Sta.sh
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brown cobblestonesBrown rain falls down to brown streetsbrown cobblestones by *Philliewig
And brown shingles and gutters
As a pale fog creeps around a woman on the street-corner,
Her shoulders bare, her dress there in ribbons,
Tied up and down in sections drowned
With velvet blood red bows.
And in the parlors, against their walls,
Against red, cracked, and shoe-stained walls,
These maidens sigh of ribbons and gold,
While doctors sing their praises of the old.
But who would give them time,
We'd cry as mottled shoes gave way to thighs
No wider than a tee.
And who would die, in Bourbon high,
Or in Bordeaux or Versaille?
Or who should die, in backstreets dry
Or gray cellars paved with ice?
Ye
elegyIn daylight's fastidious oppression -96 degrees and rising- Black beetles scuttle about the smooth marble.elegy by *Philliewig
With incestuous airs, their midnight claws diggings, clicking
In time to the silent hum of a parked car.
(The lot was empty, the clergy departed, save for one.)
Back and forth across a marble slab, they roam with monastic intent.
Fresh dirt allowed for their entrance,
Their escape,
As Claude, with sorghum bristles, sweeps them aside,
Down and away from the white polished stone.
Striped trousers of a hand-me-down suit disguise his practiced hand.
The low hum of a second-hand sedan pervades the space.
He coughs and digs in his pocket.
He
of columbine and rueNo words could bend the shallow tongue, the shrill pitch of their airs.of columbine and rue by *Philliewig
Nor could any bow, curtsy, or pastiche of Nietzsche or Camus.
Their eyes glaze over our sinewed figures, as we lay arm in arm on this park bench.
We wish them well.
We leave them lilacs and lavender on their doorstep, and depart.
| What's new? |
brown cobblestonesBrown rain falls down to brown streetsbrown cobblestones by *Philliewig
And brown shingles and gutters
As a pale fog creeps around a woman on the street-corner,
Her shoulders bare, her dress there in ribbons,
Tied up and down in sections drowned
With velvet blood red bows.
And in the parlors, against their walls,
Against red, cracked, and shoe-stained walls,
These maidens sigh of ribbons and gold,
While doctors sing their praises of the old.
But who would give them time,
We'd cry as mottled shoes gave way to thighs
No wider than a tee.
And who would die, in Bourbon high,
Or in Bordeaux or Versaille?
Or who should die, in backstreets dry
Or gray cellars paved with ice?
Ye
elegyIn daylight's fastidious oppression -96 degrees and rising- Black beetles scuttle about the smooth marble.elegy by *Philliewig
With incestuous airs, their midnight claws diggings, clicking
In time to the silent hum of a parked car.
(The lot was empty, the clergy departed, save for one.)
Back and forth across a marble slab, they roam with monastic intent.
Fresh dirt allowed for their entrance,
Their escape,
As Claude, with sorghum bristles, sweeps them aside,
Down and away from the white polished stone.
Striped trousers of a hand-me-down suit disguise his practiced hand.
The low hum of a second-hand sedan pervades the space.
He coughs and digs in his pocket.
He
of columbine and rueNo words could bend the shallow tongue, the shrill pitch of their airs.of columbine and rue by *Philliewig
Nor could any bow, curtsy, or pastiche of Nietzsche or Camus.
Their eyes glaze over our sinewed figures, as we lay arm in arm on this park bench.
We wish them well.
We leave them lilacs and lavender on their doorstep, and depart.
id submits to egoThere's a certain flavor of psychosis,id submits to ego by *Philliewig
Of strawberry wine, of
Grapples and oranges.
Ascertaining this quality,
This condiment of hubris,
By men in white coattails
And brown labcoats in dark mire,
An exercise in Pyrrhicism,
With one's swelled head against the wall.
They guarantee you paradise in spades,
And wine tastings in Bordeaux,
But where is the bellboy?
"Oh Romeo," and "Oh Antoinette,"
"Wherever are we now?"
While the man in the ballcap
Shoves you down to your knees
And makes you snuff it.
So we divvy out our grudges
In teaspoons and kettledrums,
Against the humdrum of the silence;
A growing silence between the two of us,
And the three
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