by Laura Doom
Life is not a progression
but a procession
of pointless floats and macho bands
in moments dressed as monuments,
a grand parade of malcontents
whose cameo performances
portray the purge of isometrics;
one for sorrow, two for sex
and three for scenes that seek a crowd
corralled and cowed by cheerless leaders
spitting blood or spinning dreamers
milked of every human kindness,
blinded by this mindless food of love.
Posted on 04/06/2016
Copyright © 2020 Laura Doom
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 04/07/16 at 04:27 AM|
So true. I like how you put this in such stark terms.
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 04/07/16 at 03:38 PM|
Loved these lines - " moments dressed as monuments", and especially "corralled and cowed by cheerless leaders". A solid graphic flow to this. I shall continue to spit back with ridiculous blooming flowers. ;)
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 04/08/16 at 04:15 PM|
its an understatement to say, this ode, is a joy beheld, which sows all its wild oats and grits its philosophical teeth to boot, the all of which clamp down and take root in me.
|Posted by Rob Littler on 04/09/16 at 05:16 PM|
I love the sound of this when I read it aloud, especially the crowd/cowed section...I have been reading this whole thing out loud now for a while...over and over. My only critique is that I want MORE, please, more of this...can you live in this voice for a while...