under the book shelf / why poetic words should drive you crazy
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,
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.
books flying through the room,
60pounds of flesh
dressed up in black, dark blue and
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,
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
to a book.
union, king and queen
ruling with neon gray colors
over an empire of thirsty flowers
and a zoo made of porcelain.
a frame not framing.
the war-child has left and
finally the cold crawls out,
and up and down souls.
relief. breathing.View other posts by Muli Muli