Gord

2018-04-27 09:29 am

Feelings made up, makeshift,
Ideals for tomorrow racist,
She remarks foundation.
He responds formation,
Endlessly talks mountains,
Flying fowl, howling oasis.

The boy comes around,
Left alone unanswered,
Too late for pounding.
Too late surmounting,
Midnight is the hour,
With a toy box full of clowns,
Breath like oneself drowning,
Her words are like fire,
Counting her countenance,
Even if she implied flowering,
He runs away cowardly, trampling.

Gord

2018-04-03 07:08 am

Lemons lie, apt,
Lime euchre too,
Not unlike jazz.
Timing foolish,
Notation tulips,
Rhythm moonlit,
Foregoing movies then beauty.

Routine flows like gravy,
Poutine without cheese,
Potato man, Potato head,
But smell bueno,
She relents.