"“the farmer theory”
and, how many days has your
socialite hand flourished?
black fingernails have found their way into
your breast pocket;
the rustic-plaid flannel
with ragged holes on the elbows
has endured all your
cadaver mistresses, one
by one.
and oh,
whatever happened to your
stoic nature?
epicureanistic tastes overwhelm me
slowly
d.r.a.w.i.n.g
this frame
black & white--
you add red.-and white.-and blue.
personable natures are so alien in your bubble and you don't know how to cope.
maroon petticoats flash
above my knees,
and your geisha
-hungry ice-eyes forget your place.
i like to paint my fingernails black.
what do your all-american levi's think of that?"
I didn't write it, but it made me happy on this night of all other nights. It just goes to show that some days, when you're so lucky it's unbelievable, you can find something worth reading on FictionPress.com
Anonymous
11:04:05 PM
3 comments:
This poem, I don't really like it.
Guys in flannel are hot, that's all I got to say.
"Epicureanistic" is not a word, use epicurean. I'd have to side with Fragipan on this one, there does not seem to have any qualities that attract me save the last line. I really enjoy the last line because it sounds like something Jack Kerouac would write.
I like it. I may be uncultured swine and I may not quite understand a lick of it, but I like the poem anyway.
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