 | ||
|
 |
|
| ||
| ||
|
The Bitch (& Bastard) by Michael Tartàglia, © 2001 |
|
 | ||
|
After birds have gone start slipping on snow for pain or pleasure or whatever. Flakes chill away sniveling of school children, freezing the limbs of who've no choice but to clear the stuff and hope it melts exposing used products and unpaid labor on nothing. When it comes again (greater or lesser in severity) children'll masticate clumps of it aduls'll procrasintate clearing it ... all complain or worship as in years past and... Damn. What to write? Nothing is settling in mind at all! Random thoughts scream about my head! What can I say when my language is symbolic, not archaic nor phonetic? How could I say it? No theme is fresh in me! All roads've lead to roaming... Poetry is a cursed wild bull madators struggle to tame. How did others make a mark? It's as if I'm forever looking at snowflakes not falling down... wait... I said that in another poem! Now can you understand what I mean? |
 |
||||
|
back to poetry | |
main menu | |
|
||||