2014 #149

clods came
as a cloudy
gang to erase every
sense of self. Or gorge
in the festival

created solely
for fanatic gobblers
arriving to dive
for the frenzied feasting.
Glint of silver fork

tines and that of the steak
knife make them seem like stars
dancing in galactic
lands where every soul
only screws up all the day

and or night or some sense
of the sensual
enjoyments are easy
for the plucking as moods
lead. Too bad it is figment.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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