I (sometimes) call myself Mr. Pondersome. I'm a rather wordy, weirdy person. I say hullo a lot. I write a lot more. While you're here, why not give some of it a read?

Thursday, 2 October 2014

THE PELICAN CLOSET (a.k.a. My Nonsensical Contribution to National Poetry Day 2014)

Bowler devotion at the Pelican Closet - 
Lizard sleepy,
Priest bored,
Fingers cowed;
their balling rumps. Peaches really.

The swooned waiter speaks,
Southern, dirty, licked.
Questions puffed - Hall or yard? 
Guttural. Hanged.
Replying muted.

In the backroom
quilts glow, track prose faithfully
while the fussy thinning boiler wrangles
vouchers for the tripped grad student,
his sulk honed,

You creak, Silly Cody,
grip baskets first cheated by Billy,
now quills rustling
and questioned by The Six.

We're drifting pied,
risky balls hiring,
skillfully sore but found in yeast crimes.
The beastly peal of moody willed dark
and the Fetish Drone announces
lurid malted debt.

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