Soiled to the tarnished bone
Soiled to the tarnished bone,
furnished with creaky moments,
slow creepy aftermaths
and all the bitter wine
a man can imbibe
too keep fresh wounds open
I sell my words to the wavering wind.
Of all wayward journeys
across the cultural belt
where emotional analphabets
dance like puppets on a page
there is none like the crossing
where married prostitutes
vacuum the dance hall floor
for the true meaning
of facing up to integrity.
We are all master of nonsense,
always daring the expression
that breaks the illusion,
that speaks straight from the mind,
not hiding in social convention
or in desires to please at any cost.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1390 times
Written on 2006-10-06 at 22:35
Tags Tarnished Bone Nonsense
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 by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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