours is really an exception. no pretensions, no aantlami. really lucid and this one made me read it twice!
:)
Did not understand it. Is it about growing old?
Do give an idea yaar. :)
Cheers.
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