dude you died when I was nine

thick bass lines lave that spongy
floor for shuffling and kittens
and puppies who made the earthlings

believe they’d left forever are paw
in paw and meows bubble
and woofs pluck in perfect

syncopation and trumpets toot jazz free
though muted, muting for sound flavor
and not to keep a singled sinful

sense stifled in a gold-framed cell, hell,
all those foul drumbeats of ash got swept out
by the blare of joyous brass – people

wonder how disintegration is
able to take up a substance but these
joyous brass blares made mighty quick work –

well worry or not worry but a shell
in which a pearl of compassion might yet dwell,
puts itself in the place and can’t understand

the hatred for creatures who love to dance
and don’t care they dance with a species teachers
said genes made mortal enemies – and don’t dare

touch their slobber or things they slobbered –
oh the impropriety and none
gone through conditioning in decency

would deem a single facet
worthy of a facet, in fact aghast
befits the best the dead can expect


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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