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winging its toy
by Philip F De Pinto
it makes P
sad
you think him lachrymal
on
lunacy's
verge
the sigh
on the couch
the flip in the
pan
head or tail?
stir the
torpor less placid
the dew of said token
soft beading
about
the nape
mauve like
grape
housed in
the chapel of rib cage
indeterminate was the age
the heart doused
in the furor
of turpenoid
joy
the ventricle
is itself a chapel
housing Martian plasma
if you would have a bloody god? why not Mars?
when god was a cherub boy
winging
its toy
kite
chasing its tail
cross the white
wall
P
will not fail
fall
lob sobs
over inter net
cry
like
painted sky
01/17/2013 Posted on 01/17/2013
Copyright © 2024 Philip F De Pinto
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