suddenly all lights turn red
suddenly all lights turn redone-legged men jump turnstiles
in feverish fashion
it is the night of the dead
the tawdry spawns
that float in night's parade
with empty grins
to a pale trumpet tattoo
whisk me to butter and eggs
whipped dreams and short cake
cruel cons crawl in the dark
legged low life walks with flags
certainty soars like dead flies
the casket is still open
faces constantly gain speed
sometimes time is a hideous grin
Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2014-08-19 at 00:42
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Texts |
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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