bedlam, white foot
in yellow sandal, the sea
tangled in nets, snow
in deep valleys waits for spring.
trapped in corners
in the angles as words explode,
implode those eyes, corrode
the walls of sanctum
given over to the holy war
“I is I, mastuh” divine,
somewhere along the way
someone surely--
the crash of metal chairs
sliding across the parquet floor
an echo of loud smiles;
The Centurion wipes his grizzled beard
of stale wine in the sea of murderous glances,
“how brave this sanity” says the decorator
changing drapes yet again, glowing in starlight
as algae shrinks
on the bottom of the window sill;
what matter the shape of the mirror, Horatio,
if Alice were blind-
each copy bled to a startling paleness
blurred edges in those same angles.
Still it pushed its way through,
groveling
pitiful in its plea.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Alice is pissed
has obese people rolling all over her unconscious
they are sitting on the white rabbit
who involuntary took a pancake pose
whilethe mad hatter and the march hare are busy
pbviously five o'clocking cold tea
only a catless grin lingers in the striped sky
asking for milk
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*shivers*
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i love the word bedlam.
alice is here and that's always good. and i'm a bit partial to grizzled beards.
another very atmospheric poem. i am struck by the I as Master. and then the crash of metal chairs -- that is really good.
I will have to work on this one a little bit more --
which is always ok. i don't mind.
each copy bled to a startling paleness...
mmmmmm. each copy.
i think some more.
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wow this is amazing! OMG you hit the spot with the fine imagery and flow of every single line. It all came together so perfect. No wonder you are in my favs... amazing talent, very skilled writer. i love it!
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