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under the book shelf / why poetic words should drive you crazy

February 4, 2017 - whoneedslove -

a pretty insane poem to pump up your Saturday night . . .



a metallic voice fills the entire room.

a cloud in a radio is

raining down on it’s audience,

making their fingers dance.

the interruption in space moves a head,

and another.

bass pressing hands on paper

and the redhead, who just came in

is petting pitch black hair,

arranging waves from ear to ear,

while the focus dies.

green chairs with gray pillows,

stiff fabric smoothly resting on

a sceletonized, wooden, brown frame.

but suddenly:

air strike!

books flying through the room,

60pounds of flesh

dressed up in black, dark blue and

pink fingernails,
scratching the green soft fabric
like it was chalk board.

fussy fountains spilling across the floor,

overload, underweight –

under which the pillows choke and flatten.

a butt-waltzing beauty,

both organic,

and ironic – how iconic.

the focus comes back. now screaming:

a saber-tooth-tiger-lady sitting,

hiding, stalking, charging the pedestrians.

while the light is going down outside,
‘the inside’ corners the majestic cat into a cage.

her way out blocked by a half written letter

and shapes of shadows.

mammals, animals, playing scrabble.

Portugal and Earth now and then,

with more mammals seeking for a modeled life.

the sexiest man alive bends over to thrust,

to trust that everything will be alright.

travel in pictures, glossy pictures,

a living in prints, a glittery garden

stitched together

to a book.

union, king and queen

ruling with neon gray colors

over an empire of thirsty flowers

and a zoo made of porcelain.

uncommon friends.

a frame not framing.

coughing candle.

the war-child has left and

finally the cold crawls out,
and up and down souls.

relief. breathing.

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