War


Dysfunctional leftovers fly
like thrown dishrags over what
I with perceivable spheres around me
drive nails and bad intensions into.
The sour soup of the world,
as we come to know it,
belches bombs and missiles
into shantytowns of misery.

Debates of vast illusion varnish
the after with gloss, void of content,
a mellow afterthought, a soft glow
in an afternoon of noisy silence.
The ravisher feeds on day light,
the dim deed needs blood.

The bloated man lost his leg
on the subway tracks,
peddles his misery for beer and fags.
The old dog waits.
The grass creaks with the dead
shifting, waiting for the rain.




Poetry by Bob
Read 458 times
Written on 2011-06-05 at 18:17

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