We are few,
that even seek not fame,
but write for love of word,
or something terrible upon our backs.

It's long lost its serious,
it's no longer game.
Goat-herd to the muse,
berry to the songbird's throat,
sysiphusian back pack equipped sun's o'bitch
name game profane
day laborers of verse.

Job and toil, bug and boil,
no vortex bound surround sound
pleasure palace poet laurel hat,
and tambourine to boot,
comes out our way.

No sir,
live fir stuck up my ass,
would be better felt.
Get me a note,
put me onna boat,
get me outta here dear,
rather than face That Page.

Hiccup.

Yeah Hiccup rolls the mind,
got to find a twist and rhyme and time,
to burn a bridge or two,
Fuck You,
I've got to write now see-you-later.

Love's good.
Write it down,
came flashing down with true relationships,
about our very ears,
the tears gave meter too,
one two still not through,
more paper.

Single words.
Double words.
Trouble words sing punishments
to soul and sole alike.
lives lived close in about the shadowed edge
of sanity,
to words betrothed.

Nobody but us chickens...

09/25/2007

Posted on 09/26/2007
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers