Sta.sh
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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? |
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
in search of the griftGiven the choice between a voice and reason,in search of the grift by *Philliewig
I would rather lay here in this field of lethargic dreams, nostalgic and crestfallen. Won't you lie with me? Won't you dream with me? Who else would I share this fleeting dream with?
Who else would dare?
Who else dares dream of the grift, of the crook in her back and her eye, adorned with cockleshells and weeds?
Shall we throw ourselves into lover's comforts,
Or shall we throw our dowry to the wind?
We could buy our nights and bury our days under a setting sun.
But who will spare us the time for gossip of Buonarroti? Who would speak but we?
For who could resist such terrible guises -knock kneed,
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