throwing a funeral

the casket is the blue
as happy places paint
celebratory bashes

as galas and grand balls
unafraid of drenching the floors
in fluidity

praising fluorescence
gallons of melted opal
glad to pour lather bold

and we might encounter a snag
possessed with a fantasy
befouled, bent, on pressing

an accusatory thumb
that somberness isn’t the emotion
these moments traditional

etiquette academies
for centuries instilled with crude
drills, given presidential

respect – even the lilies
bathing the casket of blue
so to look as though the casket

of blue does not merely bathe
or bask in the lamb white
and romance-rose-red and pink

of adolescent strawberry
mountain of lilies but the mountain
of lilies bury the boy

asleep, at last at peace,
in fact is now finally free
to dance unburdened with shreds

and straps of worry what neighbors
suffused in stupidity
believe should be assumed

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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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