Gord

2019-01-09 12:52 pm

I write without notes,
No goblins, or hope,
Aftermath nonsense. So?

I write long-form cribs,
Despite shotguns, dibs,
Despite skunks glibs:
Seven, Eight. 
Eight, Nine.
Just in time, coughing:
"Forgive my hands,
I am pandering, but
All I wish is to climb,
My trip divine,
My lips atwine, 
Would you be so suited,
Had I not arrived?"

In the middle, my tie mismatches,
Patchwork outfits, simple acids.
Dissolve an owners possessions,
Would ten not ask, where are my people,
Clothes and houses?
I would think at last, and note it,
Seven ate nine hungry and homeless,
To not play such a hand, preposterous.
By standards awful and longing,
With numbers staging off-brands.