My eyebrows, the muscles of my mouth, and my cinnamon hair, are partitions of the wind, which comes in from the lake all polluted and cold. November, and industrial brothers, click under my feet on the shore.
Behind me, the city is eating trees, pulling with stoplight teeth at the tea-red leaves. They shred and flutter onto the sickly grass and after I think for a while, I lie down in them.
At times like this, I am sometimes met by a just anger; it lies down beside me, dark eyes the colour of figs and skin that smells of pepper and fir. It wears it's shirt the way a house wears black paint, but it cuddles me against it's chest like a nest. My breath is shallow and spiced with India.
just anger
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i must say, that for a birthday poem, it is dark.
ReplyDeletei like that about it, though! you are unpredictable like beer in pink cauldrons.
oh.. uh-- no. this is not the birthday poem. i just forgot to update the about this post.
ReplyDeletethe one that says 'birthday' in the title, that is the birthday poem.
you missed the birthday poem. i like this unusually and unspeakably much. maybe just the rust-water colour. but i like it too. it's very animated and i could taste the sea in my nostrils..... go figure.
ReplyDeletehahahahahahaa.
ReplyDeletemaybe you should employ express contradictions more often. :P
it's not an EXPRESS contradiction its an EXPRESSIVE contradiction.
ReplyDeleteDominion should motivate us to greater responsibility. Good thoughts.
ReplyDelete