Erroneous George
Poyem.
My friend, Kal, got a book of poetry:
It made him question his literacy.
For him I write this, posing as a bard
oh shit, iambic pentameter is
difficult.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Well
Broken umbrella, lying defeated
and dripping in the hallway,
legs akimbo like some grotesquely
broken daddy-long-legs.
Silence, broken only by the intermittent
and unrelenting drip-drop-tick-tock
of rain on winter-hardened soil
forces me back, unforgivingly,
to a time when I had little else to listen to
and liked it that way.
Like the buzzing of a small fly in a
hot summer room invades
the peace of sleep, so my reflections are
distubed by ripples of now, washing over,
and over, wearing away
the gentle sandstone facade of nostalgia.
My eyes fix, unconsciously, unwillingly,
on the invisibly twitching and ludicrous vision
drying slowly and painfully on the floor,
as I fumble with numb and leaden fingers for my keys.
and dripping in the hallway,
legs akimbo like some grotesquely
broken daddy-long-legs.
Silence, broken only by the intermittent
and unrelenting drip-drop-tick-tock
of rain on winter-hardened soil
forces me back, unforgivingly,
to a time when I had little else to listen to
and liked it that way.
Like the buzzing of a small fly in a
hot summer room invades
the peace of sleep, so my reflections are
distubed by ripples of now, washing over,
and over, wearing away
the gentle sandstone facade of nostalgia.
My eyes fix, unconsciously, unwillingly,
on the invisibly twitching and ludicrous vision
drying slowly and painfully on the floor,
as I fumble with numb and leaden fingers for my keys.
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